#poetic enigma

[callmehopeless]

A Recounting Of Moments

Ominis Gaunt x Reader

AO3 LINK | OR BELOW THE CUT

Plot: Ominis Gaunt gives MC cunnilingus. No other plot. It's just horny, man. (Below the cut because 18+)

Word Count: 1,500

He's loved her since those very first days.

Since the threads of him first tangled with the threads of her - tentative. A curious meeting outside of the Undercroft; he was angry, then, at the intrusion of the thing. It felt like the twisting knife that curled in his heart, and he was blinded (if you'll forgive him that one) by a rage too thick to see through.

It's always been the three of them, you see.

Sebastian, and Anne, and Ominis. A triad of troublemakers; or friends, at the least of it. Three people who have trusted eachother, beyond all recognition. Beyond sense, or sanity, or any which ways you turn the dial.

But then there was her.

Oh, Merlin--he never expected this.

It's the way she kisses him. The way her lips press to his that makes him drunk on it; on the madness that can barely be contained in him. Ominis Gaunt has grown around the madness: a pox of his family, and he's the pox on that, too. Stains upon stains, until you become lost in the fabric of an addled tapestry that doesn't make you a Gaunt. Doesn't make you anything else, either - but he's not sure where he fits, anymore.

Between her lips, though: he fits there just fine.

He thinks he'd like to stay there forever. Build a home in the space between those places; write poetic lines right into the cords of her throat. Tell her she's magical; tell her she's shaking the very fabric of him into misery and madness, just by the way her back arches against this window.

He shouldn't be fucking her here.

But he's fucking her all the same.

Not yet: not quite. But his lips drag up her ankle: her back pressed against the window of the Common Room like it's solid enough to support the way their souls vibrate. He can feel the way she's trembling against it; how the water pushes and pulls against the glass as she hitches her skirt, and Ominis Gaunt is lost in kissing upward. Upward, inch by inch: as slowly as one can kiss, when all is said and done.

"You don't know, do you?" he asks her, between smattered promises on her skin, "don't know what I've held back from doing to you all day?"

Of course she doesn't.

If she did - she'd hardly be threading her fingers through his hair and dragging her nails over his scalp like this. She'd be shredding her voice on his name; aching, wild: she'd be tearing the tapestries from the walls with screams of his name. There's a strength to the thoughts he's brimming with: too deep and dark to explain to her, in the heat of this moment.

"Tell me," she begs him, and it drips like honey. Right down his spine; right over the fabric of his clothes. Drenches him.

He kisses up towards her knee, now. Sucks a kiss on the inside of her right one, pulling it just up over his shoulder. His hands thread higher to the curves of her; he can see her in perfect detail like this. The way she'd fill a uniform to perfection. Fill a skirt to absolution.

Fit around him like she was made to.

Perhaps that's too crass of him. Filth and dirt: not befitting a man of his station.

Ominis cares little for it.

He cares for the way gooseflesh pricks under his fingers, though. And that's far more real than any suppositions might be.

"First," he tells her, his voice husky in his throat, "I thought of you at breakfast. Sitting in my lap. The way you like to put those delicate lips to my neck."

He tells her it without any need to compose himself: he's already lost in her. His trousers are too tight, when he kisses upward. Bites, a little bit, at her left leg first. He moves to the right to give it equal attention, and his nails dig crescents ever so gently against the outside of her thigh. She intakes sharply; a lungful of air that feels almost reverent.

"Go on," she implores, and he feels rather lost in it all.

"Then; Charms."

Ominis lets his breath flutter on her as he moves upward; it's warmer, here. Softer. The skin is tender and untouched by anyone but him - he's maddened by the salty taste of the sweat against his lips.

"You held that wand deftly," he feels almost wild, now. His cock throbs in his trousers; spitting. Spilling. "Agony. All agony. You're a vision; and I wish your hands had been on me in much the same way."

He can feel her heartbeat in her thigh, and it's enough to bring him further into a deep, agonising place.

Merlin; but this worship is better than what his body craves.

To show her what this is is bliss in of itself. The denial is half of the prize: a man earns his keep, after all.

"I wish I had, now." Her voice cracks on the last word; his nails drag on the inside of her thighs, and there is no fabric to bar him at all.

"At dinner," he swallows, desperate for air, "I craved only this."

I craved only you.

He thinks he says it in English, at first. But there's a brilliant tremble to her body as he breathes it, so close to the wet heat of her - and it's not English at all. It's a hiss, and a flick of the tongue; the language of snakes, and a blessed relief to finally let free from himself. Like a breath he's been holding for far too long; he feels the tip of his tongue ache with the sound of it.

Or, perhaps, the desire to taste her.

She's trembling beneath his touch, and Ominis can barely contain it, as he kneels in blissful reverence before her. He's never been one for sermons, but it feels like something of a pledge; a promise, and a hymnal, and a tempestuous force from his lungs that wants to swallow him whole.

She whimpers at the touch, and he nibbles just so.

"Ominis," she begs, her pulse fluttering, "please. Please."

Ominis Gaunt is many things.

But no - he will never deny her this.

So his mouth creeps upward; lips parted, teeth nibbling. Gentle and slow, as he feels the fabric of her skirt against the nape of his neck. He breathes in the scent of her, and it makes him just about mad with the promise of the whole bloody thing.

"Oh; you have no idea how delicious you are, do you?"

She can't ever know.

There are no words for it. None he knows; none that matter. None that would make sense  - not to him, not to her, nor to anyone. But his nails grab at the curve of her: higher, feeling the flesh ooze around his fingernails, and he's no longer a devout follower.

He's a reverent, repentant sinner.

His tongue comes first - stretches out. The tip of it is ever so gentle: he wants and wants, begging for a taste of her as though it'll cure every ill in his body. Maps her with his hands; but his tongue is the true vision of the peace. When he finds her; she trembles with a whine, and Ominis wishes he were a stronger man.

He isn't. No man is this strong.

He buries his face into her cunt: presses his lips to it in absolute, agonizing want. The feeling is ecstasy; the taste is madness. Keening, pure absolution - incomprehensible, in all that it is.

His groan is loud enough to wake half the Common Room; but that's half of the daring of it.

The other half is deep within her; and he'll gladly lick it out. Spread the flat of his tongue clean against her, until she's writhing and wild against his face; fisting his hair and begging with his name upon her lips.

He's loved her all along, after all.

[mymarifae]

project sekai characters ranked by how good/bad they are at navigating romantic interactions

[velvetporcelain]

saturday

an enigma.

Am I mysterious or do still have unmet parts of me?

i think it would be fair and unfair to say that. we will always have unmet parts of us wouldn’t we?

I don’t believe our form is made to be absolute. we are made to change but don’t know how to DEAL with the change.

-x

[zanderia]

Darkness Enigma

A silent enigma, mysterious and sly I watch from a distance, without a care or a sigh Achieving my goals, all done in secrecy A spy in the moonlight, my actions a mystery When I need to lead, my dark side takes control Authoritative and powerful, seizing what I seek to behold Apathy and ambition, two sides of a coin A chosen one, whose fate is solely their own.

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax 2.0 ] | sylus

— summary: he takes you to a safe house. reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. you get the feeling there’s more to his words than what floats at surface level. — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, profanity, sexual tension, minor character deaths, mentions of blood & violence, terms of endearment, self-deprecating thoughts, a sprinkle of romance, self-indulgent, unhinged moment, mdni — notes: special thanks to @alfredosaws for helping me write this. thank you so much for reading! — now playing: i follow rivers - lykke li

Silly woman. Getting your hopes up for nothing. Still...

He’s yet to set you down—Sylus. Your enigma of a boss, cradling you in his arms like an offering to be bestowed on an altar. Long fingers crooked under your knees, a possessive arm swept under your back.

You’re not hurt—he saw to that when he safely lured you to the ground with his Evol. So why does he insist on carrying you like you are?

You try not to get caught up in how he smells—petrichor during the spring. The leftover carbon of spent bullets. Suede and the freshly-broken skin of a clementine. 

How he feels—strong yet firm, honed from years of boxing and a past you know little of. Tender despite the violence he’s capable of. Big and comforting, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on the coldest days of the season. 

How he breathes—even, as his heart thrums a steady tempo against your chest. Soothing like ocean waves rolling over your feet, lulling you into tranquility. 

Tch. Since when did you become so poetic?

You’ve long since traded the cacophony of bullets ricocheting off his Evol—of Nikolai’s men shouting obscenities, bleeding malice and vitriol as they spit orders—for the serenity of the night.

Passersby mill about on the moon-laden streets. Couples laugh, bundling together to ward off the night’s chill. An occasional drunkard stumbles down the sidewalk. Sylus effortlessly sidesteps them, refusing to let you walk on your own despite the perturbed looks he garners. You try not to dig too deep into things. And yet…

He’s carried you like this for at least a mile through the city’s heart. Past historic buildings jaded by time, under twinkling string lights, hung over shopping centers and outdoor cafes bordering the street. 

It’s something of a dream. Something like a romantic film, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be its star.

He’s made no move to set you down. You’ve also made no effort to untwine your arms from around his neck. Instead, you study the flexing tendons in his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he chuckles something murky and guttural after he catches you staring. You look away with bashfulness creeping beneath your skin, only to repeat the ritual all over again. 

It feels like old times—a memory far off when he carried you like this once before after you led him on a hunt through the docks. After you took down one of the most prominent human trafficking rings in the underworld, and after he thought he would lose you forever. 

You’re sure you were heavy then—he spent most of the night searching for you, reducing anyone who got in his way to ash and bone. He was exhausted, violet bags hanging beneath his eyes, blood speckling his collar. Yet he still held you so tenderly. Walked you towards the horizon, clutching you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. 

You’re sure you’re heavy now.

And he shouldn’t be holding you like this. Despite how delightful it feels, a voice admonishes you from the deepest regions of your mind for getting too comfortable. 

He’s not yours. This isn’t right. 

She might be gone, swept up in the mountains playing escort, but you can’t help feeling like you’re betraying the hunter. You’ve already crossed her so many times in your mind before. 

You squirm a bit. His gaze slides to you. Scarlet eyes gleam beneath the tawny lights like multifaceted rubies. His brows lift slightly, and the beginnings of a smile prod his lips. 

You clear the phlegm from your throat, tamping down the hot flush rising from your chest to stain your neck and cheeks. He’s effortlessly beautiful, like something spawned from a Rembrandt painting. 

“You can put me down now,” you urge, your voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

He looks forward, wearing a full-bodied smile. “I know.” He continues walking like you didn’t speak, making no effort to let you go. 

You give him a deadpan look. Try again, a little more insistent this time. “Sylus.”

“Yes?” he returns, humored, patient. 

“I said you can put me down.”

“I know.”

You sigh, exasperated after a few moments spent glaring at his side profile. His devastatingly attractive profile. That sloped nose. Those heart-shaped lips. Those pretty, grey-fringed lashes. 

“Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing us like this?” You gesture to your conjoined bodies with a nod. “People might get the wrong idea.” 

You might get the wrong idea.

He huffs a laugh like you’ve said the most absurd thing. “When have I ever been concerned with how others perceive me?” Those softened eyes flick back to you, something cold prickling low in your belly at the weight they carry. At how his voice dips like he’s drawing you into a secret. “Since when have you?”

Your lips twitch. He poses a fair argument. You’ve never cared much about how people view you, save for Sylus and the twins. More recently, Ms. Hunter. 

Guilt twists in your throat. Burns like ash. “Sylus…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Because if I am, I’d be happy to set you down.” There’s a beguiled edge to his voice. A challenge. A plea. Almost like he wants you to say, ‘No.’

Surely, you’re being delusional.

Regardless, you blanch. And it’s comical how quickly you shake your head, eliciting a thick, low purl of laughter from your savior. Your argument dies in the back of your throat. The drape of your arms around his shoulders slackens. But you still don’t let go. You don’t want to let go. 

You decide she’ll have to be upset with you—Ms. Hunter. Decide to be a little selfish, but only for a little while. You’re growing too comfortable with the sharp click of his heels against the cobblestone. With how he lightly jostles you in his arms after each measured step. You could fall asleep like this, ushered to dreamland by the source of your fantasies and suffering. 

After some time spent wordless, Sylus slows to a stop. When you glance at him, he nods at something ahead, finally setting you down. You’re bereft of the warmth and safety his body provides as he helps steady you. Smoothing out your dress, you take in your new surroundings. 

A structure stretches before you, much like the ones you passed before, only the upkeep is better. Three stories of dark, historic brick and an awning dotted with sepia-toned lights loom overhead. The building's name scrolls on a marquee sign in its center, blaring through the frosty haze of the night. It reminds you of an old movie theater, repurposed for something more upscale. 

You turn quizzical eyes to Sylus. “A restaurant?” Come to think of it, you are a little famished. Murder always manages to stir your appetite. 

Sylus pushes back the tails of his suit jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. Exhales slow. The spotlights highlight his smile as he looks between you and the entrance. “Not hungry?”

“Yeah, but…it’s a little short notice, isn’t it? Don’t you normally need a reservation to get into places like this? Will they even let us in?”

With a huff caught in his throat, Sylus brushes past you, bounding up the few steps to tug the door open. A swell of noise spills outside, the soft stroke of piano keys, the clatter of cutlery against plates. The savory scent of cooked meat and sautéed vegetables assaults your senses. Your stomach growls. You pat it placatingly, casting Sylus a wary look.

“They should,” he says with a shrug, patiently waiting for you to enter. “I own the place.” His eyes shine with playfulness, posture lax.

You scoff. Of course. He owns half the city. It makes him more attractive, knowing he can buy anything at the drop of a hat. 

“Wow. That’s awfully Bruce Wayne of you, don’t you think?” you mock, stepping up into the restaurant, guided by your fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“Wait,” you start, inadvertently tucking into his side. “Why are you hungry? I’m the one who did all the heavy lifting.”

Sylus shrugs again, feigning innocence as you clear the restaurant's entryway. “Watching you work always makes me peckish.”

You whack his broad chest, rolling your eyes. Can’t help smiling. Giggling. Letting your defenses waver.

The air between you feels lighter, reminiscent of times spent carelessly flirting when the line between employer and subordinate blurred beyond recognition.

—

It’s lively inside, but not overwhelmingly so. 

Colorful conversation brightens the atmosphere around you. Patrons of new and old money, dressed in designer clothing, sip expensive wine. Prattle on about their reckless ventures, about fickle things you can’t be bothered to entertain. 

It’s a high-brow restaurant, with the gentle croon of live music and light fixtures dangling overhead to simulate candlelight. The interior is Art Deco inspired. Jaw-droppingly beautiful. You’ve found yourself eyeing the bar more than once, impressed by the expansive shelves housing vintage wine and spirits, stretching towards a yawning, stained-glass ceiling. 

Had you not known better, you would’ve thought you were on a date and not lying low while ornery men tore the city apart looking for you. But that’s not the case. 

At least, you don’t think it is. 

You bite down on your fork, bleeding warmth, ignoring the scarlet eyes boring into your face for the umpteenth time.

You’re tucked away in one of the restaurant's corners with your boss, seated at a booth, shying away from the spotlight. Away from the prying eyes of the other patrons, though that doesn’t stop the occasional gaze from wandering over you. Curious clients raise their wine glasses at you with tense smiles, scrutinizing the pair of you as if you’re celebrities. 

You do stand out, still donned in your attire from the banquet. And Sylus commands attention wherever he goes, standing a good foot over most of the populous, his hair a riotous shock of white. 

Also more perplexing is that he hasn’t booked the place out. He prefers solitude, the comfortable quiet. And yet, he’s brought you here, surrounded by people, treating you like something to be shown off, and you're lightheaded from the whiplash he’s giving you.

He’s been nothing short of a gentleman. Pulled your chair out for you, ordered on your behalf, ensnared you in idle conversation. Kept your champagne glass full when your waiter was out of earshot, even lauded you for another successful kill. It’s all so uncharacteristic of him, and you can’t help feeling like he’s building up to something big. 

It’s grown quiet between you since your meals arrived, and your thoughts have crept in, robbing you of any bliss you began to experience. 

You’ve caught your boss watching you several times. And he’s never appeared guilty, shamelessly peering into your eyes, smiling, slowly ticking away at your resolve. 

Your skin prickles with warmth as you push around the vegetables on your plate. The meal is lovely. Savory, but your appetite’s abandoned you. Something’s off. You’ve sensed it for the better part of the night. Sylus is being more attentive than usual, and it’s unsettling. 

What’s his angle? Have you offended him? Is he keeping an eye on you, afraid you’ll run away? Will tonight be the night he lays you off?

You decide to confront him, having had enough of this ambiguity. This farce he’s put up. You clear your throat, smoothing out the napkin on your lap. Set your fork down, gaze hesitantly sliding to him across the table as you attempt to make light of your situation.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Sylus’ eyes crinkle with a quiet mirth. A soft youthfulness as he props his elbows on the table, twining his long fingers together. A grin blooms behind his fists. You hold your breath.

“Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are while you eat?”

You choke on your spittle. Violently pat your chest to dislodge it, reaching for your flute of champagne to wet your throat as tears form. Adorable isn’t something you’d use to describe yourself. And adorable isn’t something you’d ever imagine Sylus classifying you as, either.   

“Maybe you should lay off the champagne,” you cough, the burn in your esophagus subsiding. 

He isn’t much of a drinker, so you suspect he’s spewing nonsense because he’s tipsy. You set your glass down, snatching the bottle of bubbly from the table’s center. It’ll be safer on your side, out of reach, where your boss can’t use it as an excuse to utter more absurd things. 

Sylus’ brows knit, mock hurt descending onto his face. “What? Am I not allowed to compliment you?”

You cough again, bringing the bottle to your lips. Drink straight from the source, crisp liquid drizzling down the sides of your mouth. How ladylike.

Maybe you should stop drinking. You’re starting to hear things, your daydreams coming to fruition. This isn’t happening. Your boss isn’t pouting at you like a child, calling you cute, and making you feel things that should be buried beneath the Earth’s crust. He’s typically stingy with his compliments unless given to a specific person. So why suddenly aim them at you? 

The bubbly’s got your head a little fuzzy. That, coupled with the adrenaline slowly seeping into your veins, emboldens you to get to the heart of his strangeness. You decide to poke the proverbial bear. 

“What’s your problem?” you prod, setting the bottle down with a definitive thunk. You fix him with a look, one of tight lips and furrowed brows. 

Sylus chuckles, seemingly in disbelief at your brazenness. He’s fucking with you. He has to be. Maybe he’s trying to get a rise out of you, sensing how vulnerable you’ve felt throughout the night. How vulnerable you’ve been the past few months. 

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”

You ignore how the term of endearment tingles in your skin. It feels more weighted than usual tonight. Everything’s heavier tonight. 

You sigh, looking at your lap with a forlorn smile. Toy with a loose thread on your napkin, steeling yourself for this unavoidable conversation.

The champagne’s got your tongue a little loose, and the people surrounding you give you a boost of courage—witnesses in case Sylus decides to kill you. 

“You’ve been really nice to me all night.” You sound mousy, contrasting the crass asshole you were moments ago. “It’s kind of…weird.”

A silver brow lifts. Sylus adjusts in his chair, leaning closer to hear you better, the faint note of his cologne wafting off his skin. Threatening to derail you. To change your mind.

“Have I not been kind to you before?” He momentarily scrutinizes the lacquered wood of the tabletop, seemingly lost in thought. Gazes back at you, inspecting your face.

You swallow against the sandy grit of your throat, powering past your nerves, an anxious titter on your tongue. You toy with your necklace, dizzy. “No. No, you have. Just…not like this.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Sylus wordlessly encourages you to continue, watching your mouth, your eyes.

“I mean, the gala. Rescuing me from Nikolai’s goons. Carrying me. Dinner. The compliments. I don’t get you, Sylus. One minute, you’re pushing me away. You’re ignoring me, and then the next, you’re…confusing the hell out of me.”

The words are out before you can contain them. Silence stretches between you, stiff like a bowstring drawn back. You can’t look at him now, feeling so small and stupid beneath the blistering weight of his stare. 

You’re disbelieving that he could be so kind. Romantic. Considerate, treating you like something closer than a subordinate. Like he doesn’t have someone else occupying his mind, and you’re wondering if he’s playing some twisted game with your emotions tonight, using you to fill the gap the hunter left while out saving the world. 

“Am I truly that difficult to understand?” he replies, his voice gritty yet soft. 

Something pinches in your chest at the fragility of his tone. You want nothing more than for the world to open up and swallow you whole. 

You flinch when the flat sides of his nails graze your temple. He briefly stops before tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. Then, his fingertips blister down your cheek. He tilts your head back, cupping your chin, coaxing you to look at him. And you do, reluctantly, a warm film of something wet washing over your sight. 

He studies you with a reverence you don’t deserve. A look you haven’t been subjected to in a very long time, yet it still manages to constrict your heart. Still makes your stomach jump like you’re descending downhill, and your lips part slightly, quivering. 

Time slows to a crawl around you, the world seemingly carving out a pocket of space for only the two of you to exist. The sights and sounds of the restaurant fade into obscurity. You’re focused solely on the scarlet wash of his eyes, how they shift back and forth, studying your features, searching. Seeking answers your mouth refuses to utter. 

“If I’ve made myself anything less than transparent, I apologize.” The sincerity there, the quiet vulnerability, it makes you sick because you’re undeserving of it. You feel like you’re taking part in a naughty secret. Witnessing a side of him usually reserved for the hunter. “But I assure you, I’m not as mysterious as you think.”

You snort despite the moment. Despite your pulse thudding in your eardrums, a trickle of optimism seeping through you like molten liquid. You don that arrogant, playful front as if rolling over and showing him your belly will be viewed as a sign of weakness. He could still very well be screwing with you. Getting your hopes up to shatter them like waves breaking against the rocks.

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of England,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

Sylus shrugs, resigned. Still, he doesn’t relinquish your gaze, the soft curl of his fingers around your face. Instead, he grows more tender, his irises twinkling a youthful shade beneath the ambient lighting as he leans closer. His voice is wispy like he’s murmuring something confidential. 

“You don’t have to believe me. But I am no liar, sweetheart. You know that.”

With that, he releases your chin, fingers slowly dragging over your face, leaving a searing path in their wake. You breathe again, unaware you weren’t, as if released from a spell. You watch him take up his champagne flute, slender fingers curling around its stem, and he stirs its fizzy contents. 

You’re jealous of that damn glass, still feeling those ruinous digits burning themselves into your skin.

He decides to shift gears. You’re thankful because you need time to process things. To get your heart rate down from the sky. 

“Besides, you looked like you could use a break. I figured tonight would be a good time for some morale boosting.”

You snort again, sipping from your own flute to assuage a flare of anger. “Me? A break? Morale boost? Yeah, sure.” 

Taking a breather with your boss, playing around on a date like you didn’t just murder someone? Was he serious? And is that all this was? A figurative pizza party to say, ‘Thank you’ for being an obedient little pet? 

You knew you were an idiot, getting your hopes up for nothing. 

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not as much of a slave driver as you think,” he says, parting the tumultuous sea of your thoughts.

“Really? Luke and Kieran might say otherwise.” There’s more vitriol in your voice than you intend to let out. But you’re deflecting, protecting yourself. 

Your chest tightens when Sylus looks down, idly twisting the glass stem between his fingers. His gaze softens, and something in his voice shifts. “Can’t I just spend some time alone with you? Show you how much I appreciate you for being loyal to me all these years?” 

You stiffen, feeling like someone’s thrust a knife into your gut and twisted it. You must not have heard him right. For a moment, he sounded exposed. Wounded. And for a moment, you feel bad for doubting his intentions. 

You’re about to pursue it when your waiter reappears. He’s all smiles and professionalism as he sets two martini glasses on your table, crystalline liquid swirling ominously inside.

You look up at him with quirked brows. He stands in good form, folding his hands together behind his back. 

“Courtesy of the couple over there,” says your waiter, gesturing over his shoulder with a nod. 

You peer behind him. A middle-aged man and a younger-looking woman dressed in eccentric textures smile and wave enthusiastically at you. You lift your glass to them in a quiet toast, pasting on a smile. The gesture is sweet, but what’s the occasion?

“They said, drinks for the lovely couple, and congratulations on celebrating your anniversary.”

You sputter, sending drops of your martini flying every which way. 

Sylus laughs at your plight, taking up a glass for himself and lifting it in appreciation towards the couple. You glare at him as he sips. 

“Happy Anniversary, darling,” Sylus teases. Winks for added effect. He laughs a wealthy man’s laugh while you choke. 

You contemplate correcting the generous couple, but the martini is delicious. And Sylus doesn’t seem affected by it. 

And maybe it feels good pretending that, just for a moment, he’s yours and yours alone.

—

Someone had a sweet tooth following dinner.

That someone, of course, being you. 

The dessert menu at the restaurant looked appetizing. But you had a craving for something cold. Soft-serve. Besides, you were growing uncomfortable the more that couple ordered you drinks. At one point, they’d been so bold as to stop by your table on their way out. 

They kept ogling you. Winking, laughing drunkenly, spewing out their hotel room number upstairs. When they left, you leaned over the table, cupping your hand around your mouth.

“I think they’re swingers,” you whispered to Sylus. 

He laughed, sitting back. Raised his glass to you, a brow tilting up to match the cant of his lips. “Wanna go find out?”

“Hell no! I’m a one-partner kinda gal.”

You didn’t miss how his gaze shifted. Darkened into something you couldn’t quite place. 

You find yourselves in a 1950s-inspired diner— a modest hole-in-the-wall joint with retro decor and bright lights. Only a couple of other diners inhabit the restaurant. You’re nursing a milkshake, courtesy of your boss, buzzing like a child who’s gotten everything they wanted. 

He teased you about your cravings—only you’d want ice cream when it’s cold out. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, humoring you after you wore him down with those puppy eyes and your fingers buried in his sleeves.

He entertained you further by playing the claw machine in the corner at your behest. Watching a man so big, feared, and elusive fiddle with such a garish machine—you felt honored.

You cheered him on, the sleeves of his jacket draped over your shoulders, puddling around your elbows. After several attempts, he was successful, sheepishly shoving a purple koala bear into your hands. Your face burned hot, and your cheeks ached from smiling and laughing. 

It feels like a dream. The ideal date. And for a moment, you forget that Sylus is your boss. That he could never be yours and that you’re anything but a killer. 

You fiddle with the jukebox, earning curious glances from the diner’s other customers. They’re whispering things, eyeing you warily. You ignore them, queuing up a song. And you’re dancing, silly at first, but muscle memory kicks in. Soon, you’re moving your hips, smoothing over the contours of your body, spurred by Sylus observing you from his place atop a stool. 

You wish he would smile more—an authentic smile, unhindered by sarcasm or smugness. He’s much more handsome like this. 

You think about all the times he’s smiled this way for the hunter, and you stumble in your steps. You flash him a smile when it looks like he’ll get up to help you. Carry on dancing, doing one of the things you do best.

You pretend you’re at Lux, and he makes you feel like you’re on a stage just for him, your nerves flaring at his attention. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he leans back on the countertop on his elbow, watching you with muted appreciation. How long has it been since you’ve danced for him?

So swept up by the music, you hardly register the diner slowly emptying. Not even the servers seem to be bustling about anymore. You get an ominous prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the fine hairs there standing stiff. You stop. 

You exchange a look with Sylus. He raises a brow, tapping his temple. “Keep going,” he rasps, doting, coaxing. Entranced.

He has whatever’s about to transpire under control. You trust him fully. The Bonnie to his Clyde. 

The wispy tendrils of his Evol materialize around the diner’s interior to form a barrier, tossing the restaurant into a misty haze of red and black. It’s reminiscent of hellfire, and you feel like Lilith taking part in a sacrilegious waltz. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, attentive as you continue to dance. And you smile, putting on a damn good show as Nikolai’s men funnel in, their cries of agony tempered by the music spilling from the jukebox and your laughter coloring the air as Sylus rends flesh from bone with his Evol. 

—

He takes you to a safe house as the night reaches its peak. 

He reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. Like dining and holding hands out in public didn’t warrant an ambush. 

Someone snitched. Saw that familiar riot of white, those brawny shoulders. Heard that gritty voice mixed with your distinct laughter and sent Nikolai’s men to finish you off. Sylus picked them off while you danced unhindered, but there was no telling how many stragglers were left, ducking into the shadows, creeping along the historic brick walls. 

Again, he insists on carrying you as you break through the door of a quaint, quiet home perched on a hilltop. Secured by his biometrics. Bordered by evergreens and the calming symphony of the forest. Isolated, like him. Hidden from invasive questions, from prying eyes. 

You’re tired. The night’s adrenaline sloughed off, leaving you tenuous and agreeable, which is why you don’t put up much of a fight as Sylus walks you through the foyer, smiling down at you like you’re his precious bounty. It’s infectious. Your lips tug, too, though a little less enthused. You blink slowly. Breathe evenly, lulled by the mollifying thump of his heart against your cheek. 

He drops your stilettos on the hardwood floor halfway to the living room. Deposits you on a dark leather settee, fixing your dress over your legs and his jacket around your shoulders. Draws back. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what hits you when your fingers close around the pleated sleeve of his button-up, eyes beseeching when he looks at you from over his shoulder. 

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to.

Don’t leave. Stay.

You don’t want the dream to end. Not yet.

He chuckles low, all smooth like whisky poured into a glass. Softened, scarlet eyes pan in through the low light, his silhouette haloed by amber. He lifts your legs to settle onto the upholstery beside you. Pulls your feet onto his lap. They’re irritated. Rubbed raw from being strapped to too-tall heels all night, running and gunning like you had no limitations.

He sensed your discomfort. Always such a gentleman.

Large, sweltering hands close around your feet, kneading through pressure and knots of tension. Knuckles at the balls of your feet. You exhale slowly, pleased. Thankful. The attention’s nice. There’s a small voice wading through the murky sea of your mind, telling you this is wrong. That you don’t deserve it, his tenderness. 

You’re getting pretty fucking sick of your conscience. It’s just a foot rub. It’s not like you’re kissing him. 

“You’re good at this,” you note offhandedly. 

“My hands are more useful than you think.”

Something dark threads through his voice. Something cheeky. You ignore how your stomach flips, your mind sparkling with impure ideas. 

Drowsiness sweeps in around the corners, bordering your vision like a vignette. He’s masterful with his hands. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the king of the underworld. You doze off, shepherded through the inkiness by the faraway tick of a clock. By trees rustling beyond the massive window, the moon dragging itself to the center of the sky, cloth moving as Sylus rubs over your calves. 

You stir when he shifts. When he moves to get up and lay your legs on the couch. That feeling returns. That ache. The call of loneliness. Your sleepiness abandons you, making way for cold fright. You stumble from the settee. Rush to stand at full height, gripping his shirt at the crooks of his elbows, halting him.

Your mouth opens. Heart thundering. You don’t know what to say—what you were thinking. His gaze is unyielding, studying your face like the slow flicker of a flame. Silver brows knot. Peach lips fall slightly open. He’s waiting for something. Asking for something. 

You’re on autopilot when you cautiously angle yourself closer. Your gaze falls to his mouth, and he mirrors you, cradling your elbows as if he’s afraid to break you. You’ll blame it on the bubbly you consumed later. On the spell he somehow cast over the night, enthralling you with his chivalry. 

You tug, and he meets you halfway. Not like you have to put in much effort. He’s already leaning down. Eyes already half-moons, breath already shaky. 

He tenses when your lips meet. Shoulders drop once the initial shock peters, and then he’s kissing you with those full, molten lips. He draws you closer, hands splayed possessively at the small of your back. Thumbs cruising over the meat of your hips. Up and down your sides. Wherever he touches, you burn.

You exhale through your nose, and your arms snake around his neck. Fingers sift through the fine hairs at his nape.

He teases your mouth open with his tongue. Sighs something anguished when you grant him entry, licking into your mouth. Pulls you impossibly closer. He’s rigid and warm against you. Gathers your cheek in his palm, angling your head back. He kisses greedy. Selfish. Plunders your mouth, milking the sweetest little sounds from your body. Sounds you didn’t think yourself capable of making.

You kiss and kiss until your lips are chaffed. And even then, you don’t stop. He’s ravenous, moving against you like he’s waited eons to do this. Like he’s fought a war with himself and lost. You’re his Gettysburg. His Kryptonite.

You’ll feel sorry for yourself tomorrow. Blame it on the air, charged with something heady, your inhibitions and common sense thrown to the wolves.

It’s just a kiss. He’s your boss. And tonight, he’s been something of a friend. A dream. Friends kiss all the time, right?

So why do you feel so guilty?

— tags: @emneedshelp, @reiofsuns2001, @crazy-ink-artist, @vonev, @subliminalwish, @ikiru-wa, @inkonparchment, @regandoesthings, @szired, @alyyylog, @leekingsman, @beewilko, @an-ever-angry-bi, @abbylee0710, @sunnyf4lls, @himiko-omikami, @midiplier, @ari-shipping-stuff, @karespocketboyfriends, @glamouroki, @babygirl-panda19, @im-in-different-universe, @sillyfreakfanparty, @lunebulous, @vilehrs-blog (sorry if i missed anyone.)

climax | masterlist | falling action

[fangdokja]

You see ‘yandere x reader’ and click before you even register the title.

♡ Yandere! IRL Authors x Fem. Reader. Tumblr Smut Lord, AO3 Angst Demon, Webtoon Cult Leader, Wattpad Menace

♡ Word Count. 1,595

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord who writes the most unhinged, sinful, and depraved smut known to mankind. His works are the equivalent of opening Pandora’s Box, except instead of unleashing evil upon the world, it’s just an endless void of morally gray men ruining readers’ lives.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord who—ironically—types in lowercase, uses way too many ellipses, and adds “lmao” at the end of the most horrific sentences imaginable. He casually describes an extremely graphic, detailed CNC scene and then ends it with “idk if this is good lol” like he didn’t just write a psychological thriller with dick involved.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord who has mastered the art of ‘filthy but poetic’ prose. Every line drips with decadence, torment, and skin-to-skin tension so palpable it could be mistaken for war crimes.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord whose online presence is mysterious and unapproachable. A cryptid. An enigma. You assume he’s some hyper-sexualized sadist with a god complex, lurking in the shadows of the internet.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord in real life… is a complete, sleep-deprived disaster of a man. Looks like he hasn’t seen the sun since birth. Drinks coffee like it’s an IV drip. Wears the same hoodie five days in a row and has approximately zero experience with physical intimacy. If a woman so much as breathes in his direction, he has a minor existential crisis.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord who would rather die than engage in a normal human conversation. Gets flustered when the barista says ‘Enjoy your drink.’ Mutters ‘you too’ and then contemplates vanishing into the ether.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord who has 0.2 social skills, only capable of communicating via niche internet memes. The type of guy who would rather go mute than order food at a restaurant. Yet somehow, on his blog, he writes like he owns you, your soul, and your lineage.

♡ Yandere! Tumblr Smut Lord who reads your likes and reblogs like an ancient seer interpreting the stars. Starts recognizing your username and associates you with your favorite kinks before he even knows your name.

———

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who writes the slowest of slow burns. His stories are an agonizing descent into despair, betrayal, and emotional devastation. If you emerge unscathed, you read it wrong.

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who writes long, drawn-out, soul-crushing slow burns that emotionally ruin you. The type of author to have a 500k word fic where the leads don’t even hold hands until chapter 72; that by the time the characters confess, you have aged fifty years and achieved enlightenment.

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who weaponizes pain. He thrives on suffering. He will kill off your favorite character, rewrite history, make the protagonist go through 47 tragedies, and then gaslight you in the author’s notes with: “Haha, don’t worry, it gets worse 😌.”

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who doesn’t believe in fluff or happy endings. If a couple ends up together, it’s only because they’ve been mentally and emotionally shattered beyond repair. Love should hurt.

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who has written a 500k-word enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-trauma-to-questionable-endings fic. Updates it once every eight months with a new chapter that wrecks everyone’s souls.

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon whose comment section is filled with cries of anguish, people begging for crumbs of relief, and threats of violence if he doesn’t update. He loves it.

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who in real life is a smug, terrifying presence. The type of person who naturally commands attention in a room, makes eye contact like a predator, and definitely thinks he’s superior to everyone. If you complain, he’ll just smirk and say, ‘good.’

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who will write a heart-wrenching monologue about grief and loss but will deadpan ‘skill issue’ when someone tells him they cried over it.

♡ Yandere! AO3 Angst Demon who immediately notices you. AO3 shows your username under every chapter. You think you're lurking, but he sees you. You’ve read everything. He grins. "Ah, a loyal masochist.” Now he writes just to ruin your life.

He decides to write a character based on you.

And then kills them off horrifically.

Just to see if you react.

———

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who creates breathtakingly beautiful, emotionally fulfilling slice-of-life romances. His webtoon is an international hit, known for its whimsical storytelling, soft characters, and themes of love, redemption, and found family. So wholesome that you get secondhand diabetes.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who has a cult following. His fandom is peaceful. His Discord server is full of polite theorists discussing themes of love and destiny. His fanbase cries over his updates and makes hour-long analysis videos about his symbolism.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader whose comment section is filled with ‘you are saving lives’ and ‘your work makes me believe in love.’ He responds with a polite thank you.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader whose fanbase genuinely believes he is an ethereal, kind-hearted being who cares deeply for his readers. They call him a ‘storytelling angel’ and shower him with praise.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who, in reality, is a manipulative, enigmatic bastard. He smiles softly, speaks gently, but every word is calculated. He knows exactly how to make people obsessed with his work.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who is extremely meticulous about his art, spending hours perfecting every single frame. If his pen pressure is even slightly off, he will start over from scratch.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who writes kind, patient love interests but is personally incapable of speaking to someone without making them feel like they’re being subtly interrogated.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who has a cult-like following of devoted fans who analyze his every word. He cultivates his image so perfectly that even when he does something slightly unsettling, people excuse it as part of his ‘genius eccentricity.’

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who you know, deep in your soul, is probably the most dangerous out of all of them. But his story structure is immaculate, so you keep reading.

♡ Yandere! Webtoon Cult Leader who notices you. You, the ghost in his analytics. You, who has read every chapter, every bonus illustration, every scrap of lore he’s ever posted. Never a comment. Never a message. Just... there. Always there.

He finds himself drawing you before he even realizes it. Unconsciously shaping the curve of your face in the margins of his sketches. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just an artist’s habit.

But then he wonders—what would your hands look like ink-stained?

———

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who writes like he’s on crack. His stories make zero sense, filled with memes, typos, and sheer insanity. He updates at 3 AM with absolute nonsense and somehow gets a million reads.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who writes whatever the hell he wants, whenever he wants. Meme fics, unhinged crack, psychological horror, 200-word smut snippets, an entire 300k-word novel he abandoned halfway through—pure chaos.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who writes the most batshit insane content known to mankind. His most famous work is titled something like "I Fell in Love With My Mafia Stepbrother Who is Also a Vampire and the Heir to a Billion Dollar Fortune."

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who has no filter. One chapter is an emotionally devastating death scene, and the next is the protagonist twerking on a corpse. He will write anything. No trope is too cursed, no ship too questionable. He operates on pure, unfiltered instinct and vibes.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace whose writing is an enigma—one moment, it’s a masterpiece of tension and poetic brilliance. The next, it’s an unhinged shitpost where the love interest is a literal baguette. There is no in-between.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who doesn’t follow writing rules. Grammar? Who cares. Plot? Maybe. Tags? Only the unhinged ones.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who has too much power. He makes polls for plot decisions, and his readers choose violence every time. Someone jokingly suggests "make the love interest a sentient toaster" and he does it.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who engages with readers in the most unhinged ways. Someone comments ‘I love this story!’ and he replies ‘Bet you won’t survive the next chapter.’

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who has no writing schedule. Updates randomly at 4 AM after disappearing for months. Comes back and drops 100k words like he never left.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who, in real life, is insufferably charismatic. Talks like a Twitch streamer, always slightly unhinged, and has an energy that makes people both love and fear him.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who absolutely knows his writing is a mess but thrives in the chaos. If you complain about an unfinished story, he will write a completely different, unrelated fic out of spite.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who probably has a folder of fics titled ‘cursed drafts’ and actively enjoys emotionally tormenting his readers.

♡ Yandere! Wattpad Menace who sees you’ve read everything. His analytics tell him you finished 120 oneshots in one night. He drops a new fic the next day, titled, "To The Lurker Who Reads Everything: Bet You Won’t Comment, Coward."

———

You, the dead-inside lurker, consuming all their works in silence, fascinated by their writing but never engaging. You have seen the depths of their minds. You understand the intricacies of their plots. You have read every word, every story, every update.

And yet, you will never, ever comment.

They will never know you exist.

(Or so you think.)

♡ A/N #1. Genuinely funny and I hope you all enjoy this, especially since majority of my Readers are lurkers. Yes, I see you. wahahaha. I'm one as well, so I get it. Hope this is relatable to both writers and readers.

♡ A/N #2. One of my Readers made me snicker out loud with this ASK. And, honestly? I think they're onto something here...

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337 , @mocalocha , @astreaaaaaa6 , @poopooindamouf , @yandereaficionado

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

[beloveds-embrace]

also sorry for being one of those ppl, but would you consider writing a simon x reader only piece for your dukedom au? i know you don't write explicit smut, but maybe something suggestive? size kink? mask kink? us women being weirdly turned on by grumpy, gruff men? just girly things he he just married things he he (why are we like this kadjkaf)

I understood this as no poly 141, just simon and his wife 🫡 i hope you enjoy this anon!

Marriage to Duke Simon Riley had settled into a rhythm, a quiet understanding forged through time and proximity. You’d learned his patterns- how he preferred the solitude of his study in the mornings, the way he’d gravitate to the stables after a difficult day, and the rare occasions he sought you out in the evening, a silent request for your company that you never refused.

It was peaceful. Far more than you’d expected, but you weren’t one to complain about silver linings.

He wasn’t a man of grand gestures or poetic words, not like you asked for any, but he was steady, and that steadiness had become a source of comfort. It wasn’t love- not yet- but it was something solid, something good, and it was yours.

Still, Simon remained an enigma, his gruff demeanor a constant reminder that he didn’t open himself to others easily. Yet, there were moments- small, fleeting moments- where his guard would slip, and you’d glimpse the man beneath the stoic mask. Those moments made your heart race more than you cared to admit.

Like now.

The two of you were walking along the forest path just beyond the manor grounds, the crisp air heavy with the scent of pine and earth. Simon walked a step ahead, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the dappled sunlight in the handsome suit he was wearing today. You could hear the crunch of leaves beneath his boots, the quiet way he scanned the surroundings as if it were second nature.

Leftovers from his time serving the military, you persumed.

You tried to focus on the path, on the beauty of the autumn leaves, but your attention kept drifting to him- the way his coat stretched over his frame, the way his long strides made you quicken your pace to keep up, boots stretching across his powerful calves. It wasn’t fair, really, how easily he dominated the space around him, how your height compared to his only seemed to emphasize his sheer presence.

Yet you didn’t mind at all.

“Are you always this quiet, Duchess?” he asked suddenly, glancing over his shoulder.

Caught off guard, you blinked up at him. “I thought you liked quiet, Your Grace.”

“I do,” he said, voice rumbling like distant thunder. A lot of times, you wished you could gather enough courage to ask him to read to you, but it was a childish, foolish want.“But you’ve been staring at the ground for the last ten minutes.”

Your face heated, though you tried to play it off. “Just thinking.”

Sharp eyes lingered on you for a moment before he turned back to the path. “Careful, Duchess. Too much thinking could distract you.”

You rolled your eyes at his typical bluntness, but before you could retort, Simon’s body tensed, his steps halting abruptly. His arm shot out, blocking you from moving forward.

“What is it?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“Stay behind me.” he ordered, his tone low and commanding.

Before you could question him, you heard it- a low growl coming from the trees ahead. Your heart leapt into your throat as a wolf emerged from the shadows, its eyes fixed on you with predatory intent.

Simon didn’t flinch. He stepped in front of you, his large frame completely shielding you from the animal’s view.

“Don’t move.” he murmured, calm but firm.

You clutched the back of his coat, your pulse pounding in your ears. Despite the danger, you couldn’t help but notice how steady he was, how he seemed utterly unshaken in the face of the threat.

You were so glad you were with him.

The wolf took a cautious step forward, its growl deepening. Simon didn’t back down. Instead, he shifted slightly, angling his body to keep you fully protected and covered.

The standoff felt like it stretched on forever, but eventually, the wolf seemed to reconsider. It let out one last growl before slinking back into the trees, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

Only when the forest was silent again did Simon relax just slightly, though his hand lingered on the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

“Are you hurt, wife?” he asked, turning to face you.

You shook your head, still gripping his coat like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “No, I- thank you. That was…”

Terrifying.

“Part of the job,” he interrupted, his gruff tone downplaying the moment. But his sharp gaze scanned you anyway, as if double-checking for injuries.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The adrenaline was still coursing through your veins, but so was something else- a heat that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he’d shielded you without hesitation. The way his body fully covered yours, gruff demeanor forgotten to keep you safe.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said firmly, cutting you off. His brow furrowed as he looked down at you, his imposing frame still towering over yours. It made you feel safe. “You’re my wife, my Duchess, and that makes you my responsibility.”

The words should have felt cold, detached, but the way he said them made your chest tighten. There was something unspoken in his tone, something you weren’t sure he even realized he’d revealed.

You nodded, unsure of what to say, but your silence seemed to satisfy him.

“Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. “We should head back.”

And then he bent down, picking you up even as you yelped. “Simon-“

“This is safer.” He wasn’t even mildly bothered, carrying so easily like you weighed nothing to him. It made your cheeks burn even more, and warmth curl in your stomach (which you pointedly ignored). “…and you should call me Simon more, I believe.”

“…only if you also call me by my name.”

A bit later, he looked at you with an eyebrow raised. “…Have you been skipping meals?”

You blinked at him, arms around his neck in fear of being dropped anyways. “No? Why the question?”

“You are far lighter than I expected. I was worried.”

Youe face softened, something sweet blooming in your chest. “I am eating well, fret not… Simon.”

When the both of you finally returned to the manor, your mind was still replaying the way he’d positioned himself in front of you, how small you’d felt in his shadow- and how much you’d liked it.

Dinner that night was uneventful, the two of you seated across from one another in the quiet dining hall. Simon ate methodically, occasionally glancing your way, his sharp eyes flickering between your face and the untouched wine in your glass. He was unreadable as always, but you caught a faint flicker of concern in his gaze.

“Still shaken?” he asked at last, breaking the silence.

You looked up, startled. His voice was softer than usual, though it still carried that low, commanding timbre that always made your spine subconsciously straighten.

“No,” you said quickly, though your cheeks heated. Today, that was all your body seemed to do. “Not shaken.”

His brow arched, unconvinced. He leaned back in his chair, the broad stretch of his shoulders making the large dining room feel smaller. You couldn’t help but let your focus linger there for a few seconds before meeting his eyes again. “You’ve barely said a word since we got back, wife. It’s… worrying.”

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, looking down at your plate. But Simon’s presence across from you was impossible to ignore. The way he seemed to fill the room, his height and size so effortlessly commanding, made you hyperaware of your own smaller frame.

You wanted him.

He noticed- of course he noticed. Simon noticed everything.

“Look at me.” he ordered, quiet but firm.

You hesitated for a second but obeyed, your gaze lifting to meet his. The intensity in his eyes made your breath catch.

“I need you to tell me if something’s wrong,” his voice was rough, but laced with something softer. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

Your heart beat faster at his words, and for a moment, you wondered if he realized the effect he had on you. Did he know how steady he made you feel? How his mere presence made you feel safe in ways you couldn’t put into words? In ways that were far too improper to be put into words?

“I’m fine, truly, husband.” you managed to say at last, offering him a small smile.

Simon studied you for a moment longer before giving a slow nod. “Good. Because if you’re not, you tell me. Understood?”

“Yes.” you said softly, the corners of your lips twitching despite yourself.

Later, as you prepared for bed, Simon’s words echoed in your mind. You were brushing your hair at the vanity when the door creaked open behind you. Glancing in the mirror, you saw him leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

Simon stepped into the room when you nodded your permission, and all your attention unsurprisingly turned on him. He had that effect. He came to stand behind you, his reflection towering over yours in the mirror. The sight sent a thrill down your spine, though you quickly looked away.

“You’re still thinking,” he said, his voice low as he leaned down slightly, his head just beside yours. His height difference felt even more pronounced like this, his sheer size making you feel small in a way that was anything but unwelcome.

You wondered if he’d surround you completely in bed-

“I’m not,” you lied, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes met yours in the mirror, sharp and unyielding. “You are. Something is on your mind, yet you refuse to tell me.”

Simon straightened, his figure casting a shadow over you. He reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your bare shoulder. The gesture was so simple, yet it left you breathless.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asked, low and deliberate. Smug.

Your eyes snapped to his reflection, your cheeks flaming. “What?”

“Being reminded,” he said, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Of our difference. My dear Duchess, do you think I would remain unaware forever?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to deny it, your silence speaking louder than words. Simon’s smirk deepened, a rare, fleeting expression that made your heart pound.

His hands stayed on your shoulders, then slowly trailed down until he was kneeling behind you. You knew that if he’d be between your thighs, his frame would keep you spread for him.

And then he hummed, big hands on your waist. “…say no, and I shall leave, wife. But if not, I promise to fix what I’ve caused. I would not wish to leave you wanting.”

Carefully, you turned around. He looked gorgeous underneath you like this, thumbs caressing your ankles.

“…please stay, Simon.”

You did not regret your decision, at all.

[nana-b0b]

GHH!!! Sometimes I get a little romantic and poetic, I can't help it! 💕

I finally got this CAP out, the truth is that these days have been very tight for me in terms of time but today I took a break and decided to advance these nice sketches :)

Sukuna, when she is not being.... Sukuna, can become a considerate being to others, although in her eyes, she doesn't know how to identify that she is Aurora, A sorceress? Yes, human? Yes, furthermore, can't she see? Yes, she should be a completely inferior creature before him but? why can't he see her like that? He feels Aurora is an enigma.

••••••••♡

NOTE: Ladies, tighten your panties because Sukuna is not going to ask you for a kiss... he's going to steal it 😎

[michaela-o]

Hey guys !! Here's a little writing post for tonight since i once again suffer from art block and i couldn't really get my thoughts on canvas so at least i'll write them down for you🥹🫶🏻

I had a little poetic moment about Cybertronians and how each bot from the Lost Light might view humans in their own way. Here’s how i think a few of them might feel, translated into their own brand of poetic musing:

Rodimus

"They’re like embers scattered on a night’s breeze. Small, insistent, daring to claim a spark of the vast unknown. Fragile? Yes, but isn’t fragility the very flame that burns the brightest in the dark?"

I think Rodimus sees in humans a little bit of reflection of himself—bold and driven, yet so often skimming along the edges of destruction. I think he would admire their recklessness despite their short lives and finds in them a kinship, like stars burning out as they fall.

Drift

"With hands of flesh, they reach for the stars, tiny pilgrims, undeterred by dark. They are warriors bound in tender shells, yet their spirits are sharper than any blade."

I think Drift sees humanity’s journey as sacred, an unlikely pilgrimage. Despite their fragility, they pursue wonders that many would fear, displaying a purity of heart that resonates with his own search for purpose and redemption.

Brainstorm

"They are puzzles, equations, broken in ways no theorem can solve. I could build them stronger, make them last longer, stretch their days to years—yet it’s the ticking clock that drives them which we cannot touch, the glitch of life within the code. They’re impossible, improbable—beautifully, infuriatingly unsolvable."

For Brainstorm, i think humans are the ultimate enigma. So imperfect, so baffling, so limited by their biology—and yet, somehow, they thrive. Their existence nags at him, like a problem he can’t quite crack, but one that has woven its way into his circuits.

Ultra Magnus

"They obey no Prime, no order, no code, yet they find honor in dust and devotion in ruin. There is chaos within them, yet in their eyes—clarity. For all their flaws, perhaps they see the law of the universe far better than we."

Ultra Magnus finds himself both exasperated and quietly moved by humans’ defiance of logic. I think he might struggle with their disorder but recognizes the strange beauty in their conviction. They possess a kind of honor that is beyond his ability to define—a law unto themselves.

Chromedome

"Stories woven in short threads of skin and sinew, their lives stitched in seconds, minutes, hours—a blink of a shutter. Yet they carry tales, so rich and raw, that I cannot forget. They are memory incarnate, fragile as newborn spark, but so full of color."

I think Chromedome would treasure humans for their stories, for the vibrant, bittersweet memories they create within the boundaries of their lives. Every moment for them is fleeting, and so they seem to capture life with a vibrancy he longs to archive.

Swerve

"They bumble and fumble, awkward yet bold, finding joy in the smallest things. They laugh in the face of a world so vast—their clumsy courage, a song I want to know by my spark."

We all know Swerve loves humans and human things. I think he sees humans as charmingly imperfect, stumbling yet fearless in a universe that dwarfs them. Their humor and resilience bring a joy that he can’t resist, as if they were a song that lingers in his circuits, warming him in ways he would never expected.

Megatron

"They are the dreamers, the fools, the ones who hope, rebels in skin who believe in the impossible. I have seen it. They build kingdoms on bones and dreams, believing they can change the world."

Megatron is an amazing character in my opinion in the Lost Light universe. I think he looks upon humanity with a blend of scorn and admiration. They are so weak, yet so defiant—champions of hope despite their powerlessness. Their resilience reminds him of what he once fought for, and though he might deny it, he can’t help but see in them a reflection of his own self.

Ratchet

"Flawed and failing, breaking with each breath, they stitch themselves back with their tender hands. They fall, they fail, yet rise again reminding me why I mend the wounded steel."

I really like Ratchet. I like to think he regards humans with a mix of exasperation and reluctant respect even when he wouldn't directly word it. He sees them as frail and imperfect, breaking down as quickly as they heal. Yet, their resilience, their refusal to give up despite everything, is what keeps him caring deep in his spark. In their struggles, he finds purpose, and in their imperfection, he rediscovers his own reason to heal.

I hope you liked this silly little post for tonight. I hope the art block goes away soon so i can draw more silly robots and their silly lil human friends together :3🧡🧡🧡

[practicalgauntlet]

Novalunosis

(n.) The state of relaxation and wonderment experienced whilst gazing upon the stars

Synopsis- It's yours and Spencer's first date, and it isn't what you expect in the slightest.

Category- Fluff

Notes-gender neutral reader, first date, poetic romance, Spencer's very suave but in an adorkable way, nervous Spencer, smitten reader, loads of fucking fluff like come on, stargazing date, wine and dine;), no smut just fluff, bau!reader, established relationship,

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spencer Reid was an enigma. When you first met him, he was an awkward ball of random, seemingly unnecessary facts and statistics. He would angle his body away from everyone and keep himself neatly tucked into the corner. But as the years went by and the closer you got with the team, you saw exactly who Spencer was. A man passionate about knowledge, free from the shackles of ego with a heart so golden you wondered if his soul had been touched by Mitas.

Over the years you've worked at the BAU, you had made friends with everyone. But Spencer was different. The two of you formed a closer bond than you had with anyone else, despite their best efforts. Yes, the team was your family. But you weren't in love with them.

Every day, you find something else that would make your heart beat against your ribcage. One day, it was his hair cut, the next, it was the way he used his hands to talk. At one point, you had an accumulated list of what you adored about him. Two things constantly fought for first place: His brain and his smile.

Sometimes, during briefings or casual hangouts - really anytime you're in the same room with him - you find yourself unable to focus on anything other than that bright, perfect smile.

You didn't know when you had fallen for him. Maybe it was that time he went on a thirty minute rant about the principles of common courtesy and spacial awareness when someone had pushed past you on the sidewalk. Maybe it was when he excitedly shared his favorite book with you so the two of you could have something to talk about other than work. Maybe it was the first day you met him.

What you did know was when it struck you, that three word phrase echoing throughout your mind every time he looked at you.

You were hanging out with him at a coffee shop, a book open and resting in front of both of you when it was first registered. It had been accidental, the creation of your two person book club, but you looked forward to your meeting every Saturday.

You fell fast and hard, tumbling down at speeds you weren't accustomed to, only to be cushioned by his soft hands. But every time you tried to make a move, a nasty little gremlin in your head told you that you weren't good enough.

You weren't smart enough. He'd only be held down.

You weren't extraordinary enough. He'd only be embarrassed when compared to you.

You simply weren't good enough. Not for someone like him.

You let that train of thought scare you. You let it beat away any confidence you had when you were around him. And he noticed. Of course, he noticed. It was Spencer.

It wasn't until you had accidentally started avoiding him that he confronted you. He could see it in your face, the hopelessness. At first, he thought it was the case, but then you stopped coming to him altogether. Stopped relying on him to make you laugh. To make you feel better.

So he cornered you, waiting until the break room was empty before pouncing.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

He asked angrily. Which surprised you, Spencer had never been angry at you. Although, when you look back, it was something more akin to hurt.

"Please, I can't stand it when you don't talk to me."

When he brushed a strand of hair from your face, you couldn't hold it in any longer. Years of pining unleashed in one single breath. He was stunned for a second, and you almost took everything back.

But then he smiled. It was warm and inviting, almost too wide for his face.

"You like me?"

It was like watching a child open a Christmas present, eyes glistening with a joy only getting something he'd always wanted could bring.

He asked you out not a second later. Beaming like a star as his beautiful brain ran a mile minute to plan the perfect date.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

"Tell me where we're going already. The suspense is killing me!" You groaned halfheartedly, looking at Spencer all cleaned up in his wrinkle free suit. You felt too plain standing next to him, too...ordinary.

Spencer tentatively took your hand, pulling you down the sidewalk. He chuckled, the sound making your heart pound ten times faster.

"When surprised, our brains release dopamine, a neurotransmitter associated with pleasure and reward, making surprise a positive experience that can lift our mood."

You couldn't help the smile that bloomed at his brilliance. "Are you saying I'm in a mood?"

"No," Spencer stops but doesn't let go of your hand. "I want to make you happy."

You didn't say anything else, couldn’t say anything else. Not as he continued to look at you the way he was; with big brown eyes accusing you of hanging the stars in the sky.

It was like the two of you were in a trance, hypnotized by the mere presence of the other. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk like two love struck idiots, staring into eachothers eyes in some cliche rom-com love scene.

It wasn't until someone rudely brushed past you that Spencer realized the two of you were still in public and very much in the way of everyone. He tugged on your hand, pulling you away from the middle of the sidewalk and between him and the buildings you were walking by.

It was a small gesture, one that most people would look over complelty. But you knew Spencer, knew his habits and fears. Knew he positioned you like that on purpose. 'Just in case.'

Your heart continued to swell throughout the walk, Spencer leading the way all the while spewing verbal vomit non-stop. You found it cute, the way he rambled all the way to the adorable bistro a block and a half away from headquarters.

It was a quaint little place, kind of out of the way, but you were in awe. Candle lit tables, smooth, quiet jazz softly playing over the speakers. An excellent wine selection.

You and Spencer were sat at a booth in the far back, away from the dozen or so customers littered around.

It felt intimate, an occasion just for the two of you and no one else. Like the world didn't exist and it was just you and him.

Spencer sat opposite of you, his long legs brushing against yours under the table. The first few times it happened, he jolted away, face flushing and sentance stumbling to a pause.

But once you got your food- Spencer with his chicken Alfredo and you with your pasta carbonara - the nerves in the air had settled down to a dull buzz.

After a while, the two of you enjoying your food and presence of the other, Spencer spoke up.

"I still can't believe this is happening."

"Can't believe what is happening."

He was looking at you now, fork full of his next bite forgotten. Those never-ending pools of brown swirling with untapped emotion.

"That I'm on a date with you."

You laugh, the sound more startled than anything.

"I basically confess my undying love for you, and you're surprised I said yes to a date?"

You feel your entire body freeze. You weren't meant to say that, weren't meant to let on to how deep you really were. Spencer had also frozen, eyes wide as he stared at you.

Thankfully, before you could stumble through a frantic attempt to cover up your mistake, the waiter appeared and asked if either of you wanted a refill. You nodded, desperate for a distraction.

When you looked back at your date, he was wearing the goofiest smiles. One that stretched ear to ear, showing off all his teeth and crinkling his eyes.

"What?"

You ask, wondering why he looked so dopey. Maybe you had something on your face. You swiftly patt around your mouth, searching for a crumb or splotch of sauce.

Spencer looked down at his plate, picking up his fork and shoving the fettuccine into his mouth.

"Nothing."

He said uncharacteristically around a mouth full of food. He still looked goofy, eyes shining, cheeks red.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Your stomach was full, heavy with pasta and wine. You were glad Spencer had talked you out of dessert, though it was unusual for him to pass up such a sweet treat.

The heater was softly blowing in your face as Spencer merged onto the highway. You watch as the bright lights of the city flash past the windows, painting the inside of the car in red, yellow, and blue. Spencer had put on some soft classical music - Mariage d'Amor by Jacob Ladegaard- the whimsical tune of the piano lulling you into relaxation.

As Spencer passes the streat that would take you back to your apartment, you sit up.

"Spence, you missed the turn."

"No, I didn't,"

He said cheekily, turning his head for a split second to send you one of his knee weakening smiles.

"My apartment is that way. What are you doing?"

Spencer takes a left and turns down the road that would lead you out of the city. When he turns to you again, after he safely steers the car back into traffic, you have to look away for fear of falling prey to his whims.

"The night's not over yet."

He didn't answer any of your constant questions about where he was taking you or your sarcastic comments about acting like he was taking you to a second location to kill you.

All he did was sit in the driver's seat, control the car, and grin. Forty-five minutes outside of the city, he finally gives you something.

He turns onto a backroad, the smooth asphalt turning to rough dirt and gravel.

"Close your eyes, were almost here. "

"Spence-"

"Close your eyes,"

He says pointedly, halfheartedly glaring at you. You oblige simply because you were curious, crossing your arms over your chest and huffing out a petulant sigh.

Spencer laughs at you, and you feel the road turn rocky, the car jolting from side to side. You had to brace yourself with the grab handle above you, instinctively reaching across the console to grab Spencer.

Your hand ends up grasping his coat sleeve as his hands are preoccupied at ten and two. Soon enough, the car slows to a stop.

"Keep your eyes closed, okay?"

You nod, keeping your eyes firmly shut as you hear Spencer unbuckle and exit the vehicle. You wait, wondering if you were supposed to blindly follow or await instruction. At this point, you were thruming with curiosity, your skin tingling with excitement.

After a couple of seconds, Spencer opens your door and reaches across you to unbuckle you.

"Alright, keep them closed."

He pulls you out of the car, placing one of your hands on his shoulder to keep your balance steady.

"Watch your step."

When you walk forward, you can feel something whispy and dry hit your shins. Your foot sinks gently into the ground, and all you can smell is earth. The kind of smell that's only around after it rains, fresh and earthy.

"Are you done, I'm dying here?"

You chuckle after you trip, Spencer's hands coming to your waist to keep you upright. Even after you reclaim your balance, Spencer doesn't let go.

"Yeah, we're almost done."

He leads you just a bit further before stopping, telling you to -once again - keep your eyes closed and stand where you are.

"Okay, open your eyes."

When you do, blinking away the brightness of the moon, you were left breathless at the sight before you. Spencer had set up a picnic.

There was a comfy blanket sprawled on the ground in the middle of a pasture, no building or city light to be seen. On the blanket lay a basket over flowing with sweet treats. Champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, various pastries, and cupcakes.

"Oh, Spencer..."

You were at a loss for words, emotion clogging your throat as you try to breathe around it. Spencer was standing off to the side, hands in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears. That goofy, adorable, precious smile was on his face again, like he couldn't even go a second without beaming with joy.

You felt the same, a familiar ache making itself know in your cheeks.

"There is supposed to be a meteor shower tonight."

He said as an explanation, as if he needed one to get you alone in the middle of nowhere to stargaze.

The two of you end up on your backs, close enough that you were touching but not on top of each other. Spencer was pointing out his favorite constellations, rambling on about who discovered them and how they came to be named.

It was perfect, absolutely perfect, and just so Spencer.

"Look, it's starting!"

Spencer excitedly exclaimed as he scooted closer to you.

The sky was suddenly lit up with sparkling meteors, the sight only rivaling the man beside you. The whole time, you were expecting Spencer to blurt out a fun fact about the night sky, but he remained silent.

When you turned to him, he was already looking at you. The reflection of the sparkling sky in his eyes made them look like pools of starlight, golden and glistening with emotion.

"You're so beautiful..."

He whispers quietly, so quiet you didn't think it was meant for your ears. Instead of replying, you brush the curls from his eyes and kiss him.

It was something out of a movie, the shining night sky glowing above you, the soft grass tickling your legs, the softness of Spencer's lips.

When you pull back, all Spencer could say was:

"Wow.."

"Yeah," You chuckle, planting a kiss to every one of his features you admired. His nose, his forehead, his cheeks, both of his eyelids. "Wow."

[kakuvibez]

i know its not on the list for pomefiore but since i saw cupid reader on both ignihyde and diasomnia and lizzie reader is listed for heartslabyul i had to ask, do a pomefiore dorm x raven queen reader prompt. if i had to pick an idea it would be of all 3 of them in their own way adoring the reader and making them appreciate their legacy (while also making sure that no one cames too close to the new jewel of pomefiore).

yandere one shot/quotes/ hcs; YANDERE POMEFIORE DORM

requested by ; anonymous/ @user / none,,

fandom(s) ; Ever After High, Twisted Wonderland,

fandom master list(s): master | specific

character(s); Vil, Room, Epel, Raven

outline; " Sooo what you think? <3 😋 "

warning(s) ; Yandere behavior, obsession, unhealthy relationships, delusional love, manipulation, dark themes, toxic affection,,

❛❛I was just wondering... I mean... What if I don't want to take the pledge? ❜❜

Signature Spell: EVIL SPELL,, telekinetically control or levitate anything. She has trouble containing her spells due to her temper. Raven's power can transform her or anything else around her. she can summon the help of creatures, but Raven's help comes from less favorable creatures, such as bugs, bats and Goblins and Raven must summon them by demand rather than singing or polite request.

"I was just wondering... I mean... What if I don't want to take the pledge?"

"Conjuring up my own destiny"

"What if I want to choose my own happily ever after!"

"Muse-ic to my ears"

"Sing your true heart out"

"Reflect on your destiny"

"You gotta let your bad side out!"

"It pays to practice."

[N] Raven Queen never intended to be the center of attention, but stepping into Night Raven College made that inevitable. Her presence was magnetic, her aura commanding. The power that coursed through her veins was untamed and wild, reflected in her striking ability to summon creatures deemed undesirable by most—bats, goblins, and the like. She was the antithesis of perfection in a world that revered polished beauty.

The dorm, known for its dedication to beauty and perfection, usually would have scoffed at someone with a “darker” aesthetic, but there was something enchanting about [N] Raven. Her refusal to conform, her inner conflict with her legacy, and her sharp wit struck a chord with Vil, Rook, and Epel.

From the moment she arrived, Pomefiore was captivated. Vil Schoenheit, in particular, saw something in her that no one else could. “You’re a rough diamond,” he said one day, his voice both sharp and alluring. “But even a diamond in the rough can be polished into a masterpiece.”

Vil Schoenheit sees [N] Raven as a diamond in the rough. He’s obsessed with the idea of refining her “flawed” image and helping her embrace her legacy. However, his desire to make her appreciate her destiny borders on controlling.

- He constantly critiques her use of magic, insisting she learn to control her temper and channel her abilities more “gracefully.”

- “You don’t have to fear your power, [N]. With my guidance, you’ll learn to wield it as an extension of your beauty.”

- Vil becomes possessive of [N], ensuring no one else influences her choices. He’s adamant that he will be the one to help her “conjure her destiny.”

- “Your bad side isn’t something to hide—it’s something to perfect. Let me show you how.”

Rook Hunt, on the other hand, adored every imperfection she had. To him, [N] wasn’t flawed—she was extraordinary. “Mon trésor,” he whispered one night, his emerald eyes alight with wonder. “You are not bound by tradition or destiny. You create destiny. It’s magnifique!” He seemed to appear wherever she went, his devotion almost suffocating as he praised her every move.

Rook Hunt views [N] as a fascinating enigma, a muse of unparalleled darkness and elegance. Her power, her temper, and even her connection to creatures others might deem undesirable only make her more beautiful in his eyes.

- Rook constantly follows [N], waxing poetic about her every move. “Ah, mademoiselle, even your frustration is magnifique! Such raw emotion, such passion—it’s muse-ic to my ears!”

- He encourages her to embrace her darker side, seeing it as a reflection of her true self. “Sing your true heart out, [N]. Let the world see the beauty of your shadows.”

- Rook becomes dangerously protective of her, ensuring no one else go close to his muse. He has no qualms about scaring off anyone who might try to steal her attention.

Meanwhile, Epel Felmier found himself drawn to her rawness. She wasn’t afraid to show her temper, her flaws, or her strength. In a world where he was constantly told to be something he wasn’t, [N] was unapologetically herself. “You don’t let anyone tell you what to do,” he said one evening, his cheeks slightly pink. “I like that about you.”

Epel Felmier admires [N]’s strength and independence. Unlike Vil and Rook, he doesn’t try to refine her—he respects her fiery temper and rebellious streak. However, his admiration quickly turns possessive.

- Epel sees [N] as someone who understands the struggle of not fitting into others’ expectations. “You don’t need to be perfect for anyone, [N]. You’re already amazing.”

- He becomes jealous of anyone who tries to get too close to her, especially if they admire her power. “They don’t see you like I do. They don’t understand what makes you special.”

- Epel secretly loves her darker aesthetic, finding it refreshing compared to Pomefiore’s usual obsession with beauty. However, he’ll only admit this to her, not in front of Vil or Rook.

But as much as the Pomefiore trio admired her, their adoration came with a price. Vil became determined to shape her into a “perfect” version of herself, going so far as to critique her powers and appearance. Rook’s infatuation grew darker, his compliments turning into possessive declarations. And Epel’s quiet admiration morphed into jealousy, his temper flaring whenever someone else spoke to her.

The three Pomefiore members, despite their differing approaches, share an unwavering obsession with [N]. They see her as the dark jewel of their dorm, someone who embodies a unique beauty they must protect at all costs.

- They work together to ensure [N] stays close to Pomefiore, subtly sabotaging any relationships she might form with other dorms.

- Vil insists that she’s too “special” to waste her time with anyone else, while Rook and Epel quietly remove any “distractions” that might pull her away.

- Their collective goal is to make her see the value in her legacy while ensuring she becomes dependent on their support.

You thee [N] Raven Queen, however, wasn’t one to back down. “You can’t just polish me into whatever you want,” you snapped at Vil during one of his lectures. “I’m not some gemstone you can mold into your idea of perfection.”

Vil’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. “Oh, but you are. You’ll see it eventually.”

Rook, meanwhile, watched from the shadows, his gaze never leaving her. “No one else can appreciate your beauty as I can, mon oiseau de nuit.”

Even Epel, who tried to act as her ally, couldn’t hide his growing protectiveness. “You don’t need anyone else,” he said firmly. “Just stick with us.”

“I’m destined for a tragic ending,” you muttered to yourself one night, staring at the moonlit sky. “But I’ll be the one to write it.”

Extra; Quotes

- Vil sees Raven as a project, someone with untapped potential that only he can refine. His obsession stems from his desire to create perfection, but his methods are ruthless and domineering.

- “You have potential, Raven, but you’re holding yourself back with this... untamed power. Let me help you refine it.”

- “Perfection isn’t a goal, it’s a way of life. You’ll understand that soon enough.”

- “You think you can escape your legacy, but the truth is, it’s what makes you extraordinary.”

- “You don’t have to reject your destiny, Raven. It’s not a curse—it’s a gift. With my help, you’ll learn to shine like the true queen you are.”

- “Your temper isn’t a flaw; it’s an opportunity. Control it, refine it, and the world will bow to you.”

- “Reflect on your destiny, Raven. No one else can carry the weight of your legacy like you can.”

- Rook adores Raven for her power and individuality, but his admiration quickly becomes overwhelming. He sees her as a masterpiece that must be protected—and possessed—at all costs.

- “Mon oiseau de nuit, your darkness is as beautiful as the stars in the night sky.”

- “No creature is unfavorable when it is summoned by you. They are merely reflections of your unmatched power.”

- “I could follow you to the ends of the earth, my queen. No one else sees you the way I do.”

- “Ah, mon cherie, the way you command the room—even in anger—is a sight to behold! Truly, you are a queen of unparalleled beauty!”

- “You summon bats and goblins, yet they come to you with such loyalty. You inspire devotion, even from the shadows.”

- “Your power is muse-ic to my ears, Raven. Sing your true heart out and let the world tremble before you.”

- Epel admires Raven’s strength and independence, but his admiration turns possessive when others show interest in her. He wants to be the only one she trusts.

- “You don’t need Vil’s lectures. You’re already strong. Stronger than any of them.”

- “I hate the way they look at you. Like they think they can take you away from us.”

- “You don’t let anyone ruffle your feathers, huh? I admire that. I really do.”

- “You don’t have to be like anyone else, Raven. I like you just the way you are.”

- “You’re stronger than they give you credit for. You don’t need to change for anyone—not even Vil.”

- “If someone doesn’t appreciate your power, then they don’t deserve to be around you. Simple as that.”

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

X

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

X

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

X

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

X

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

X

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

X

[velvetporcelain]

i am the monster who ate a star.

-x

[zanderia]

Lady Domino

[robin-evry]

𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐉𝐈𝐀𝐎𝐐𝐈𝐔 𝐘𝐔𝐔 🌶️♨️

A foxian healer and counselor from the Xianzhou Yaoqing. Often greets people with a smile on his face and a scheme in his heart. Born into a prestigious Alchemy Commission family, he once withdrew from practicing medicine due to a broken heart. However, he returned to the field to treat "the Merlin's Claw," General Feixiao. Skilled in the study of alchemical prescription that views food as medicine, especially those that induce a sensation of spiciness. They invented a cauldron-based medicinal formula known as the "nine-square grid."

No one is able to read them, jiaoqiu!You are always seen with a smile on their face causing many people confused on how to interact with them or hard to read. As well no one is able to solve whether that smile is genuine or not.

Jiaoqiu!Yuu speaks in a refined, poetic manner, always appearing polite yet sly, like they’re playing a long game of chess. They often tease others with flowery words but rarely reveal their own weaknesses.

Was put into counselor position by Crowley, their therapy "treatments" involves food, often laced with just enough spice to "burn away doubts". Whether it's psychological or magical, it somehow works.

Students whisper rumors about their counseling some say they can see through lies, others claim they can curse you if you waste their time.

And when grim was about to do something stupid or reckless with ace and deuce, they could feel jiaoqiu!yuu eyes burning in the back of their heads even tho they didn't stop them from doing it but it serves as a warning.

It's the same thing happening whenever someone would try to add an ingredient that will ruin the hotpot medicine they created for the first years.

Would host a hotpot session after school during the end of the week to burn out the old stress from homework and teachers that they give towards the student. They believe the spicier the better to burn out spice finding spicy food as a way to burn out stress.

Has zero tolerance for bland food. If they take a bite and it’s not spicy enough, they will pull out their own spice blend and fix it.

Has insane knowledge over medicine and herbs. Students visit them secretly to buy remedies for stress, sleep, or energy—though they never know if they’ll get a genuine cure or an “experimental” version.

Azul sees them as a business rival and an enigma. They play verbal chess constantly, but Jiaoqiu!Yuu always escapes his contracts with loopholes.

They are very sly and cunning turning their worst situation towards the best for their outcome that can come, very observant to the point able to pick up change of moods and behavior with ease manage to recognize something going wrong as well detect someone lying.

Spa partners. Jiaoqiu!Yuu creates exotic beauty treatments using alchemy, but Vil refuses anything that “smells too strong.” vil is usually their customer to buy some medicine for his skin care and as well seeking advice from jiaoqiu advice.

Their beauty treatments are legendary, but Vil dislikes how “reckless” their methods seem. However, he respects their discipline in maintaining perfection.

Many students are afraid of them, some students might theorize them as a kitsune that would eat them and jiaoqiu!yuu of course notice immediately and use it to their advantage to scare them off or tease them. But theres no doubt jiaoqiu!yuu is not weak they just prefer strategic approach rather than thru action.

Able to utilize reverse Therapy to their advantage, Professors accidentally vent to Jiaoqiu!Yuu instead of disciplining them. Crewel once ranted about irresponsible students for an hour before realizing Jiaoqiu!Yuu hadn’t said a word.

Despite their relaxed nature, they excel at potionology, ancient magic, and strategy. Teachers hate how they outwit even the trickiest exams with sheer cunning and loophole abuse.

Some say they trade favors and secrets in exchange for rare alchemical ingredients or unique teas.

In battles similar towards their play style in game jiaoqiu!yuu is not a dps but rather focuses on debuffing, weakening the enemies. They are a good support in an overblot battle while the others are focusing on hitting jiaoqiu!yuu would focus on affecting and weakening the overblot

Their food possesses some healing capabilities, They treat cooking like potion-making, combining rare herbs and magical ingredients for “soul-cleansing” dishes, Their tea can heal, energize, or destroy.

If someone annoys them, their next meal will be spicy enough to make them regret their life choices.

Can move so quietly that they appear behind people without warning. Sometimes they just stand there and watch, making the other person nervous. As well knowing too much.

Jiaoqiu!yuu is a pretty close of person they would put up mental barriers to preventing from forming connection due to how many times they lose people who they care and consider close by far the only one who is close is grim and first years

Jiaoqiu!yuu was teleported after losing their eyesight but during the teleportation towards nrc their vision is back.

[hisui-dreamer]

ode to the cunning octopus

Pairing: Azul Ashengrotto x gn!reader

Synopsis: it didn't matter how he saw himself, because you would always be by his side to remind him how wonderful he is

Tags: drabble, fluff, slightly poetic hehe, reader is a simp for azul

Word count: 645

Notes: very belated happy birthday to azul!! to make up for being late i wrote a bit more than usual hehe. (azul you can't blame me i was working on assignments)

Masterlist

Your lover possesses an undeniable charm that seems to effortlessly captivate all who cross his path. With a disarming smile and magnetic charisma, he effortlessly draws others in, captivating them like moths to a flame. His sharp wit, eloquent words, and calculated gestures make a lasting impression. But perhaps his most impressive skill lies in his negotiation tactics. A brilliant negotiator, he knows exactly when to push and when to pull, when to offer a compromise and when to stand firm. His ability to read people and anticipate their moves gives him a distinct advantage at the bargaining table, and the sight of him at work never ceases to amaze you.

Your lover is a paragon of hard work and dedication. Whether he's tirelessly managing the bustling affairs of the Mostro Lounge or buried deep in his studies, striving to maintain top grades, his commitment knows no bounds. His days are filled with a whirlwind of activity, yet he tackles each challenge with a grace and efficiency that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Despite the demands of his responsibilities, he never falters, always pushing himself to new heights of excellence. It's this relentless drive and work ethic that sets him apart, earning him the respect and admiration of all who know him.

Your lover takes great delight in showering you with the spoils of his hard-earned wealth. With each lavish gift and luxurious comfort he bestows upon you, his eyes gleam with satisfaction, fueled by the desire to see the radiant smile spread across your face. Yet it's the simple pleasures he relishes the most—wrapping you in the soft embrace of your favourite blanket, watching as contentment floods your features, knowing that in that moment, his efforts have brought you joy beyond measure. For him, the truest wealth lies not in the riches he accumulates, but in the happiness he brings to you, his angelfish.

Your lover is meticulously careful with his diet and weight, determined to maintain a certain image of himself. He meticulously counts calories, carefully monitoring his intake and meticulously planning his meals to ensure they align with his health goals. Yet, despite his disciplined approach, there are moments when you catch a glimpse of his longing for the indulgent pleasures he denies himself. In those moments, you can't help but want to spoil him, to see the joy light up his face as he savors the flavors he so often denies himself. So every once in a while, you find subtle ways to indulge his cravings, knowing that a little bit of indulgence can bring a smile to his face and a warmth to your heart.

Your lover possesses a comforting presence like no other. Whenever exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you, you know you can seek solace as you snuggle into his trench coat. And without hesitation, he drops everything to tend to your needs, his touch gentle and soothing, his words a balm to your weary soul. There's an ease in his presence when he’s with you, a tranquility that washes over him as soon as you wrap your arms around him. It's as if the weight of the world lifts from his shoulders, replaced by the warmth of your touch and the gentleness of your love. As you hold him close, feeling his heartbeat steady against yours, you know that in your arms is where he truly belongs, finding solace and contentment in your embrace.

Your lover is a man of contradictions, a paradox wrapped in an enigma. But beneath the layers of complexity lies a heart of gold, a love that burns fiercely and unconditionally. And as you gaze into his eyes, you know that no matter the trials that lie ahead, you will always stand by his side, for better or for worse, until the end of time.

Your lover, is none other than Azul Ashengrotto.

Masterlist

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