#devoured in ink [ in character. ]

[inkdevoured]

[Muse:RH!Macaque] Here he was, finding himself face to face with an Ink demon, his weapon in hand. Why were they were? How were they free from the scroll? There was many questions that popped into his mind but he settled on one that could be easily answered. "What do you want?"

"Hey Macaque!"

The ink grinned, rolling upside down in a playful manner.

"Nice of you to drop by! How ya holding up, bud?" The ink demon asked, the glow of it's eyes and mouth bright as ever.

[dreadbornesaint]

tag dump - gen

[inkdevoured]

"I don't know, do I?" The ink shrugged, their smile growing.

"Don't you have anything better to do?!"

A roll of his eyes as he watched the ink closely, looking completely unbothered by what they were saying or doing.

[bunnwich]

Devourer👑(Scar!Leona x Yuu) 01

Leona got everything he wanted, except for one thing. After 7 long years of being king, Yuu comes back into his life. As Yuu finds themselves in his nightmare, will they be able to "find " Leona and wake him? Or will they both be devoured?

Characters: Leona Kingscholar x Yuu!Reader (GN. No physical description for Yuu. They/Them pronouns. Yuu majors in alchemy at NRC.)

Words: 5k, 3rd person Notes: A darker AU based on Leona’s Chapter 7 Dream. Part 1 of ??? Not sure if I will continue this AU but it was fun as an exercise to write a bit of more of a darker and sinister Leona for once. LMK if you like this sorta thing?

Parts: Part 1, Part 2

CW: Murder, Slight Dark themes??, Pushing of physical boundaries.

Tagging: I will be tagging in comments!

--

From the moment he took the throne after his brother’s death, whispers filled the kingdom, unease and ridicule trailing him like a shadow. He remained in the heart of the people as a scar of a prince on the divine oligarchy’s legacy. A black stain of spilled ink over the Sunset Savanna’s entire proud history. Once seen as a prince with little promise, he had sat as a king for seven long years now, ruling with an iron fist and a sharp tongue.

The “when” was foggy now, a few months, a year ago? Leona, as they used to know him, had personally recruited them to head an experimental “agricultural development program,” aimed at alleviating the famine gripping the kingdom. Yuu supposed he found out about their internship and majors sometime after they graduated. The years after Night Raven College had been hard and their old school life seemed almost idyllic compared to the world outside. After their friends scattered to the winds to start their own lives, Yuu had been left behind to pick up the pieces of a shattered life. Alchemy, the study of magical plants, was one of the only ways to make them feel competent in a world surrounded by people often more powerful than themself.  They had gotten quite good at it, but it felt surreal to be bestowed such an “honor” from a king after so many years. 

They hadn't seen Leona Kingscholar in nearly a decade after all. --

It was rounding the third hour of a meeting, and the afternoon heat was blistering. Yuu was slumped in their stone chair, mind starting to wander, eyes lulling dangerously closed. After a brief silence, a single voice broke the once-quiet discussion of the royal budget, and their trance.

“Your Highness! We cannot afford to execute this plan! This…aid program to provide outreach to the Outlands.” The council member never even bothered to look over at Yuu themselves. Even when he was implying their very existence at this council was an unwelcome one.

Seated around the oval table, each other council member avoided Leona’s piercing gaze. However, Yuu’s eyes flicked to the man seated next to them. The king was draped lazily across his chair, his expression one of equal parts calculation and boredom.

Oh? Their eyes widened, the elders rarely stood their ground with him.

“Hm? And why not?” Leona’s voice was low and menacing as his emerald eyes narrowed, deep voice cracking through the entire throne room. He was dressed in his standard black dashiki suit, its sleek fabric adorned with shimmering gold accents that seemed to catch the light with his every movement. The suit’s high collar stood proud, a dark canvas for the multiple beaded and gold necklaces that dripped over his chest.

"Your Majesty, diverting even more of our time and resources to the coastal neighborhoods is a mistake.” Councilman Griza, a giraffe beastman, braver than the rest, spoke again, his voice shaking only slightly. “Those…people have shown time and time again they are a threat to the capital. Offering aid will only embolden them, send mixed messages. Especially with how things have been as of late..." His malice made him braver it seemed, his resentment of the outlanders barely concealed.

“How convenient.” Leona sneered, slouching forward. His voice was a slow rumble, dangerous and intentional. “Of course, they’ve been aggressive. Anyone would be if they were historically treated like pests...starved, shunned, discarded.” He stood, palms slapping against the table, his claws scraping the stone discordantly. “They’ve been cornered, can't expect them not to bite.”

Each of his movements was a steady prowl as he circled the long table, his brown sash flowing across his shoulder. The councilman flinched as Leona suddenly stopped behind him, looming like a dark cloud over the man. “I think sometimes you all forget, I know what it’s like to be cast aside. And…to hunger for something denied.” His eyes scanned the table’s occupants and Yuu made sure to look down before he could make eye contact with them. 

They knew their place, as the youngest and arguably least qualified…they tended to keep their mouth shut unless their opinion was asked.

He went on. “...Starve someone long enough, treat them like the dirt beneath your feet, and then when they lash out, suddenly they’re the problem? How noble of you to twist the narrative, Griza.”

Another councilman, Lord Danga, a zebra beastman, cleared his throat nervously. “With all due respect, my King, our resources are already stretched so thin this year. The Sunrise City’s people must come first, our people. Surely you can see that?”

Leona leaned forward, his sharp green eyes locking onto the man, his claws still tapping rhythmically against the back of Griza’s stone chair. “ Oh? Our people?” His voice was low and venomous. “Tell me something…Lord Danga. When you hoarded grain last season for your own settlements and let three nearby jackal villages go hungry, were those not ‘our people’? Or did they suddenly stop counting?” He shrugged.

“I-”

Leona cut him off with a sharp glare. “...And now you all want to sit here and preach to me about where my mercy should begin and end?”

An elephant beastman, emboldened by frustration, stood up. "It’s not about your mercy, Your Majesty. It’s about strategy! Strength! If we appear weak to those in the Outlands, those people will take advantage of us and our generosity as they have been the past few dry seasons!” He slammed his fist on the table.

Leona scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. “Do you know what really makes a kingdom weak?” He leaned more of his weight against Griza’s chair, the legs scraping loudly across the stone floor, as he suddenly pulled the old man and his seat backwards.

The giraffe beastman in question froze and nobody spoke, even breathed. Yuu found themself barely able to swallow.

“Fear.” Leona hissed.

“Short-sighted, foolish, hypocrites who think power means hoarding everything for themselves.” He spoke slowly, his voice lowering with menace. “You all aren’t protecting this kingdom. You’re choking it.”

Griza stiffened below him, hazel eyes downcasted. Beneath his breath, he muttered something Yuu couldn’t hear. 

“What was that?” Leona’s voice was sharp enough to cut.

“Hmph.” He tried to keep his lip stiff. “I... I only meant that... your father would have-”

“Go on. Finish that sentence…” Leona’s growling tone was dark, and dangerous, and his eyes glowed with a barely restrained fury.

The councilman’s lips quivered openly now, but he remained silent.

“...”

“I see. A lesson needs to be learned.” Leona exhaled sharply, his patience visibly thinning. “I don’t need comparisons, and I certainly don’t need your approval to do what’s right for my people, all of them.”

The room fell silent. Leona’s soft chuckle echoed through the room, cold and mocking. “Weak, huh?” He laid both hands on Griza’s shoulder, digging his claws into his white council member robes.

The man squealed like a stuck pig, trembling under Leona’s hand. There was no escape.

“Let me show you what real weakness looks like.”

Before any of the councilmen or Yuu could react, Leona’s fingers clenched and his knuckles turned white. He muttered a familiar incantation and the man stilled in his grip, before his body seized violently. Sand spilled from Leona’s fingertips, snaking around the old man’s face, frozen in fear as his panicked eyes darted to his peers. 

It was over in seconds, he didn’t even have time to scream. No one did.

“You see,” Leona said, his tone casual as “Griza” crumbled into a lifeless heap of sand in the pulled-out chair. “True weakness is being so afraid of the past that it gets in the way of the progress of the future.” His hand made an exaggerated flourish.

He turned to the remaining council members, clapping the sand from his palms. “You call yourselves leaders, yet you sit here staring at me with your mouths agape…like frightened prey.”

He cleared his throat, sliding his claws through his dark hair casually as he paced back toward his seat. “…The coastal neighborhoods will continue to be eligible in our restoration project through the dry season.”

No one dared speak, except to echo one word.

“Yes…”

Leona nodded with finality. “Good.” He moved toward the throne’s platform, the weight of his authority filling the room as he climbed the steps, taking his rightful seat. “You’re all dismissed.” He waved.

The council members scrambled to bow before filing out, leaving Yuu alone with their new king, too stupid to move. They always heard you shouldn’t run from a predator. 

While Leona stared satisfied at the pile of sand drifting from the empty chair, they forced their weak legs to work again, finally sliding from their seat at the table and retreating toward the throne’s steps. As Yuu stood rigid at the edge of the dais, their hands clasped tightly in front of them, palms sweating as they tried to still the faint tremor that betrayed their nerves. 

The room felt impossibly quiet now, the air heavy with humidity and the unspoken aftermath of what had just transpired. A few feet away lay the remains of what was once Councilman Griza. a man whose leering gaze and oily words had made Yuu’s skin crawl on more than one occasion.

Now, there was nothing left of him but dust.

Their time assisting in infirmaries for their college internship taught them that death usually smelled like something: decay, burning flesh, blood but...here a man lay, as if he had been ripped from existence.

Nothing. 

Yuu couldn’t bring themselves to look away from the dusty remains, though bile churned in their stomach anyway. They should have felt horror. Or grief. Anything other than this cold, detached emptiness and macabre curiosity. But Griza had been a contemptible man, a social-climbing parasite who had delighted in undermining Leona at every opportunity. Was it so wrong not to mourn him?

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps as the council members continued to flee the room, their fear a tangible presence in the air. Yuu couldn’t blame them.

Their fingers tightened on the fabric of their own white robes, trembling creeping back into their hands. Drawing on every ounce of composure, they dipped into a shallow bow at the steps, the fabric of their clothing brushing against their knees. "Is there... anything else you require of me, Your Majesty?" Yuu finally asked, their voice soft but steady. Their gaze dropped to the floor as they clutched the folds of their robe like a lifeline. 

Heart pounding in their chest, each beat was a sobering reminder that they were still alive...still here, unlike Griza.

Seeing them still there, Leona’s low chuckle rippled through the room, smooth as silk yet sharp enough to cut their composure.

They straightened cautiously, their gaze lifting just in time to see the king rise from his throne. When he moved, it was slow and deliberate, his footsteps echoing against the polished stone floor as he approached them.

"Anything I require?" he drawled, amusement coloring his voice. "How polite of you."

Before Yuu could respond, his clawed fingers curled under their chin, tilting their face upward. The warmth of his touch seared against their skin, forcing them to meet his piercing green gaze. Yuu’s breath hitched, their composure slipping for the briefest moment as his smirk deepened.

"You saw what happened just now," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft, almost a purr. "And this is your response?" His sharp black nail tapped on their chin, thumbing the divot below their bottom lip.

Yuu swallowed hard, trying not to think that this was the same touch that just turned a man to ash. The weight of his scrutiny pressed down on them like a physical force. His eyes searched theirs, sharp and unrelenting, as though he could strip away every carefully constructed defense they’d built. He studied their face like a puzzle he intended to solve, his smirk deepening when his eyes flicked to their hands, still pulling at the fabric of their robes tight.

“Tell me.” he started, leaning closer, the warmth of his palm seeping into their skin, a stark contrast to the cold knot forming in their stomach. "What do you really think?"

Yuu’s pulse thundered in their ears, their mind racing as they searched his face for some trace of the man they once knew. Wishful thinking. His proximity was suffocating, his presence an overwhelming force that left them no room to breathe.

No, this wasn’t the Leona they remembered, the lazy boy who had once scoffed at the pomp and circumstance of royal life.

The man before them now was a king, his sharp edges honed to a deadly point by years of bitterness and isolation. He wore his title like impenetrable armor, his every movement, and word laced with the weight of his new authority.

“I-” They looked up at him.

His hair, once unkempt and free-falling, was slicked back from his forehead, threaded with faint spirals of grey that hadn’t been there in his youth. The heavy makeup around his eyes only deepened the shadows beneath them, giving him a look far older than even his thirty-three years. His gaze seemed to be shadowed with exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure.

Yuu swallowed hard, their throat dry. They wanted to laugh, to make some cutting remark about personal space or his newly acquired dramatic flair. But those days were long gone. They were no one of consequence to him anymore, just another servant standing before a terrifying king. One who could crush them as easily as he had Griza.

Still, they couldn’t bring themselves to lie outright. They forced a weak, bitter laugh, the sound surprising even them. “Well…sir. I can’t say I ever shed any tears for Councilman Griza," they admitted, their voice quieter than they intended. "And I suppose I'm a little biased on the success of the restoration plan." They shrugged.

Leona’s chuckle was low and rich, sending a shiver down Yuu’s spine. His grip on their chin loosened, his hand falling away only to settle on their shoulder, still leaving char marks on their jaw. His claws lightly grazed the fabric of their clothing as he prodded them toward the throne.

"No one would," he said, his tone tinged with amusement. "The man was a perverted old bastard."

Yuu allowed themselves to be led further by their king, their steps measured as though they were walking a tightrope with him. The weight of his hand on their shoulder was impossible to ignore, a silent reminder of their wildly unbalanced power dynamic.

He stepped back, gesturing for Yuu to follow as he made his way to the throne. With a lazy grace, he dropped into the large seat, his arms draped languidly over one of the armrests as though the events of the day had taken no toll on him at all.

"C’mere." he said as casually as he might have back in school, motioning to the small space beside him. "Sit. I won't bite."

Yuu hesitated, their stomach twisting as their gaze flicked between him and the space left on the cushioned seat. 

Leona’s gaze never left them, the weight of his command impossible to ignore. Slowly, they moved over, beaded sandals echoing in the large empty room. They started to lower themselves onto the left side of the throne, their hands gripping the armrest as if anchoring themselves to reality.

There was barely room for the both of them. Yuu sat down cautiously, making sure to leave at least a few inches between both their legs. They looked down at the colorful beaded bangles on their wrists and adjusted them as they settled in.

Leona leaned forward slightly, his smirk sharp. "Now," he said, his voice low, "No bullshitting. Tell me what you truly think of what I did."

Yuu’s breath caught, their pulse pounding in their throat. They met his gaze, their own expression carefully guarded, They inhaled deeply, steeling themselves. They knew the wrong answer could cost them, and so could the truth. It was a dangerous game, and they were far from certain they could win against him. 

One thing was clear, there was no turning back now. He intended to play with them.

The answer was simple. He wanted them all to witness it. That’s why he did it.

"I think…" Yuu began, their voice measured, "You’re trying to prove something. To the council. To the kingdom. To yourself." The truth left their lips easier than they thought possible.

Leona’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his smirk didn’t falter. "And what, exactly, do you think I’m trying to prove?"

Yuu hesitated, the weight of his question pressing down on them. They chose their next words carefully, heart racing as they stared into his sharp green eyes.

"That you’re…strong enough to lead," they said finally. "That you deserve to be here."

For a moment, the air between them was charged with unspoken tension. Then, Leona leaned back, his smirk softening into something that almost resembled a genuine smile.

"Interesting theory," he said, his tone unreadable.

Yuu couldn’t tell if that was a good thing, or if they’d just sealed their fate. They took a steadying breath, relieved that Leona seemed somewhat satisfied with their response. His sharp gaze, however, told them the conversation was far from over.

“One more thing,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “There’s something else I want to know your thoughts about.” One of his brows quirked upward.

Yuu straightened slightly in their corner of the throne, their posture still cautious. “Your Majesty?”

“You seem restless, little mouse. Tell me…what else is on your mind?” His voice was low, almost a purr, but the demand was razor-edged. “No sugarcoating it either. No filter. Honest thoughts about everything.” He held a palm in the air between them, but it felt like a trap.

Leona’s eyes tracked Yuu’s every move as they absorbed his words, seeming to just notice how they sat slightly off-center, leaving space between them and his leg.

 As if any physical distance could ever shield them from his intense scrutiny.

Yuu exhaled a breathy laugh, the sound strained. Their head spun from the abruptness of his request. In the time since their arrival at Leona’s behest, he had spoken to them so sparingly, and never this directly. It was almost as if they were strangers all over again.

“Everything?” they asked, stalling for time. “That’s a lot to cover.” They hesitated before adding, softly, “I mean-” They struggled on where to begin. “It’s… good to see you, Leona. I mean…Your Majesty.” The correction felt clumsy, a verbal stumble that reminded Yuu just how much had changed. The man sitting beside them was not the same person they’d once known. The thought tugged painfully at their chest.

“Not to be uh- rude but…you do look tired…” they ventured cautiously. “I heard the Sunrise City folk have been organizing more protests. Challenging the authority of the palace.” Their voice softened. “It can’t be easy to deal with.” They diverted his question slightly, bringing up recent events.

“I mean…” Yuu’s gaze drifted to the pile of sand that had once been Griza, then back to Leona. The question tumbled out before they could stop themselves. “H-how are you…feeling?”

Leona’s expression remained impassive as he studied them and their words. No doubt he noticed how their eyes lingered on him, searching for traces of the man they’d once known. 

A man he himself knew no longer existed.

He let out an irritated huff, his eyes flicking briefly to the pile of sand too. “It’s becoming more of an annoyance than an actual threat,” he said, his tone dismissive. Then his gaze returned to Yuu, sharp and unyielding. “...You really want to know how I’m feeling?” 

Yuu’s ears perked up at the question, hearing the doubt in his tone. It was the most candid he’d been since their arrival. His guardedness, the impenetrable walls he’d built around himself, seemed to crack, if only slightly.

“Oh.” Yuu blinked, startled. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course! You can… talk to me about anything.” Their words were soft, formal, yet tinged with sincerity as they nodded.

Leona scoffed bitterly, the sound carrying a weight of frustration. “...Ever since I became king, everything I had before is gone. No more days of slacking off, no more carefree moments of not giving a damn. Now, it’s just this...” He gestured lazily around the grand but empty throne room. “...the kingdom and its endless turmoil.” He paused, his expression unchanged, but his emerald eyes burned with emotions left unspoken.

“And now, I don’t even have the one thing I truly wanted.”

Yuu’s breath hitched as they watched him watching them from the corner of their vision, their carefully maintained mask slipping. “But…Your Majesty, isn’t this what you wanted?” They gestured to the ornate throne room too, its vastness a testament to his new status. “To be king?” They relaxed slightly as they spoke, a whisper of the old melancholic Leona slipping through in his words. For a fleeting moment, he felt less distant.

Leona’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile, wrinkles creasing around his darkened eyes. “What I wanted? What I really want…” He leaned closer, his voice low but searing. “...is to go back to when I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted. When I wasn’t stuck in this…damn throne room, surrounded by…traitors and sycophants. No one I can trust or talk to, to…be by my side.”

The honesty in his tone made Yuu’s chest tighten. 

“You of all people should know that,” he said, his gaze piercing as a crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

They had wanted to keep their distance, but Leona's words landed heavy in the silence between them, the soft weight of his confession pulling their heartstrings. There was a rawness to his tone that unsettled them. As if their prior words had stirred something deep inside him, memories they had once shared, secrets only they both knew.

Leona’s broken smile felt like a ghost, haunting them both.   

“I’m sorry…” Yuu looked down, their voice barely above a whisper. They wanted to…to empathize with him, but the memory of Griza’s death still hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the man he had become. “I do know, Leo-” The name slipped from their lips again before they could stop themselves. “I mean…Your Majesty.”

Leona’s scoff was softer this time, almost wistful. 

"I guess...things were simpler back then, huh?" Yuu gave him a nostalgic smile as the coolness of the back of the throne soaked into their robes. The few inches between the two of them felt like a cavern now. “I…don’t envy you. Being king must be…” They struggled to find the word, a tightness in their own chest. “...lonely.” Their voice dropped. 

Yuu hesitated before speaking again, the silence between them like still, uncharted waters. “...What can I do to help, Your Majesty?” They dared to ask again, creating a ripple they weren’t sure if they wanted to cause. As they met his gaze, they knew they could no longer hide the sadness they felt for him, for both of them, at how things turned ended up.

He breathed out.

“I never asked for this. I never really wanted this, ya know.” Leona said, his voice flat yet laced with an unmistakable pain.  

“I know…”  Yuu felt the full weight of his gaze settle on them, searching, pressing his grief onto them. His eyes flicked over their face, taking in every subtle shift of their expression, the sadness they thought they had hidden beneath a veil of stoic composure. He saw them. And they knew he saw them, mourning for what both their lives once were.

It was a silent accusation, a subtle reminder that the walls they had worked so hard to erect were not as impenetrable as they thought. And yet, there was an unsettling tenderness in his eyes that made Yuu’s breath catch, slipping like a dagger under their ribs.

“But, there’s nothing you can do, even if I wanted ya to…” he said, his voice quiet but firm, the words weighted with resignation. The tension in the air only thickened, a heavy silence; screams muffled with years of unspoken words and unhealed wounds.  

Yuu’s eyes burned. They felt the sting of tears gathering, but they blinked and fought to keep them at bay, clawing at their bracelets on their wrist once more. They were unraveling at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, they feared the years of their trained professionalism would slip if they sat next to the miserable king any longer. 

They couldn't break character.  

"You're right, I’m sorry," Yuu confessed, wiping at their eyes with a hasty swipe of their arm. Their voice cracked as they spoke, an unintended tremor in the words. “I guess I should go, continue my work then, sir?” They stood, hoping to escape the suffocating intensity of this moment between them. “Your Majesty…” They bowed again, then stood there, waiting. 

But, Leona didn’t dismiss them.  

Before they could take another step, the king’s arm shot out like a whip, taking their wrist with surprising force. His touch was firm but desperate, pulling them back down onto the throne with him.  

Yuu’s breath was taken from them, and before they could even process what was happening, they found themselves falling and plummeting...straight into his lap. The impact left them breathless, their heart pounding wildly against their ribs. Leona shifted his body, catching them easily and wrapping his arms tightly around their waist, pulling them flush to him, their back pressed to his chest. His chin came to rest on their shoulder, his breath warm and shaky against their skin. Without words, he buried his face in the crook of their neck, nose tip tracing their pulse point. 

His smell was the same from all those years ago, cinnamon, citrus, star anise. Yuu could practically feel it, the tension and desperation pouring off him like an electric current. It was all they could do not to scream, for both of them.

“S-stay,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, crackling with emotion. “I don’t want cha to go.”  

Yuu’s body went rigid, heart hammering; a frantic rhythm in their ears. The warmth of his body, the weight of his arms around them. It was all so achingly familiar, yet the desperation in his grip felt foreign. This wasn’t the Leona they had once known. His loneliness clung like a heavy shroud, smothering them both in the savanna heat. There was something darker, more urgent beneath it all now, more intense than anything they remembered, a weight, a suffocating pressure. His loneliness seeped into them, and it clung to their chest like an immovable boulder. 

They couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t even move.  

“Your M-majesty?” Their voice trembled, a flicker of uncertainty breaking through the facade they had carefully crafted. They froze, unsure how to react, caged in the snare of his arms like a helpless animal. 

“I thought…” Yuu stuttered, still breathless, their voice barely a whisper. Their sweat caused their clothes to stick to multiple points on their body. “I thought there was nothing I could do t-to help?” Their body reacted to his touch against their neck, sending involuntary shivers down their spine. The tingles ran from their chest into their legs, and they couldn’t suppress the way their body burned under his invasive touch.  

Leona’s grip tightened, pulling them even closer to him. He inhaled deeply near their ear, his breath shaky against the curve of their neck. They knew he could feel how stiff they were in his arms, the way their body quivered with a mixture of confusion, fear, and something else. 

They knew he could feel their hesitance, but still, they stayed. 

And that seemed to be enough for him. 

“...You’re the only person in this fucking place that makes me feel like….myself,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost pleading. He whispered it as if it was the world’s most important secret. “That’s how you can help.”  

Yuu’s chest ached. They wanted to empathize with him, comfort him, and understand. But, there was another weight in the room that couldn’t be ignored. A man’s remains still lay near, a grim reminder of what Leona had become in their years apart. 

A king broken by his choices, a man who had spilled blood. Devoured his own remorse and morals long ago. And yet here he was, like a child clinging to their robes, desperate for the comfort of a bit of human touch. 

Yuu closed their eyes, torn. Every fiber of their being screamed to pull away, to remember the man he had killed with their own eyes. But the ache in their chest grew, the heaviness of his loneliness, clawing at them. It was too much to resist indulging in. They knew it was wrong, toxic even but-

The desperation he felt for them was...intoxicating. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they whispered, head light, their voice barely a breath. They closed their eyes, bracing for whatever would come next, but still, they waited, unsure if they had just stepped into a trap they would never escape from.

Leona’s body stiffened at their passive response, and a soft, almost satisfied hum escaped him. 

Oh? So, he hadn’t expected them to stay on his lap, to offer any kind of comfort, but here they were: allowing him to have what he apparently so desperately wanted.  

Slowly, Leona tilted his head, the outline of his lips grazing the skin of Yuu’s neck with the gentlest of touches. His grip remained tight, as though trying to anchor them both to this fleeting moment, afraid it would slip away if he didn’t. 

“Say my name,” he whispered, his voice low and full of something almost frantic.  

Yuu gasped, their body relaxing despite themselves. It somewhat disgusted them that they wanted to give in to him. The tension in their limbs began to loosen, and they instinctively pressed themselves closer to him, their body betraying all those emotional boundaries they had worked so hard to build.

"Leona," they murmured, their voice barely audible, a trembling whisper, just for him. 

"Leona..." They repeated it as if saying his name was the only thing that could ground them both in this chaotic and messy moment.  

They sensed his body react at the sound of his name, reverberating in the space around them. His chest shuddered behind their back, his grip on Yuu’s waist tightening. His claws gripped their robes to almost discomfort, trapping them even closer to him.  

As he exhaled shakily, it was as if a sense of relief washed over him. Yuu felt the tension in the rest of his body release beneath them. “Again,” he whispered, broad nose tracing the shell of their ear. His voice was croaky, almost pleading.  

Yuu’s heart raced, the warmth of his thighs soaking into theirs. Their breath quickened, caught somewhere between fear and longing, sweat beading on their forehead. They didn’t know how they had ended up here, sitting in the lap of the damn king after he murdered someone before their eyes. Then, offering him comfort with nothing but his name, and the weight of their body. 

But here they were, and there was no turning back.  

“...Leona,” they whispered a third time, sealing their fate. The name escaped their lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for the boy they once knew, the boy they had once admired, to come back. To claw his way through the cruel king he had become.

--

[revelboo]

I absolutely love your writing! Scratches my brain just right! How do you think they would react to tattoos? I'm pretty much covered and just curious about your thoughts!

Tattoo Reaction Scenarios

Various Transformers x Reader

IDW Starscream

• Skimming his lips against your neck, Starscream feels you shiver when his denta graze you. Optics devouring as he lazily maps you out with his mouth and servos. Lingering on the colorful designs inked on your soft skin. “I like these decorations.”

• “They’re tattoos.” Sprawled on your belly beside him, you feel his servos tracing along your shoulder and lingering there. “Do you guys do anything like this?” Inhaling as he finds the one on your hip with gentle touches.

• “Decorating our armor plating is fairly common,” he replies, moving your hair aside to trace over your neck. He’d never bothered with the practice, liking himself the way he is, but he likes the art decorating your skin. “Some change their color schemes regularly.”

• Rolling onto your back, his optics heat as he looms over you. “You could write out your name for me in Cybertronian characters and I could get it tattooed somewhere,” you tease, tugging at his wrist so you can lay his servos against your collar bone. “Maybe here.” Pulling his down to your inner thigh, you grin as his expression becomes possessive. “Or here.”

IDW Sunstreaker

• Ignoring the twins doing their own things, you turn your back to them and pull your sweater off over your head, stripping down to a tank top. Because for once, it’s not freezing cold. Or maybe, you’re running a fever. Sitting crosslegged to fold the sweater, you don’t even realize Sunstreaker has moved until a big servo touches your shoulder nearly scaring you to death. Something that big shouldn’t be that quiet when he wants to be. Reaching back, you swat him. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

• Ignoring your annoyance, his optics trail over your shoulders and upper back. Studying the colorful designs winding over your skin that you’d kept hidden. You’d made yourself a canvas, so why hide it? “Different artists,” he murmurs, servo tracing a pattern on your bicep.

• There’s no judgment in his tone, just curiosity and it eases the tension bracketing your spine. Reaching, you touch one. “Yeah, I designed this one,” you say, chin lifting. “This one a friend sketched out.” You wonder what he thinks of them, unwilling to explain their meanings to him just yet. Some of them still hurt you if you dwell on them like the script on the inside of your wrist with a signature painstakingly copied.

• Fascinated, he explores each one. Wondering what they mean, the stories behind them. Also knowing from the way your jaw is set, that you’re not ready entrust them to him just yet. Venting softly, he turns over his wrist, servos tracing a scar marring his otherwise pristine paint. Not art, but a mark with a story and your eyes study it and then lift to his optics. “A story for a story?” He offers and you smile slightly.

IDW Bluestreak

• “Needles?” He ask, his tone so dismayed you almost laugh as his servos hover over your skin. Not touching you, because he’s always so conscious of your personal space. Afraid of upsetting you or crossing a boundary he’s not allowed. “Didn’t that hurt?”

• “It gets easier every time,” you say, catching his big servo in your hands and pulling. And finally he cautiously touches your arm and the scrolling tattoo there. “I kind of look forward to that little bite of pain now.” Door wings lifting slightly at that, he can understand all too well needing pain to ground yourself. You’re like him, then. Carrying around something you keep hidden inside.

TF Earthspark Megatron

• “Gladiators painted themselves before battle. To inspire themselves and to instill fear in their opponents,” he murmurs as he gestures at the ink peeking out at your collar. He’d worn such paint in the pits, remembers striding out under those blinding lights as the bloodthirsty crowd looked down and screamed his name. Fans that would still cheer whether or not he survived his next battle. “They usually weren’t permanent marks, though.”

• He sounds so melancholy as you reach to touch his servos, bridging the distance between you both and surprising him. “If you ever want to talk about it?” Smiling ruefully, he gently traces your cheek with a servo. And you know it’s a no. Or at least a not yet. Laying your palm against his lingering servo, you begin to speak. Explaining your tattoos and showing them to him. Reaching out even if he’s not ready to share with you just yet.

TFP Ratchet

• “Another one?” He growls, spotting that shiny stuff taped to the inside of your wrist. Knowing you’ve gone and had another human embed ink under your skin again even though he can’t understand why. The designs are pretty enough, but he’d done some research and he knows it’s a painful process. So why harm yourself for art?

• Rolling your eyes, you ghost your fingertips over the dressing covering your tattoo. Still too new and sore, but you wonder what he’ll think of it when he realizes you had tattooed his cross with the Autobot insignia inside it on yourself. Most likely, he’ll just gape at you and get flustered. But you’d wanted to wear his badge, wanted something permanent of him to carry for the rest of your life.

[heartsiebyul]

Hiii 😁😁😁, are your requests open? If it is, can I request all characters of TWST x Famous Author of many genres reader? Reader is a girl in this, she's famous but she's shy whenever some of her fans come up to her in public, but she tries to be confident. The TWST characters are big fans of her books. If you can't do all the characters, it's okay! You can just choose whoever character you want. Thank you beh! 🥳

જ⁀➴ Twisted Wonderland x reader!

Twisted Wonderland characters paired with a Famous Multi-Genre Author Reader who is renowned for writing across genres like fantasy, horror, romance, and mystery. Each character is a genuine fan of your work and has their own unique reactions.

featuring — Rook : Idia : Azul : Leona : Vil : Jamil : Riddle.

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Rook Hunt

Rook had always believed that beauty could be found in all things, and your words were his latest obsession. He'd devoured your fantasy novels, lingered over your tragic romance, and even praised your horror stories for how they stirred his "âme artistique." When he spotted you at a cafe, casually flipping through a gardening magazine, his gasp of delight drew the attention of half the store. “Auteur extraordinaire!” he cried, approaching you with such dramatic flair that you nearly dropped your coffee. You tried to put on a cool smile, but your flushed cheeks betrayed your nerves. Rook, of course, found it "ravissant."

When you stammered through your thanks and tried to regain composure, Rook leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “You do not need to pretend with me, monsieur auteur. I have seen your soul on paper—it is bold, honest, and magnifique!” You were so startled by his sincerity that you laughed awkwardly, covering your face. Rook simply beamed, already pulling out a copy of your latest thriller for you to sign. “May I request a personalized dedication for the hunter of beauty?” he asked, and despite your embarrassment, you wrote a message that made his heart flutter more than any poem.

Idia Shroud

Idia had known about you before you were famous. He’d followed your early blog posts, your serialized horror chapters on underground forums, and even coded a private fan wiki dedicated to analyzing your worldbuilding. When your romantic sci-fi series became mainstream, he nearly combusted with conflicting emotions: pride that his favorite author was getting the attention you deserved, and terror that other people might talk to you in public. He never dreamed he’d actually see you at a game launch event, let alone find himself standing next to you in line.

You didn’t notice him at first—too busy shrinking into your hoodie as fans approached for autographs. But then Idia blurted out a line from one of your darker fantasy books—a line only a real fan would know—and your eyes lit up. “You… read that one?” you asked, visibly surprised. Idia nearly short-circuited, mumbling something about being a long-time supporter. When you offered him a signed copy of your newest book, he hesitated, then pulled out a dog-eared, annotated edition of your debut novel. "This one… means a lot," he said quietly. You smiled warmly, and it took every ounce of his will not to scream.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul was first drawn to your books because of the meticulous structure of your mysteries. As a tactician and businessman, he admired how you constructed plots like deals—layered, calculated, and sharp. When he hosted a private reading club at Mostro Lounge, he made sure your work was always on the menu. He finally met you after sponsoring a literary charity event, where you were a guest speaker. You arrived looking nervous despite your fame, eyes flickering with panic when cameras flashed. Azul, ever the gentleman, offered you his arm and led you inside with a charming smile.

“Confidence is like ink, isn’t it?” he said smoothly once you were seated. “Even if you feel like you're running out, you can always dip the pen again.” You laughed shakily, clearly trying to hold it together as another group of fans approached. Azul shooed them away politely, giving you a moment to breathe. “I must confess,” he added, “I keep a signed copy of The Merchant’s Veil in my office. That negotiation scene? Inspirational.” His praise was so earnest that you couldn’t help but grin, blush and all. He offered to collaborate on a new themed drink menu for your next fantasy release—and how could you say no?

Leona Kingscholar

Leona wasn’t a reader—not until one of your high fantasy books was left in the lounge and he picked it up out of boredom. One chapter in, and he was hooked. The warring kingdoms, the morally gray antiheroes, the sharp political intrigue? It reminded him of home. Now, he secretly waits for every new installment, claiming he’s “too lazy” to get excited but tearing through your books in one sitting. When he caught sight of you at a rare book fair in Sunset Savannah, trying to sign autographs while avoiding the crowd’s full attention, he raised a brow and approached with his usual swagger.

“You don’t look like the confident genius your books make you out to be,” he drawled, slouching next to your table. You chuckled nervously, muttering that you weren’t good with people. “That so?” he smirked. “Could’ve fooled me. Your war scenes feel like you’ve lived ’em.” You blushed, trying to downplay it, but he just leaned closer. “Don’t worry. I won’t let the hyenas swarm you. Just sign my copy and you can hide behind me for the next hour.” You laughed in relief, and Leona shrugged. “Least I can do. You got me hooked on reading, after all.”

Vil Schoenheit

Vil was skeptical at first. A celebrity author writing romance and fantasy? He assumed it was another trend-rider. But when he read Silver Ash and Crimson Vows, he was stunned by your elegant prose, your nuanced characters, and your themes of self-worth beneath fame’s glittering surface. He became a devoted reader—though he’d never fangirl publicly. When he met you backstage at a charity fashion gala, you looked lost and overwhelmed by the attention, gripping your phone like a lifeline. Vil noticed instantly, striding over with composed grace.

“Deep breaths,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “They admire your brilliance, but don’t let them drown your voice.” You recognized him immediately and fumbled a compliment, flustered. Vil only smiled. “You don’t need to perform for me. I know authenticity when I see it—on stage and on paper.” He asked you thoughtful questions about character symbolism in your romance books, subtly shielding you from cameras with his poise. “Art deserves to be nurtured,” he added, and you realized that behind his perfectionism was a kindred spirit who truly respected your work.

Jamil Viper

Jamil grew up craving escape—so when he discovered your stories, he devoured them in secret. Your psychological thrillers and complex protagonists spoke to him in ways he couldn’t voice. He hid your books under his mattress, annotating them late at night while pretending to sleep. One day, while chaperoning Kalim to a public festival, he spotted you trying to deflect a swarm of fans with an obviously forced smile. Jamil, sighing, pushed Kalim away and approached you with a calm, protective presence.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmured, handing you a cold drink without asking. “I’ve read your interviews. You hate crowds.” You blinked at him in surprise, touched by his quiet perceptiveness. He didn’t gush or ask for a photo. He just said, “Your words helped me breathe when I couldn’t. Thanks for that.” You nodded, too moved to reply. Before leaving, he offered you a worn paperback of your earliest novel—scarred with years of re-reading. “This one? It saved me more than once.”

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle discovered your work through your historical fantasy novel, The Hollow Prince, and was immediately enthralled by the richly layered themes of legacy, loyalty, and rebellion against unjust systems. It mirrored his own personal journey so closely that he read it three times over and annotated every page. He admired your sharp prose and the way your protagonists questioned traditions without discarding honor. So when he heard you were attending a literary symposium, he made immediate arrangements to attend—under the guise of “academic enrichment.”

You were visibly flustered in the crowded hall, trying to smile for fans while glancing longingly toward the exit. Riddle, noticing your discomfort, approached with precise steps and an empathetic gaze. “You don’t have to force a brave face,” he said gently, offering you a glass of water. “Your books already show your strength. You don’t need to prove it in front of strangers.” You blinked, stunned by his unexpected kindness. When he pulled out his well-worn copy of The Hollow Prince, marked with color-coded tabs and notes in elegant script, your smile turned genuine. “You helped me understand myself better,” he said quietly, cheeks tinged pink. “So let me return the favor by making this moment easier for you.”

📚 Books Credited to Original Authors (Pretending Reader Wrote Them):

1. The Hollow Prince (inspired by “The Bear and the Nightingale” by Katherine Arden)

2. Silver Ash and Crimson Vows (inspired by “The Cruel Prince” by Holly Black)

3. The Merchant’s Veil (inspired by “Six of Crows” by Leigh Bardugo)

4. The Kingdom’s Debt (inspired by “A Song of Ice and Fire” by George R.R. Martin)

5. Whispers in the Fog (inspired by “Rebecca” by Daphne du Maurier)

6. Starcrossed in Dystopia (inspired by “The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins)

7. Fractured Wings (inspired by “If We Were Villains” by M.L. Rio)

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

[nina-ya]

IT'S ALMOST CHRISTMAS EVE!! QUICK, GIVE US YOUR UNHINGED HORNY THOUGHTS ABOUT ONE PIECE CHARACTERS BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!!!

IT IS WAY PAST CHRISTMAS EVE OH MY GOD THIS GOT LOST IN MY DRAFTS LMFAOOOOOO I HOPE ITS NOT TOO LATE anyways horny thoughts!! Law's hands work you as if he is dissecting the very essence of your desire. He never rushes, he never needs to. Law revels in the art of control, in his ability to unravel you one careful stroke of his fingers at a time until you are begging for release. "Stay still," is something you have heard him say to you many times before, but with the way he moves his hands ensures you can't obey. The way he has memorized your body with clinical precision gives him the upper hand here. He has memorized the way you gasp and whine out when he rubs your clit with the right amount of pressure, or the way you squirm under his touch when he curls those inked fingers inside of you and hits that one spot that has you seeing stars. It's also in the way you let out that shaky breath, pleading for more as his hands roam your body, circling the sensitive nub of your nipple, wrapping around your neck and giving it a soft squeeze, holding your hands above your head as he ruins you. He just can't help but have the upper hand! There's a wicked satisfaction in his smirk when you fall apart again and again under his touch, his name quickly becoming the only word you know as you chant it like a mantra.

The reflection of the mirror captures everything: the way Zoro towers behind you, his broad chest pressed against your back, one of his hands wrapped around your torso while the other keeps your thighs spread. His gaze wouldn't be on the mirror, rather it's on you as he watches the way your body moves, the way his cock sinks into your greedy hole with each thrust of his hips, the way your lips part with soft gasps and moans that only spur him on. He would murmur things like "Look at yourself," "Look at how beautiful you are for me," as one of his hands slid up to your chin, tilting your face forward until your eyes met in the reflection. "Do you see how good you look? How good you are for me?" it's one sinful sentence after the next and each of them has your body arching against him, seeking more. And that mirror reflects back to you each inch of your vulnerability on display, every mark he has left on your skin. "Keep watching," he would instruct, "I want you to see what I see- how incredible you are" And when your legs start to shake, his grip tightens as he presses a kiss to your shoulder, murmuring "You're doing so good for me." "You're perfect. Mine." and he would keep going, pushing you until you are gushing around him. And he wouldn't stop- not yet at least- he needs to watch you unravel on him just one more time so he can commit this moment to memory.

Luffy is driven by an insatiable curiosity and a need to hear every sound you can possibly make. He grins like he's won a game each time you gasp or moan, every broken syllable of his name just pushing him further. He would murmur "That's it" with that laugh of his as he pushes you to your limits and then some. His favorite thing to do is unravel you with his mouth. After all, you are his favorite meal. He will suck your clit, lap at your juices, spread you wide for him and devour you until you are nothing but a boneless mess splayed out on whatever surface he decided to take you against that day. Luffy doesn't stop until he's sure you've given him everything- every very, every tremor, every shuddering breath. And when you think you've reached your limit, he grins wider and says "Again?" as if the idea of stopping is unthinkable.

[hopeyoufindalovelikethis]

Love Between The Lines

Hello! Thank you so much for being here and supporting me. I’ve been reflecting tonight—realizing how often I hold things in, too shy to share my real thoughts and feelings. It’s led to misunderstandings, even in love. But writing helps. It gives me space to untangle the things I can't say out loud, even when I still get embarrassed to let others read what I write about them. If you’ve ever felt the same, maybe this story will reach you too. I hope it brings a little comfort to your heart. Sending hugs 🤍

Synopsis | You spent a quiet weekend in Sylus’s office, intending to write a story—but ended up sketching him and pouring your love into your notebook. Unseen, Sylus read every word. And when you finally looked up, he was already full of the love you hadn’t meant for him to see.

The air inside Sylus’s office was calm, steady, and edged with the soft hum of holo-screens and quiet clicks from his interface as he worked. Tall windows stretched high behind his desk, painting the polished black floors with reflections of the overcast sky outside. The room held the weight of authority, draped in charcoal and obsidian tones, but somehow, with you there, it felt less like a fortress and more like a haven.

You had curled yourself up on the oversized velvet lounger that sat across from his desk, legs tucked beneath you, one hand supporting your head as you cradled a thick notebook in your lap. A pen hovered between your fingers, idle for the moment, while a half-open novel lay beside you—the same one you’d been flipping through earlier, hoping for sparks of inspiration. You had told Sylus this afternoon that you wanted to try writing something of your own, a short story maybe, after all the books you’d devoured recently.

He had simply nodded, tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear, and said, “Then write, kitten. I’ll make sure the world stays quiet for you.”

At first, your thoughts had tried to cling to fictional threads, half-formed characters and foggy plotlines, but the more you let your pen move, the more the ink on the page curved back toward him. His image formed naturally beneath your hand—strong jawline, sharp nose, the distinct slant of his brows and the way his hair always seemed perfectly tousled no matter how much time he spent in the wind or under LED lighting. You shaded in the edges of his gaze, the unmistakable ruby hue of his irises implied in deep lines and light touches, and before you realized it, you had stopped trying to create a world and simply reflected the one that sat behind the desk a few feet away.

And then the words came. Slowly at first, then faster, like a dam breaking open. You wrote about the way his silence was never empty but full of knowing. How his touch never demanded, only asked. The way his gaze could quiet your chaos without uttering a single word. You wrote about the nights he stayed until you fell asleep, the mornings he left you tea with a note, how you never had to ask to be seen because he always, always looked. You wrote until your hand ached, until the edge of the page curled under the pressure of your feelings, and still the thoughts poured out.

You didn't notice when his typing had stopped.

Sylus had been working through Onychinus network audits and protocore synchronizations, his expression impassive as his fingers glided across the glowing panels of his desk. But when the sound of your pen scratching became the only thing moving in the room, he paused. Slowly, he turned in his chair, eyes catching the slope of your brow as you leaned in, completely absorbed, unaware.

Curiosity, light as breath, moved him to rise without a sound. He approached from behind, steps silent against the plush rug. He could see over your shoulder—the precise lines of his own likeness sketched in ink. His breath hitched, an sensation unfamiliar tightening in his chest. Then the words caught his eye.

Line after line, poured with adoration so unguarded, so intimate, he felt it echo deep beneath his ribs. Each confession was an unraveling of you: soft, gentle, quiet in its bravery. He saw the way your letters slanted when your emotions picked up, how you lingered on his name, the way you described love not as something passive, but as something steady, chosen again and again.

He didn't move. He just stood there, reading, absorbing.

You, unaware, reached the final sentence. You signed the page with a faint smile, letting your pen fall gently onto the notebook. Then, finally, you looked up—toward Sylus’s desk, only to find it empty.

Your brows furrowed. "Sylus?"

A quiet voice behind you. “Looking for me?”

You startled, head snapping back as you turned on the lounger. Sylus stood just behind you, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his dark slacks, his expression unreadable at first. Then the corner of his lips curved, not in mischief, but with something richer. Fonder.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, flustered, reaching to close the notebook quickly.

He chuckled, low and warm, stepping closer. “Long enough,” he said, kneeling in front of the lounger. “Long enough for my heart to drown in every word you wrote.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t meant for him to read—not yet—but he reached up first, gently resting his palm on your knee.

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he said, voice a notch lower, more intimate. “Not when your love tastes like this.”

He reached for your hand, pulled it to his chest. You could feel the beat beneath your palm, steady and full.

“I’m not used to being seen like this,” he said, gaze fixed on yours. “Even after everything I’ve built, everything I control—you still manage to bring me to my knees with a page of your heart.”

Your throat tightened. You didn't know what to say.

He leaned in, his hand slipped behind your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, and then his lips met yours. Deep. Unhurried. Full of a longing that felt like it had waited years, not days. The kiss unfolded slowly, his mouth tasting the truth you had written—your devotion, your warmth, your everything.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “More than even your words could capture.”

Your fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of his sleeve.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

The rest of the world could wait. For now, in the quiet sanctuary of his office, Sylus held you like you were the only reason he ever learned to love in the first place.

[tickettride]

Mr. Davis

��� ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

pairing is johnny davis x f!reader

in which you struggle to wrap up your article about the Vandals, but a sweet night in with Johnny might just be what you needed.

word count: 2,2K

warnings: slight food play, nudity, references to sex, mostly fluff

This was never supposed to happen. Born a city girl, you’d always envisioned your future in a relatively big flat in Chicago, where you’d grown up, trusted, loved, and hurt. Writing this article about a growing motorcycle club that was on everyone’s lips at the end of 1967 was just supposed to be another step in your career, something to please your boss. Danny captured every moment with images, and you did so with words.

“You a poet or somethin’?” the head of the club had asked you upon first meeting, which had you frowning stupidly.

“Only a journalist.”

You hadn’t said it. Not then, at least.

Reality decided to light your plans on fire when you fell in love with him. You’d had to admit, eventually, that you’d never meant to appear like a lunatic that first day, but he’d laughed like you were just that: his lunatic, the funniest person he knew. None of that was mocking, no. Johnny loved you like he’d never anyone else.

Like a poet, you sat at the desk he’d set up for you in his room, facing the window, and wrote anxiously, rattling, rewriting. Your typewriter was still in Chicago, but you managed to recall every moment and every quote to jot down in your little notebook. The title of the article only said The Vandals. Almost every character was covered, except for Johnny. None of the words and lines you had in mind were suitable for a public magazine, and you didn’t want it to sound too snobbish either.

In your little room facing the summer’s sunset, a stain of ink covering the side of your hand, you thought of how far you’d come to end up in a city you’d sworn never to live in. Peace settled in your bones like the honey you’d spilled on the strawberries earlier–slow, overwhelming. Everything had changed, but everything was perfect.

Mr. Davis is often late, you almost wrote. But then, as if hearing your thoughts, the door shut quietly downstairs. You hadn’t even heard him coming home like you usually did. His footsteps were regular and heavy as he dragged himself to his room–your room–and blinked at the sight of you over the desk, the silk of your robe lighting up your skin. He wore a gray shirt that accentuated his thick arms and his usual black jeans.

A warm feeling spread through your veins at the sight of him.

“Still writin’?”

“Haven’t stopped.”

Johnny approached cautiously, the dark circles under your eyes just enough for him to quirk his eyebrows inwards in concern.

“You gotta rest, too,” he said, hoarse and tired like you, leaning down to kiss you for the third time that day. His lips tasted and smelled of tobacco.

“Hi.” You kissed him back quickly, watching him as he sat on the bed, the edge dipping under his weight. “I’m okay. Just trying to make the most of the free time I’ve got.”

He took off his shoes there, his leather jacket already hung by the front door. Your arm draped over the back of the chair, you scrutinized every little movement. He was certainly hungry, but too tired for sex. He’d tell you about his day for a bit, before sleep dragged him from you at a swift pace.

The robe hung open, revealing you weren’t wearing anything underneath. With a quick look upwards, Johnny noticed it and something flickered in his eyes. Desire. Contentment. Pride, maybe. You’d have strolled naked through the house after your bath if it weren’t for the impromptu visits from club members at random times of the day, whenever they thought Johnny might be around. He’d have walked in, pretended to be bothered by your looks for a minute, and then devoured you in the kitchen with absolutely no shame. The robe guaranteed at least a bit of coverage.

“I picked some strawberries in the garden this morning.”

Glancing away from your breasts, he mumbled a distracted, “Yeah? Thought you didn’t care much about gardenin’.”

“I care about having a little treat when you’re gone.”

The smile that lit his face matched yours, unwavering. “Got any left?”

“Yeah.” You stood, exposing your whole body to him. “Made you a bowl.”

“Nah, keep them.” His fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, working off muscle memory. “Just wanna get to bed.”

His shirt slung onto a chair, his belt unbuckled with a metallic snap, and he shoved his jeans down with a tired kind of urgency, kicking them off in a graceless thud. He didn’t bother picking it up.

You watched him in his boxers, walking out to the bathroom. “You didn’t eat dinner.”

Johnny grumbled something under his breath, already out of your sight.

Stubborn as you were, you shut the notebook—frustrated you couldn’t seem to finish the article anyway—and left the door open on your way to the kitchen, where the sunlight had already given way to a weak moonlight. The bowl of honeyed strawberries sat in the fridge, arranged like something out of a cheap restaurant. Sticky, shiny, but made with love.

The curtains were drawn, and the lamp on the nightstand cast a warm glow in that small room. You let your robe slip to a puddle at your feet just as Johnny walked back in. He pressed a kiss to your temple on his way past, then slid under the covers, his large body taking up most of the space. The bed was too small, but it had never been a problem.

“Sit up,” you said, grabbing the notebook with your free hand. “Won’t have you sleep on an empty stomach.”

Johnny grunted and flopped back against the pillows, rubbing a hand over his face.

You weren’t annoying—just caring. You knew he’d been driving all day and had probably only gotten around to one of Kathy’s sandwiches for lunch. He'd refuse to eat more now anyway.

Perching beside him on the bed, you reached for the pen that had slipped from the notebook and tucked your legs beneath you, entirely unconcerned about your bare skin. Johnny set the bowl on his lap, taking a slow bite as his eyes scanned what you’d written.

None of it was as good as you wished, but you figured you’d have a day or two to sharpen it before heading back up to Chicago. Temporarily, this time.

“They good?” you asked him, sliding your thumb down the page to accompany your eyes.

Johnny hummed deeply, licking his thumb. “Mmh. You put honey on ’em?”

“I did. Left the house just for that.”

“Figures,” he said, glancing down into the bowl. “Tastes like you.”

You gave him a sideways look, unimpressed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at your mouth anyway. “Eat.”

You didn’t flinch when he pressed a half-bitten strawberry to your shoulder, leaving a red trail that he kissed off with his sweet lips.

“What you writin’ about?”

“I’m trying to explain where y’all gather, and why. Whose role matters. Who’s admired.”

“Who’s admired.”

You smiled, feeling his lips graze your shoulder again.

“The head of the club’s rather liked.”

“Mmh?”

“They all look up to you like you’re some kind of guiding spirit.”

“It’s gettin’ tirin’.”

You shot him a look, forgetting about your notes like he’d forgotten about the strawberries. “I know.”

It was quiet then, except for the faint hum of a motorcycle somewhere in the distance. He’d often get vulnerable in moments when it was just the two of you, you who understood him so well.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Nah.” Johnny dismissed the sad thought he’d so openly shared by setting the bowl aside. “Just don’t make me sound too good. Don’t want people gettin’ the wrong idea.”

You huffed a laugh, glancing down at his chest hair. “Don’t worry. Got plenty of material to ruin your reputation.”

Johnny laughed, tired and warm. “That so?”

He watched you for a long time, keeping to himself the words of awe that didn’t quite belong in a biker’s mouth.

“Lie down with me. You’ll finish writin’ tomorrow.”

“I can’t.” You felt his hand on your thigh, kneading. “Been told I’ve been too slow since arriving here.”

His hand paused for a beat. “Who told you that?”

“My boss,” you said lightly, trying not to make it a thing. “Gotta speed up if I want it done by Friday.”

“You’re workin’ hard,” he said eventually, quiet and even. “Real hard.”

“He said that’s not enough.”

You studied him in the low lamplight, the way his mouth had set a little tighter, the stillness in his shoulders, the quiet that had turned a little heavier. There was no doubt he'd have gone to the city himself to hear your boss apologize properly.

Finally, he said, “I ain’t gonna tell you what to do.”

“But?”

“But if he starts thinkin’ he can talk to you like that and get away with it–”

“I’ll tell him off.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

You nodded, glancing at the strawberries. “Pass me the bowl?”

Johnny did that, focused on the way your lips wrapped around the red fruit, how your tongue licked a drop of juice from the corner of your mouth before you clicked the pen and jotted something down again. His finger went on tracing shapes over your thigh.

Mr. Davis's care comes from something deeper, not just habit or loyalty, but real love. A quiet kind that feels almost taboo in the club.

“Findin’ the words?” he asked, breaking the quiet.

“Getting there.”

You looked down at what you’d just written, more inspired than before. That’s what you had to talk about. Not the inner organization or the damn motor brands. Who cared? Everyone wanted to peek behind the curtain to see what really went on. They wanted to know the bloody details, what the fuss was all about.

Beside you, Johnny hummed, satisfied, sinking deeper into the pillows. He watched you with lazy eyes as you tossed the notebook aside and climbed over his hips, knees on either side of him, a wave of energy surging through you. Something about his silent ways made you want to smother him with an overwhelming kind of love. Especially when he lay there like that, making sure you weren't overwhelming yourself with your writings.

“You see, I think I gotta depict you for who you really are. Not what my boss wants me to write.”

A faint crease formed between his brows, which you kissed deliberately. His hands instinctively found your thighs, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eye twitched when you pulled away to look at him, really look at him, all too aware of your breasts so close to his lips.

His mouth was next to be kissed.

“People wanna be surprised. Not read what they already think they know.”

His fingers flexed slightly against your legs, listening intently.

“How much you care about each other. The stuff that hurts. The stuff no one wants to talk about.”

You plucked a strawberry from the bowl balanced dangerously on the mattress and bit into it, its juice dripping slightly down your wrist. Then, you held out the rest between your fingers. Johnny leaned up without a word and took it into his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.

“My smart girl.”

Heat crept up your neck as you ducked your head, grinning, almost bashful. Hearing that after struggling so hard at school for years had your heart thumping a little faster, knowing you’d made the right choice by staying here and not in Chicago, where you weren’t enough.

You took his head and kissed him, halting any other compliment he might have said. Sliding your tongue against his, your mouth was wetter at the taste of honey mixed with strawberries. You’d never thought something so sweet could fit him so much.

You gazed back at his half-closed eyelids when you drew back, breathing heavily.

“They gotta know you're not the same tough guy when you're in bed with a naked woman.”

His hand moved to knead your breasts as if to prove your point, but you halted it, kissing and licking the honey off his fingers.

“Sleep.”

"That supposed to help me sleep?"

"You're already halfway there."

Johnny gave a lazy huff of laughter, looking up at you. Even though he was a grown man, you knew he’d fold to your every command. His breath evened out when you eased off him, sitting beside him again.

Then his hand found the blanket and pulled it over you, his fingers brushing your thigh before tucking the edge around your waist.

“There,” he said softly, used to your bare skin at night.

You only had to grab the notebook again to let the words flow.

The head of the club, Mr. Davis (whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting five times) is a bulky man whose sensibility could be shared through the paper, a kind of quiet confidence our country sorely lacks. Just the kind of solid you expect from someone who leads men like it’s only his duty. In those meetings, he made me (us) feel comfortable enough to trade stories like old friends. Chicago: a city he only visited once, that he admitted he never quite understood. In return, he traded me his own stories like a long-lost friend. Stories that made me feel, strangely, like I wasn’t the one doing the interview anymore. Each meeting followed a ritual. He’d ask if I was thirsty. If I got there okay. If I was doing alright.

His head was burrowed into the pillow, already long gone. The hard lines of his face were smoothed by sleep, which you couldn’t help but trace softly with your fingertips.

The article didn’t need to know how deep you were in it with Mr. Davis.

Mr. Davis, who asked me to call him by his name on the second day, is not who I expected to meet. Born and bred in Chicago, it’s no secret that I’ve carried certain ideas about the kind of men who ride out into the country, launching loud jokes into the air. I’ve only been proven wrong since the first day, and I do feel like apologizing for that. To myself. To the members. Mr. Davis drives people home, even when it’s out of the way; he drove me back to the motel himself on the first night, as my photo companion had followed the other half of the group. He notices if someone hasn’t eaten, if someone is limping a little from a crash they brushed off. He stares hard and long, like he knows everything. He might. Although it always starts with the roar of an engine and the desire to be someone else for a while, the Vandals stay for different reasons. The kind you don’t admit to right away. I’ve come to learn that they stay because, in the blur of everything else (failed jobs, failed marriages, long winters) this is the one place that doesn’t demand an apology for who they are.

You shut the notebook with a soft thud and set it aside, pulling the covers gently over your shoulder. Whether he was asleep or not, Mr. Davis' hand found your back, pulling you closer to him, to the place where you belonged. The way it was supposed to be.

[ducksido]

Hey, You're having a good day! It's if this is too complicated, It's okay if you don't do this request! 😁👍

What if reader/yuu, after the housewarden + Jamil, at the end overbloting but instead of having an entity behind them, they are the entity and they are constantly hungry for magic, Which makes them attack everymage they see in sight! I like to think they look something like lady dimitrescu final form from resident evil or just something f up and their lines could be something like "Mages, Magic, I will devour all of you!". In the game, after one of the housewarden overblot, they're always helping the next one, like Heartslabyul to Savanaclaw, Savanaclaw to Octavinelle, Octavinelle to Scarabia, and so on. So I think the next would be Diasomnia. Also like to think that grim and Adeuce would try to help out first but in the end get captured by Yuu which makes Diasomnia determined to save them!

Also for angsty! When lady dimitrescu died she became dust. So for Yuu, maybe their body would break down and dissolve into ink...

(Warnings: Horror elements, body horror, transformation, angst, ink/dissolving, canonical character fear, mentions of past overblots, corrupted!Yuu)

There was no warning. No blot-saturated crystal. No spiraling descent into madness. Just a scream.

Grim had tried first. Of course he had.

“Snap out of it, Henchhuman!” he shouted, ears pinned flat as the ink-drenched creature reared above him. “You’re not like them—you helped them! You’re not a monster!”

But it didn’t listen.

It—no, they—towered over him now, hunched and contorted like something wearing a person’s skin all wrong. Their claws dragged through the stone of the library floor, leaving blackened scorch marks of corrupted magic. Their eyes glowed from sunken sockets—familiar eyes, but ringed with blot so deep it bled down their cheeks like tar.

Ace and Deuce had come running. But even together, the trio couldn't stop them. And Yuu—no longer the magicless Prefect, but something far older, something that had been waiting—opened their mouth with a sound like a starving god.

“Mages… Magic… I will devour all of you…”

By the time Lilia arrives, the battle is long over. But the destruction is fresh.

The walls of the library sag under the ink-heavy mist. Pages of magical theory books drift through puddles of goo, sloshing with whispers that make his ears ring. Grim is gone. So are Ace and Deuce.

Sebek drops to his knees beside a torn uniform blazer.

“Human…” he croaks. “No… no, they were ours! HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?!”

Malleus says nothing. But his jaw is set, his fangs bared. For the first time, he can taste a true threat to this world. Not because of chaos, not because of some grudge—but because something once human had become the wellspring of blot itself.

They had become the source.

Silver lays a hand over his sword. “They always moved from one overblot to another. Helping. Shielding. Maybe they took it all into themselves.”

“And if so,” Malleus growls, “Then we are to blame. All of us.”

Final Battle — Tower Ruins, Night Raven Island

The inky Yuu, no longer needing words, roars. Wings made of blot and bone unfurl like spiderwebs behind them. They’ve grown—at least three meters tall now, shoulders tearing their uniform. Jagged protrusions, glimmering with absorbed magic, stick out of their back like broken glass.

Diasomnia surrounds them.

“You are no longer the Prefect,” Sebek snarls, green lightning sparking in his grip. “I will destroy you if I must!”

“No.” Lilia holds out an arm, stopping him. His voice is quieter now. Almost mournful. “They were never just the Prefect. They were the one who carried us when we couldn’t carry ourselves. The blot—perhaps it remembered.”

Malleus steps forward, eyes glowing bright enough to pierce the fog.

“You have taken what is dear to me. And yet… I mourn what you’ve become.” He raises his hand. Thunder cracks. “But I will protect my people.”

Yuu’s final words are not screamed, but whispered as their monstrous body begins to crumble from the inside. Their claws tremble, twitching toward Malleus like they remember something. Someone.

Grim… Ace… Deuce…

Their mouth moves around their last words.

“I’m… so… hungry…”

Then—

They dissolve. Into ink, into mist, into the very corruption they had consumed for so long. The Prefect of Ramshackle, the helper of the fallen, the one who bore the weight of blot alone— —gone.

The island is silent.

Only the sound of ink dripping from charred stone remains.

[inkdevoured]

"That's some good drama right there!"

[inkdevoured]

"Man, you really are a let down. I'd be embarrassed if you were my successor. Can't even face the form of the man your powers belong to."

"I know a lot more than you think, it's my whole thing."

"Don't tell me you're scared of dying? Are you scared of dying to him? Maybe you're scared of dying in front of your mentor? Maybe you're scared you'll disappoint him."

His grip on the staff was so hard now his knuckles were turning white, taking a couple steps back as he saw the ink take the shape of Wukong. His body starting to lightly shake and his breathing grew heavy, trying to regain composure but it was growing harder with every second that passed by.

"You don't know anything!" Not like he really knew what he was doing either, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. What could he do when he wasn't ably to fully understand the power he had?!

[milesconure]

I love the Teen Titans: Trouble in Tokyo movie so much, you guys have no idea. I don't remember the last time I've watched it, but today I rewatched it and had a BLAST

Here's some of my favourite stuff/scenes from the movie uwu

Robin and Cyborg getting on each others nerves like always and also Cyborg trying to speak some sense into ekhem his spiky-head little mind, because someone freaking has to tell Robin that he doesn't have to be a superhero 24/7 (I love their dynamic btw, I need to yap about them sometime, their dynamic is my favourite one right next to Robstar)

Robin giving Starfire a lift on his R-cycle even though she could totally just fly, probably even faster, but she just likes to spend time with him :)

Robin giving Silkie one of his uniforms to sleep on and also petting it. It's basically that one meme "Dad doesn't want the dog. Dad and the dog after a few days"

Yes Raven. That's totally all you need

Beast Boy being excited about Japan and about the whole vacation stuff, look at him! He really just wants to have fun with his friends!!

"YOUR MOTHER WAS A SALAMANDER!!!"

Robin and Starfire spending time together and having fun!! Or at least mainly Starfire, because Robin is still in his pathetic mindset "I'm a superhero, I'm NOT allowed to have fun"

BUT WAIT, HE'S CRACKING THAT SMILE, I LOVE HIS SOFT SMILE SO MUCH, HE'S SO IN LOVE WITH THAT GIRL

Both of them trying to make a move, but it's DIFFICULT, especially Robin who has no idea how to manage his feelings lol

On more serious note, I absolutely love this scene, because of one important thing. Robin saying that Starfire is his best friend and Starfire agreeing that he's her too. I'm not a huge fan of romance. Most of the time I prefer to explore other kinds of dynamics. But I always loved Robstar, because Robin and Starfire are best friends. I absolutely hate when there's this weird stuff in media where the characters become a couple and all lovey dovey, but there's barely anything there, the dynamic as a whole being freaking non existent. But here we have two characters that we've seen interact in all those season and we could see just how much they like spending time together, simply as friends. I love them your honor. They're precious :']

BEAST BOY SINGING THE TEEN TITANS SONG ON KARAOKE SLAYYY

Cyborg devouring everything in one damn restaurant. He has priorities alright

Starfire being miserable and venting to some random child while her future to be boyfriend just killed someone-

THAT SCENE? This scene is literally so epic looking, but also so unsettling. Even after finding out that it was just ink and not blood, watching this scene is always so... sad.

After watching the show it is known that Robin has huge problem with obsessing over his goals and this obsession can sometimes make him go too far. Make him HURT people around him.

Here he literally thought that he killed someone.

ANYWAY we have some cat girls

Robin getting new outfit and totally SLAYING

HIS SMILE WHEN STARFIRE CAME TO SAVE HIM *slams head into the desk*

there's a damn limit, wait I need to make a second post lol

[speaknow-sw]

It’s 12am and I’m listening to sad edit audios and I typed this :

ANGST

Clay Beresford truly believed he was going to live. Not just survive—not just wake up and exist—but live.

He would thought he had earned it. After all the pain, after staring death in the face and feeling every excruciating second of it, wasn’t he owed a little happiness? He had walked through hell and come out the other side, his mother’s heart beating inside his chest, a second chance carved into his body like a promise. He had imagined it so clearly—the life he was meant to have.

A proper wedding. No more secrets, no more hushed hospital corridors or stolen moments under the weight of a dying heart. He and Sam would stand beneath the sun, vows spoken with steady voices, rings slipped onto fingers that no longer trembled with fear. There would be a honeymoon somewhere warm, somewhere far—the Seychelles, maybe. Just them, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead, a life full of ordinary, beautiful things waiting for him when they returned.

His business would’ve been secured. The world kept turning in his absence, and for once, that didn’t terrify him. He would work, but not too much. He would visit his mother—not in the way he does now, speaking into silence, kneeling at marble—but in life, with open arms and the knowledge that he could still hold her, still kiss her cheek and hear her voice tell him everything would be alright.

His mother had given him life twice—once in birth, once in death—but fate is cruel, and love has never been enough to save him. He thought he had made it. Thought he had finally, finally reached the part where he got to be happy. But some people are born under cursed stars, and some hearts—no matter how strong—are never meant to keep beating.

Maybe—maybe—there would be children. A family of his own. He liked to think he would have been a good father, that he would have loved them the way he wished he had been loved. Maybe if he held them tightly enough, whispered I love you often enough, the fear would quiet—the fear of being left behind, of being forgotten, of loving too much in a world that only ever gave him almosts in return. Because deep down, Clayton was still just a frightened little boy, waiting for someone to choose him without hesitation.

Oh, being a lover in a world of betrayal is such a curse.

Oh, being a lover in a world of indifference is such a curse.

Oh, being a lover in a world of leaving is such a curse.

Oh, being a lover in a world of forgetting is such a curse.

Oh…I am a lover…

Love is a violent thing. A cruel, ravenous god that takes and takes, tearing hearts from chests with avid, unholy hands, pressing them between its teeth until nothing remains but the echo of a heartbeat that once was.

Love is a promise whispered like a prayer and broken like a curse. It is the ruin of men who dare to feel too much, who offer their souls with trembling hands only to watch them be devoured. To love is to be unmade, to be stripped bare and left to bleed, to be the poet carving sonnets into the bones of something that will never weep for you in return. Always the poet, never the muse. Always the one left yearning, watching love slip through trembling fingers like water, like blood, like something that was never meant to be held at all.

Oh, to be a lover in a world of betrayal, indifference, and forgetting is to be an angel ripped of his wings, cast from the heavens and left to wander the earth, forever searching for something he will never find. It is to ache in places that cannot be healed, to carry wounds that time will never touch. It is to be made of devotion in a world that only knows how to destroy.

(And to be a writer is to carve that love into ink-stained hands, to bleed it onto the page because where else could it go? To be a writer is to build cathedrals from words, temples to a love that will never kneel at your altar. It is to search endlessly, to script tenderness into characters because you will never hold it yourself. It is to know longing like an old friend, to sit with ghosts of what-ifs and almosts, to resurrect something beautiful just to watch it slip through your fingers again.

To be a writer is to write about the love you will never find, to chase it through sentences and metaphors, to thread it into stories as if that could make it real. It is to love in ink what life has never given you in flesh.)

Following your footsteps pookie @anakinstwinklebunny 🫡 bro is so me frfr

[z-zeph]

A few days after his birthday, Xiao found you burning his old letters in a bonfire of qingxin blossoms.

The bonfire roared, devouring parchment and petals alike. Qingxin blossoms—once symbols of celestial purity—curled into skeletal shadows, their ivory hearts blackening as flames licked the night. You fed another letter to the pyre, its edges crisping, Xiao's stark handwriting dissolving into smoke.

"What is this."

His voice cut through the crackle of kindling, colder than the flowers that wept in Dragonspine's frost. You didn't turn. You knew his stance—rigid, spear-straight, the jade pendant at his throat catching firelight like a malevolent star.

"Closure, perhaps," you said, watching a sentence fragment escape the flames—'protect you'—before it withered to ash.

Xiao stepped closer. Heat warped the air between you, yet his presence chilled the sweat on your nape. His gaze traced the scars peeking beneath your sleeve, the ones that ached in time with his karmic debt. Always linked, even in ruin.

"You kept them." A statement, laced with something raw. Accusation? Regret?

"And now I don’t." You tossed the final letter, its seal unbroken—the one he’d left after April 17th. The flames surged, greedy.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then—

A gloved hand seized your wrist, yanking you backward. Embers spiraled as you collided with his chest, the jade shard in your sternum vibrating like a struck bell. His breath fanned your ear, uneven. "You think fire can erase what we are?"

You tilted your head, exposing the scar he’d gifted you—a jagged line from collarbone to heart. "No. But it makes pretty light to see our scars by."

His grip tightened. You wondered if he’d break the bone. Instead, his thumb brushed the pulse beneath your skin, a traitor’s caress. Above, smoke coiled into the shape of dragons, their forms crumbling as they climbed.

"Fool," he hissed, but the word trembled.

You tried to smile, for him. "You kept count of the letters, didn’t you? Every one."

The fire dimmed. Qingxin ash settled on his hair, a mockery of snow. He didn’t deny it.

Was there someone else to write letters to? Was there someone else to long for? Was there someone else, but you? You, traveler of faraway lands, on the rare peaceful nights where Xiao found himself closing his eyes, did you know? Your feet had even roamed the grasslands of his dreams. He remembered, he had mentioned it to you in one of the letters that now served no purpose but to fuel the fire.

“...”

As he let you free from his claws, there it was.

A scrap of parchment clung to a stone, its edges still smoldering. Xiao knelt, glove hovering. His own handwriting stared back, accusatory, and his throat constricted.

‘There are… many people in this world who care… you…’

Fire had gnawed its edges into lace, the characters bleeding where embers kissed them—care reduced to a charcoal smear, you dangling like a severed nerve. He also remembered drafting those words by moonlight, the ink mingling with blood from a gash he’d earned defending a village that no longer existed. Pathetic. As if sentiment could armor her against the ruin he carried.

You didn’t look at him. Your gaze stayed fixed on the pyre, its flames reduced to a sullen glow. Shadows pooled in the hollows of your cheeks.

What were you thinking about?

The new faces you’d collected like trinkets in Fontaine’s glittering courts? The way that merchant’s daughter had laughed, bright and unburdened, as she tucked a silk flower behind your ear? Or perhaps the scholar from Sumeru, whose fingers brushed yours as he passed a scroll, his touch lingering just long enough to imply warmth without promise?

Xiao’s jaw clenched. He could’ve carved the answers from your ribs. Let him try. You’d built a gallery of ghosts in your marrow—every smile, every accidental touch, every ‘you matter’ hissed by strangers who didn’t know your blood ran with jade dust. But none of it mattered. Not when the letters he’d penned in stolen moments between battles lay in ashes. Not when you’d chosen to immolate even the possibility of his voice reaching you.

“They mock our suffering.” The words left him sharper than intended, a blade slipped from its sheath. “These… people.”

You finally turned, not quite comprehending exactly what the Yaksha was referring to, until you saw the resentment in his eyes. Jealousy, perhaps. You were no longer sure, unwilling to even try to decipher this beast's silences one more time. Firelight gilded the scar he’d left on your neck, the one that ached when rain brewed over Jueyun Karst. Your smile was a shard of broken glass. “But they care.” A pause. “Or, at least, they pretend to. It’s kinder than the truth.”

Kinder than you, went unspoken.

Xiao crushed the paper fragment in his fist. Let it cut. Let it burn. The pain was nothing compared to the way your aura buzzed now—a dissonant hum, as if the jade in your chest were grinding against his own poisoned veins. You were becoming a stranger. A mortal again, in the worst way. Fragile, hopeful, reckless.

He stepped into your space again, close enough that the heat of the dying fire prickled his skin. “You crave liars, then.” His thumb grazed the scar, a mockery of tenderness. “Tell me—do their pretty lies warm you when the shard freezes your lungs?”

You didn’t flinch. “Better lies than silence.”

The bonfire gasped its last breath. In the sudden dark, Xiao’s fingers found yours, pressing the crumpled fragment into your palm. A phantom confession. A curse.

“Then take this one, too,” he said, and vanished into a swirl of anemo and qingxin ash.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

THE BINDING THRONE~4

Summery: The Binding Throne is a dark fantasy where Y/N is bound by ancient magic to Bucky and Loki—two dangerous men consumed by obsession. As passion, power, and prophecy collide, she must embrace her fate as queen or be devoured by it.

Characters: Dark!Loki x f!reader x Dark!Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Dark fantasy, obsessive behavior, manipulation,smut,possessiveness

||Main Masterlist|| ||Series Masterlist||

||PART 3: THE THRALL AND THE TETHER||

CHAPTER 4: THE KINGDOM IN HER BONES

You didn’t sleep the next night.

Not in the normal sense.

After the entity tried to breach your chambers, the Keep’s foundation hummed with protective wards—old sigils that pulsed with blood and memory. Loki called them echoes of Seraveth’s spine. Bucky didn’t care for the names. He wanted doors barred and blades drawn.

You didn’t argue.

But at some point, as dawn bruised the sky and your body begged for rest, you closed your eyes and fell—

—into a dream that was not a dream.

___

The first thing you noticed was silence.

Then: thrones.

You stood barefoot before a dais of stone. Around you lay a ruined court of ash and gold, vines bleeding from the ceiling, roots pulsing like veins in marble. The sky above was cracked like glass, and through the gaps poured stars—wrong stars, shifting in unnatural constellations.

And there, ahead—

You.

But older. Sharper. Wearing a crown of thorns and flame.

At your feet lay two men:

Loki, veiled in green shadows, blood at the corners of his lips.

Bucky, armored in obsidian steel, gauntlet crushed, chest heaving.

They looked up at you with worship. And fear.

You stepped closer to your future self, and she finally looked at you.

Her eyes were yours—but deeper, ancient.

“This is what they fear. This is what they hunger for.”

“You are not a vessel. You are the gate.”

“And gates either open… or destroy.”

Your breath caught.

“Choose wisely, little Queen.”

She raised her hand.

And the stars screamed.

You woke with blood on your pillow.

You demanded answers. And the Keep listened.

In the oldest library of Seraveth, beneath the roots of the world tree known as Vaer’dhûn, you found the journals of a long-dead mage-priestess—Ysolde Vaelen.

And as you read her final entries, your hands shook:

“The Binding Throne is not a seat. It is a heart.”

“The first to wield it was a girl born of fractured realms—a child of broken timelines and forgotten gods.”

“Her blood did not obey. Her shadow bent kingdoms. She opened herself to two powers, and through her, they warred—and wove.”

Your name appeared—Y/N L/N—though you had never written it.

“When she awakens, she will not be one soul, but three threads knotted: the past, the crown, and the storm. They will fight to keep her. And in doing so, bind the world to ruin or rebirth.”

You whispered the final line aloud.

“They do not love her. They need her.”

____

That night, you felt it.

Loki’s magic called to you from beneath the east wing.

You followed it—barefoot, half-lost in dream and instinct—until you entered the forgotten shrine of the Weavers. Candles lit themselves as you entered. A stone table sat in the center, etched with glowing Asgardian runes and something darker—something from before Asgard ever was.

He stood at the center, robes stripped to the waist, black ink crawling down his spine in spirals of serpentine prophecy.

“You came,” he murmured, not turning.

“What are you doing?”

He turned slowly, offering you a crystal vial. The liquid inside shimmered like a star trapped in oil.

“A piece of my soul,” he said. “I give it freely. To anchor myself to you. If you drink it—no god, no realm, no throne will pull us apart.”

Your hands trembled.

“This is madness.”

“This is love, in its purest, most dangerous form.”

He stepped closer. “Let me live inside you. Forever.”

And gods help you—part of you wanted to.

But before you could decide, the walls shook.

You ran.

And found Bucky in the war chamber—on his knees, arms covered in blood, a ritual circle smeared across the floor in red and silver dust.

He looked up, eyes wild.

“I saw what he was doing. I won’t let him take you first.”

You froze.

He opened his hand—and revealed something yours. A lock of your hair, a sliver of your broken sigil, and a crushed thorn.

“Bind me to you,” he whispered, voice cracked. “I won’t let you fall into his hands. Not when I’d die to protect you.”

“Bucky…”

“I’ll be your blade. Your shadow. Your storm. Just… don’t let him win.”

You didn’t answer.

Because deep in your bones, you realized: This wasn’t a love triangle anymore. This was war.

And you were the prize.

—-

The Keep groaned as thunder crawled across the sky. Your body ached with the pressure of choice. Of magic thickening around you like vines.

And then you heard it.

A voice not your own.

“They love you so much… they would rather bind you than risk losing you.”

“You are not a queen. You are a crown. And crowns are never free.”

Lightning split the sky.

And far away, something watched.

A force from beyond Seraveth—drawn by your bond, by your power.

It had no name.

But it whispered one truth:

“If you let them mark you again… we will come.”

“And this time, we will devour.”

-to be continued