#rook's art corner

[moseni-lotus]

me? putting actual effort into a shitpost? more likely than you think!

[nemisisnemi]

doodled in class a few days ago

don't mind Day at the bottom, he's harmless

[peachesofteal]

ghoap x reader / 18+ mdni / dark themes / prev here

‘C’mon, you never want to go out.” 

You rub your temples, eyes closed in exasperation. “I’m broke, Case.” 

“I’ll spot you. Come on, it’s Friday. I’ll get us into The Rook.” She pleads and pushes, tugging away your excuses and defenses until you’re backed into a corner with nowhere to run. Finally, you opt for a different tactic, lamely. 

“Doesn’t that place have a waiting list?”   

“Oh yeah, miles long. But the owner likes me.” The owner. How does she even know the owner of The Rook? 

“I don’t know…” you linger, still bent over your tiny kitchen table, back bowed and tired, “isn��t it like, dangerous?” 

“The Rook is neutral ground or something, I don’t know. It’s perfectly fine, I’ve been dozens of times.” A litany of stories exists about the speakeasy, from its origins to the current clientele, each as unbelievable as the next, and you’ve always imagined it to be this dark den of sin and debauchery, filled to brim with hitmen and lawlessness. “You have to do something other than work and sleep; you know. You’re missing out on your whole life.” She chides, attempting to launch into the same speech she repeats over and over every few weeks. 

“Alright, alright,” you look down at your torn up cuticles and sigh, “I’ll go.” 

You weren’t wrong about The Rook being dark. 

It’s hollowed out under a club, nooks and crannies and little hallways splitting off in every direction, dim lamps and flickering candlelight casting shadows to the ceiling, bartenders dressed in all black working behind a massive, burnished wood bar along the back wall. Velvet couches, high top tables, overstuff armchairs flow in the space, and Case tells you there are more rooms if you’re keen to explore, explaining in hushed tones how there’s usually a band in one, a card game of sorts in another, a pool table somewhere, all with various styles of seating, and even another bar. It's elegant, decadent, sinful. Most of the people are startlingly beautiful, high heels and skintight dresses, perfectly made-up faces, polished onyx cuff links gleaming against expensive navy suits. 

Even the drinks are licentious. 

You decidedly do not belong here. Perched on a stool next to Case, you occasionally rub your wrists, casually wondering if it would have been acceptable to wear your braces, your carpal tunnel flaring into a swell of agony. 

Wouldn’t that be a sight. 

The bartender slides her two generous neat pours of… something, and you raise an eyebrow. 

“On the house, from the boss.” He says with a wink, and she tips her head to ceiling with a bubble of a laughter, before pressing one of the tumblers into your hand. 

“What is it?” 

“Probably bourbon.” 

“Oh, no thanks, I don’t-“ 

“Just shoot it.” She throws it back with ease, showing her teeth afterwards, a hyena leering in the lamplight. 

Fuck it. Maybe it will the throbbing in your wrists will quiet down. 

It’s thick, syrupy, hot in your throat. Burns all the way down and settles like lava in your stomach, uncomfortable until the sting ebbs into warmth, moving through your bones. 

“Not bad.” You rasp, and she smiles. 

There are more free drinks. They stick to your insides like tar, slicking you in a heavy cotton, weighing your limbs down, loosening the tension in your neck and shoulders, peeling away your layers of discomfort one by one. 

You’re surprised by how at home Case seems in this place, how comfortable she is, smiling and waving to the occasional person, making small talk here and there. She practically floats in her seat, black dress taut against every dimple and dip on her body, hair artfully twisted into something that could be considered modern art. She’s a gazelle. A heron. Something graceful and gorgeous, fine feathered and fabulous.

And you’re… a tired girl in a tired dress, counting her lucky stars that there seem to be so many generous patrons buying drinks tonight. 

“Having fun?” She whispers, nudging you with her shoulder. 

“How often do you come here?” Her eyes wander, flicking past you and then back, wistful caution etched across her brow. 

“Often enough,” She sips her drink and then folds her hands together on the bar top, looking over shoulder, “Most of these people in here… are connected to organized crime somehow.” The information doesn’t surprise you, but hearing it confirmed, knowing it’s not just some story made up, some fairytale about boogeymen, makes you shiver. 

 “Like, the mafia?” 

“The mafia is Italian, but they have a presence in the city.” She shrugs, like it’s all common knowledge. Like you’re out of the loop. “The Rook belongs to Kyle Garrick.” You shake your head, unfamiliar. “Of The 141?” your mouth goes dry. 

The 141. 

The 141 were a notorious organized crime group who ran half, if not more, of the city. You knew they owned clubs, bars, restaurants, and hotels, but you were never clear on the details of their illegitimate work, and you didn’t want to know. 

You knew, for sure: they were men to be feared. Men capable of terrible things. Destruction. Death. 

Their ongoing war with The Shadows was the reason the city was soaked in blood. 

“Don’t worry,” she rushes out, hand on your arm, “like I said, It’s neutral here. Nothing happens in The Rook.” You nod meekly, head swimming. You’re more than drunk now, stuck in a sloshing ship, floor tilting beneath your feet. The urge to get away, to disappear slams into you like a truck, and you slip off the stool. 

“Which way is the bathroom?” She points to one of those dark hallways, and you stumble through the throngs of people like a fresh born fawn, unsteady and teetering on the edge, approaching a hallway that splits into two. 

Which way? 

You pick one, sure you’ll run into someone who can point you in the right direction, but when it zigs and zags up to a polished wooden door, you stop short, confused. The alcohol has rendered you fuzzy, and your vision spins, trying to look for a recognizable placard. 

Is this the bathroom? 

It must be. 

The first thing you realize when you push the door open, is a chorus of men’s voices, stopping on a dime. You hear them, before you see them, and immediately try to backpedal, tugging the door handle towards you, trying to close it. You’re wayward, with heavy, tired feet, and the movement is slow, slow enough that an opposing force pulls on the other side and then- 

rips. 

You fly forward into the room, dragged by your grip on the handle, spilling onto your knees with a shocked gasp, and someone curses in the background, another voice barking out a name. 

Then, the room goes Sunday church service silent. 

You gape at the table of men, transfixed in horror on the two familiar faces staring back at you, the unforgettable Scot and his marble etched partner, who was just in the shop only two days ago. They’re frozen, half risen from their seats, a cigarette burning away in an ash tray filling the air with smoke. 

There’s a nickel-plated flash, and your blood curdles. 

He has a gun. 

“I…” you croak, still on your knees, unable to categorize or rationalize why you’re seeing them here, why one of them has a gun, why any of this is happening. “I’m sorry, I was lo-looking for the bathroom.” There are many men in this room, you realize. More than just the two you’re acquainted with, and your stomach rolls, nausea creeping forward, trying to bring the too many drinks you’ve consumed up through your mouth. “I’m sorry.” You say again, more clearly. 

Obviously, you’re interrupting something. 

“These aren’t the toilets, little girl.” A Russian voice booms over your head. “Unless you’re going to piss on the floor for us?” 

“Nikolai.” The blonde cuts, Manchester accent rougher than sandpaper, and you shake your head frantically. 

“N-no, I just got turned around, that’s all.” Your brain screams at you to get up, but your body is immobile, and you look away in fear. 

A warm hand takes yours, tanned skin soft and sweet, gentle touch urging your face back up. 

“It’s alright, doe. Ye’re alright.” It’s the Scot, crooning in your ear, wrapping an arm around your waist to bring you to your feet. “Let’s get ye to the bathroom then, aye?” You lean against him, breathing in cypress and ocean spray, letting him guide you out of the room, his partner right at your back. 

“We’re not finished.” Someone calls out, and the bigger man clips out a response. 

“We are now.” 

[dilatorywriting]

Heroes vs. Villains : Pomefiore [Part 2]

Gender Neutral Reader x Pomefiore vs. Neige Leblanche Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. Pomefiore Version (Part 2)

ie. The scarf is an issue, because of course it's an issue. And Vil's sudden addiction to his phone is not going well for any of you.

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3]

“What did you do?” Epel hissed from behind an entire department store’s worth of facial products.

“What?! I didn’t do anything!” you argued. Trying to sound stern when you were also putting a concerted effort into not moving your mouth was apparently very hard. A lip mask, Vil had called it. ‘Pretentious goop’ was a far better description. But the Pomefiore House Warden had been particularly dour lately, so you’d been letting him slather you will all kinds of atrocities in the name of keeping the peace. You’d smelled like a walking Bath & Body Works for the past week at least. And worst of all, if you ever made that comparison out loud he’d probably hemorrhage. Or something. Because each of these products was ‘special ordered’ or ‘hand crafted’ and blablabla.

“Well pardon me for not takin’ your word for it,” the purple-haired boy snapped, spiteful. “He only gets like this when someone’s hurt his stupid ego. Or worse—his feelings.”

“And why does that ‘someone’ have to be me?” you complained.

Epel shot you a look and you sighed into the misty air. The aroma diffuser gave another lackluster puff, as if in agreement.

.

.

Ever since your shopping trip, Vil had been acting… not quite right.  

Oh, he was still icy and composed. He still tutted at your untucked uniform shirts and irritably plucked stray bits of fuzz from your jacket. But it was almost like he was too much of himself. You’d liked to think that your laid back ‘you’re lovely no matter what and I live in a literal condemned building so who am I to judge anyone’ approach had softened the House Warden at one point—even if only a smidgen. A singular hair out of place was artful, not lazy. The barely-there wrinkle in his vest was not the end of civilized times, but functional fashion. But now? It was back to the strictest of regiments, the most unforgiving of rules.

Jack had told you that Vil was even waking before him now—that by the time the wolf-beastman arrived for their early morning jogs, the blonde had clearly already been up and training for hours.

And you were worried.

Sometimes Vil would look at his phone and get this twisted up, venomous, expression on his face that sent little pangs of concern eating through your gut. Sometimes Rook was there to reach forward and gently ease the device out of Vil’s death grip. Sometimes he was not, and you were far too afraid of losing your fingers to even try.

It was a vicious cycle. The phone would make Vil angry and subsequently be abandoned in the opposite corner of the room. So then Vil would bury himself in new makeups, and outfits, and skin care. He would fret over new projects, or old projects—ranting about the incompetence of whoever he would ‘never work with again, believe me.’ Sometimes he dragged you along to his Film Club (you’d watched so many classic movies with him at this point that you were actually starting to become culturally literate). And then—slowly but inevitably—his brilliant, purple, gaze would drift to the expensive rectangle sitting all alone off to the side, wherever he’d carefully and strategically placed it to be just out of reach. Gradually his fingers would start to twitch, and then his jaw. He’d drum his nails against his knee, or irritably tap the pointed heel of his shoe against the floor. And then the phone would be back in his hands and he’d be looking at something that sent him spiraling all the way back to the beginning again.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confided in Rook one afternoon. You hadn’t seen him yet, but a bush off to your left had jiggled suspiciously at one point, so you assumed that he was probably somewhere in the vicinity.

After a moment, the hunter came and perched himself at your side.

“Do you know what’s bothering him?” you asked. Rook seemed to know everything about everyone, and Vil was his muse, his Roi de Poison. He had to have noticed something by now.

The blonde nodded, the feather in his hat bobbing as he did.

“...You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?” you huffed, not even attempting to bite back your irritation.  

Rook patted your shoulder sympathetically. “It is not my tale to tell, Mon Coeur. There are some things that I am told in confidence, and I cannot break that trust. Though I am sure he would greatly appreciate your concern.”

“Or you could just tell me,” you tried. “And then I wouldn’t have to be concerned at all.”

He tilted his hat at you, and then danced back easily when you tried to snatch it off his head.

.

.

“So, what’s the dealio,” Ace drawled, and he’d better thank his lucky stars that you didn’t startle quite as easily as you used to, because there was entire, opened, jar of Werecat urine in your hands that was just dying to wind up upended all down his white lab coat.

“What deal?” you snipped, carefully recapping the stinky ingredient and setting it off to the side. Tempting as the idea of dousing the redhead in supernatural piss was, Crewel would skin you for wasting components.  

“You spend a lot of time at Pomefiore,” Deuce added, much politer in his approach than Ace had been. “And lately their House Warden has been a bit…”

“Why has Captain Pissy-And-Perfect been so pissy?” Ace interrupted, leaning far too close over your cauldron to be any kind of safe. “Normally the only thing that twists him up that bad is Neige.”

Your mind whirled back to the incident at the mall. And as controlled as you liked to think you were about these sorts of things, your face must have done something because Ace pounced on you like Ruggie after a donut.

“What do you know?” he demanded, nearly spilling a whole bottle of Newt Eyes across the floor as he crowded into your personal space. “Tell me, tell me, tell me—"

“All I did was give Neige a scarf!” you snapped. “It’s not like it’s a big deal!”

“What scarf?” Deuce blinked back, confused.

“It was just some scarf that Vil put on me!”

The two of them made long, pointed, eye contact, and you immediately felt horribly out of the loop.

“Whelp. That tracks,” Ace sighed, just as Crewel popped up behind him to whip him across the back of his head with his pointer.

.

.

Your group of mangy idiots had gathered in the cafeteria for lunch—as was the ancient tradition of all starving students. The four of you had clustered around your usual table. Ace was busy squirting ketchup packets all over what would inevitably become Deuce’s seat when he finally got of the line. Jack was busy swishing said ketchup away with an irritated scowl. Epel sat across from you, as miserable and lemon scented as ever.

A lunch tray smacked the tabletop with an echoing bang and Deuce appeared behind it, frantically waved his cellphone in your faces.

“You guys have to watch this,” he said, deathly serious, before propping his phone up against your glass of water. It flopped forward with a resounding crack three times before he managed to get it to stay upright.

The five of you crouched around the teeny screen as the poppy chords of some Talk Show intro or other filtered through the tinny speakers.

“You know,” the interviewer beamed, all manicured sugar and over-bleached smiles. “With some of the things you’ve been posting lately, some people are saying that you’ve just got to be in love!”

The audience ooohed and aaaahed.

Neige Leblanche was sitting on the little leather sofa beside her, and he smiled in a way lit his entire face in a brilliant shade of pink. He was still wearing that goddamn purple scarf and immediately you could feel your temples pulsing with a migraine. This was going to be bad.

“Well,” he mumbled, bashful. “I can’t say you’re entirely wrong about that.”

Cue hordes of nearly rabid screaming. Ace winced and reached forward to tick down the volume.

“Why are we watching this?” Jack scowled, but he didn’t move his sharp glare from the illuminated screen.

“The Prefect gave Neige a scarf, and—”

“Shh,” Deuce hushed. “This is the bad part.”

“It’s a little bit silly,” Neige continued, glancing up at the host from beneath his dark lashes. “I don’t actually know their name. But we met a few weeks ago now and they were just—well they were amazing. They actually helped pull me out of a pretty sticky situation, and they were so composed through all of it! And then they didn’t even care about me being famous at all!” he rambled, getting brighter and brighter the longer he monologued. “They just helped me because I was a person, and, well, I think that’s very sweet.”

There was another wave of darling ‘awwws’ that could only have been scripted. Or, at least you hoped so. This level of saccharine infatuation should have been enough to turn anyone’s stomach. It had certainly twisted yours into all sorts of unpleasant knots. The secondhand embarrassment alone was on the verge of taking you out entirely.

“A little birdy’s been telling us that the scarf you’ve been modelling in all your latest Magicam posts was actually a gift from this secret lover of yours,” the interviewer whispered conspiratorially, and you wanted nothing more than to snatch that stupid purple cashmere back through the screen solely so that you could strangle her with it.

“Well, yes, actually,” Neige chirped, fingers reaching up to toy with the soft fabric.

“No it wasn’t!” you howled, indignant. “I just put it on him to distract him because I accidentally rambled to his face about how much more fuckable Vil was than him, and—”

“WHAT?!” Epel screeched. Screeched. At the top of his lungs. It felt like you could feel the glares of every single set of eyes in the cafeteria drilling into your spine. Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw a feather bob as it disappeared through the door, and you didn’t even want to think of the implications of that.

“No fucking way,” Ace gaped, looking for all the world like you’d just handed him a million Thaumarks, or an entire notebook’s worth of nuclear codes. Deuce and Jack both just looked like they were trying not to choke to death.

“Oh my God,” you wailed. “I did it again.”

.

.

When you next ran into the King of Poisons, you were so distracted by the impossible task of wrangling Ace into silence that you couldn’t have noticed the subtle changes in him even if you’d wanted to. The increased length in his stride, the gentler tuck of his hair, the less severe line of his shoulders—if you weren’t so caught up in trying to commit homicide, you would have been ecstatic.

Rook was chattering along at his side, his lips quirked into a merry grin. The tack-tack-tack of Vil’s crimson heels against the stone floors was familiar, confident, and loud enough to swim through your head despite Ace’s manic cackling.

“Potato.” Vil’s red lips quirked upwards into the smallest smile before twitching back down into a sneer. “And other potato. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Thankfully, at the end of the day, Ace was still nothing if not a no-good coward. He turned on the Pomefiore House Warden, ready to spill your deepest, darkest, secrets, and immediately withered under the third year’s spiteful glower.

“H-House Warden!” he squeaked. “I was just—Ahem. The Prefect was just—just saying that—”

“Go on,” Vil prompted, tongue dripping with all kinds of venom. “It must be riveting if it’s managed to stun you so thoroughly. Or maybe that’s just the extent of your comprehensive abilities as it is.”

Ace gulped. Audibly.

“Perhaps I should report your dallying to Riddle,” Vil continued, and that was when Ace really started to look panicked. “Remind me—your House Warden is known for his lenient stance on punishing rule breakers, is he not?”

The redhead darted off with one final squeak, practically wheeling around a corner in his haste to escape.

“Well?” Vil barked, and it took you a second to realize that he was addressing you now, and not that he was just going to continually roast Ace into an early grave. “Are you coming?”

“Where?” you asked, confused.

Vil rolled his eyes and reached out to grab your hand. “To Film Club. You promised to help pick out the new backdrop color schemes. Or is the forgetfulness of that horrible, spudling, friend of yours wearing off on you now too?”

You had promised Vil so many things in the last few weeks that you honestly probably wouldn’t even have remembered if you’d offered to sell him your soul, so looking through page after page of tone combinations that all looked absolutely identical to you but whatever was probably the best you could hope for.

More importantly, he seemed… better. Less stiff, certainly. You wondered idly what could have happened in the span of a few hours to mend his mood so thoroughly. If it had been Neige related all along, then probably some slight against the dude, right? Maybe something had popped up online? Industry drama, or whatever. Or maybe—

‘Because I accidentally rambled to his face about how much more fuckable Vil was than him, and—'

You froze, like a deer about to mowed down by a semi. Vil’s grip on your hand was the only thing that kept you from immediately faceplanting into the ground.

But, no. No one aside from your immediate entourage could have heard you say that! It wasn’t possible! It—It wasn’t—

Amidst your sudden wave of mortification, you caught Rook’s mischievous green, gaze, with your own. The feather on his hat bobbed playfully, mockingly, and he winked.

.

TAG LIST (CLOSED AS OF 12/10)

21.3.76

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[islandofsages]

Pomefiore boys with a friend (male reader), how is a hopeless romantic, where they help him (the reader) to win over his crush or comfort him when he is rejected.

characters: the pomefiore boys x male reader

tags: platonic, canon compliant, fluff, comfort, imagines format

warnings: mentions of beating people up LMAO, some physical contact in epel's

author's notes: ngl i was kinda debating writing this bc i was like hmmmm crush but yknow what? it's not romance with the main cast so i'll let it slide plus im excited to get a request after so long sorry if this isnt as good! pretty rusty from not writing imagines in so long ahaha

Vil Schoenheit

You went to the right person - who else has better rizz charm than Vil Schoenheit himself?

Of course, his first word of advice would be to just be yourself but just in case “yourself” isn’t enough, Vil has extended two generous offers to you: he will personally tutor you on how to steal your crush’s heart and if somehow they still reject you, he’ll have a uh… nice little talk with them. Totally. He has a reputation to hold up you know

Jokes aside, he truly believes you can catch your crush’s attention. He may be a little tough on you at times but he’s only trying to push you in the right direction

“Remember. If they do not give you the time of day, then they are not worth any of your precious time.”

If you get rejected, he’ll admit he feels a bit guilty - mostly disappointed in the crush (unless they have a good reason to reject), but still

Of course you insist that he doesn’t have to be sorry but he takes it upon himself to make up to you somehow

Whatever you need to recover from the rejection, he’ll try his best to fulfill your wishes

He’ll make time in his busy schedule to go out and treat you to something to cheer you up

In all the love in the world, maybe your crush isn’t yours to keep. But at least Vil’s is.

Epel Felmier

He may not have much experience with confessions or being a wingman but he’ll try his best for you!

He might search up how to impress a crush online and have you genuinely try the ideas he found and let’s just say that some of them are… interesting alright

You know he means well so you just follow along. At least the embarrassing times make for good memories to look back on and laugh over

“Maybe this’ll work…? How are we gonna find these though…”

He also offers to beat your crush up if they reject you but you quickly shut him down.

He’s there somewhere, hiding in a nearby bush (or whatever is nearby), when you confess to your crush, face scrunches up as if watching an intense Spelldrive match

If you get rejected, he’ll be a shoulder to cry on. Literally - he’ll sit beside you and offer to let you rest your head on his shoulder if you want

He may end up not saying much but he can listen to you for as long as you need him to

The tears of rejection may be salty, but the memories you made with your friend could sweeten any taste.

Rook Hunt

He’s delighted that you trust him enough to go to him for support

You think that you’d like to be more charming like him, what with his way of speaking and how he carries himself

Tears prick the corner of his eyes already; you have to ask him if he’s alright

“To think you saw me in such a light… it would stir any soul.”

He would even offer to teach you the delicate art of poetry if you so desire to win your crush’s heart through prose

If you get rejected, he’ll empathize with you, wearing a frown that you almost feel worse about than your actual rejection

He’ll let you say whatever you need to say or let out whatever’s weighing on you

When you’re done, he tells you that even such heartbreaking events could bloom into a beautiful flower one day - that you need not be concerned and see it as a learning experience

You laugh; how could you forget? There are many types of people out there. Just like how there could only be one copy of your crush, there could only be one of Rook.

[digital-chess]

👑 ROOK! JAX 👑

"HEY KID, WANNA PLAY BOWLING? YOU'RE GONNA NEED TO WIN POINTS HERE TO GET COINS FROM CAINES GAME CORNER... YEAH. ITS A PAIN, BUT WE ALL GOT OUR JOBS TO DO TO GET BY."

👑 DIGITAL CHESS AU! 👑

Art by Raylee Anne

[mochinomnoms]

Random thought but who do you think among the twst boys had plushies when they were kids and what kind of plushie if so?

Kalim still has his elephant plushie from when he was a kid. Cater I think actually has one in his dorm room in the art. Jack had one of his favorite Spelldrive player that got lost when he was a kid. Azul didn't have a plushie, but he still has is old octopot from when he was a tiny hatchling. Rook still has is collection of Sunset Savannah animals that he started collecting when he was 5; now he looks for animal plushies from other countries, particularly of rare ones. Epel used to have a teddy bear that he would take with him on the farm until he lost it (it's still hanging in the corner of one of the barns). Idia has Pain and Panic as plushies in his dorm room. Malleus, Silver, and Sebek all got plushies from Lilia at one point. Malleus has a dragon one that looks similar to his tamagotchi, Silver got an owl one, and Sebek a dragon one as well that he called "Mal-Mal" after Malleus as a kid (he no longer calls it Mal-Mal, but refers to is as "Little Master" in private now). They all kept them save back home.

[vanillaflowerstuff]

made this good omen roleswap au, it was fun c:

thoughts/notes under the cut -

okay so i'm not much of a writer - i'm not sure exactly how the story would be different? it would probably follow similar beats over time, just with a slight shift in the character dynamic (and obviously they're on the opposite sides)

i don't know why demon!az is rats, it just felt right to me. also i don't know what their names are - i don't know how demon names are chosen, and we were never told crowley's angel name (and also it wasn't lucifer)

after the fall, aziraphale becomes more reticent and withdrawn. he still retains his sense of nobility & wanting to do what's right, but it's buried under a mask of sorts - angel!crowley has to draw it out of him over time

crowley on the other hand is much more similar to how he was in the one scene we get of him as an angel. he's a little sillier, a little more whimsical, and smiles a lot more, but there's always that sense of walking on a tightrope around the other angels (especially gabriel)

i think angel!crowley would get to keep his creativity - i could imagine the bookshop being some kind of gallery/art studio in this au

i don't know what the rook in the corner is for - i just wanted to draw a rook, really

[valsdelulucorner]

Masterlist<3

Hi everyone, my name is Val and im a digital artist and wanna be writer. I was requested to make a master list so im going to try my best here

Im doing this on a laptop so im sorry phone users

OC account<3 = @vals-delulu-corner

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obey me Head cannons<3

More Asmo head cannons<3

What I the brothers hands would look like

MC taught Diavolo Gen Z slang and trends

MC gets a deadly familiar

Brothers and the nightmares TW//

Barbatos head cannons

Soft beel headcannons

Luke head cannons [strictly platonic]

Leviathan head cannons

Satan head cannons

Belphie head cannons

Mammon head cannons

Asmo head cannons

Goofy head cannon #1

Obey me AU's <3

The brothers as mermaids

Mammon as a mermaid<3

Mermaid brothers with a arty MC<3

Obey me self aware<3

Obey me self aware P.2<3

Twisted wonderland head cannons <3

Grim head cannons [Stictly platonic]

Floyd head cannons

Malleus head cannons

Art <3

Rook wip<3 [twst]

Muriel [the arcana]

Ruggie [twst]

Ruggie WIP

Melon and Beel<3

Asmo bunny boy art

Satan catboy art

Sassy beel

First obey me art, mammon<3

Roblox man drawing

I drew myself lol

I drew a hand

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Ill be adding to this as i continue doing my daily posts on tumblr, thank you for sticking with me<3

[moseni-lotus]

silly little doodle of my onglydoople!!!!

[thecoffeelorian]

May 10, 2024

Hello again, everyone...

Firstly, I'd just like to offer a little friendly reminder that the Bad Batch section of this fandom is not dead, just done with its main source material. There are, however, a million directions we can take our derivative works, as I expect this fandom overall is just getting started with the material from "Tales of the Empire" and I, personally, am kind of excited with where we all might go next.

Secondly, thank you to everyone who took the time to like and reblog my past entries, as I know for a fact I wouldn’t have gotten very far without your consideration.

Thirdly, though, I would like to state the purpose of this weekly entry, because it can and should double as a mission statement of sorts:

As a lifelong Star Wars fan, I do this list every Friday to bring more visibility to art and stories that might otherwise go unnoticed on the Tumblr timeline, as well as to help the creators of such fanworks achieve more followers in the process.

This means that I will look for the entries with the lowest amounts of likes and reblogs and then add them to my weekly list, as well as liking and reblogging them to my own Tumblr page.

And so, while we’re all on the subject, here are my picks of the week::

THE CLONE WARS

The Clone Wars Fanart--From @foxyaran:

The Clone Wars Fanart--From @angela-art13:

The Clone Wars Fanfiction--From @ireadwithmyears:

The Clone Wars: Tukk Tales Fanfiction--From @gun-roswell:

THE BAD BATCH

The Bad Batch Fanart--From @nocturius8015ficore:

The Bad Batch Fanart--From @s-pirth-lemonade:

The Bad Batch Fanfiction--From @groguandthebadbatch:

The Bad Batch Fanfiction--From @jedi-princess-kestis:

TALES OF THE EMPIRE

Tales Of The Empire Fanart--From @robinthephoenix:

STAR WARS SEQUELS

Rey Skywalker Moodboard--From @skyofnostars:

In conclusion, as part of my mission to poke around the Star Wars fandom and, on Friday every week, highlight those artists and writers who might otherwise go unnoticed…I hope you will check out the links I have included for yourselves and like, comment on, and reblog them, as well as also giving the artists and writers a few more followers to their Tumblr pages.

Please also like and reblog this latest installment so that these links can be spread around to as many other fans as possible, just in case not all of them can tune in at the same time.

An additional thank you goes to @djarrex for making the divider I used earlier in this post, but still want to give credit for.

And finally, so that I do not forget...thank you to my friends, thank you to this fandom, good morning, and good luck.

No Pressure Tags:

@maxims-multifandom-corner @skellymom @melymigo @ankossss @sharpasanaro

@ilovemedia @snap-my-kneecaps @algo-o-nada @somethingsaladsomething @rott1ngbra1n

@brownielocks69 @ratcatchinggirl @yeehawgeek @ilcuoreardendo-fic @chefobiwankenobi

@lilithastar @wondermadeleine @theosb0rnway @here-comes-the-moose @vaderkin-is-a-lightning-rod 

@trixie2023 @callsign-denmark @smw-on-kamino @ray-rook @saphiranishimurashan

@serinzatravel-blog and anybody else who might be on the lookout for new and interesting works around the fandom.

[i-think-i-did-it-again]

The Tour XI

Warning: swearing, smut

The elephant in the room was suffocating. No one was saying much, all pretending that their phones were way more interesting than the world around them, except for Colson that was. He stood, staring at the wall as if he was admiring a great work of art in a museum. The groupies that had pushed their way into the green room immediately felt the tension and all came up with terrible excuses to leave. When it was finally time for the concert to start, you made no attempt to move from your spot in the corner and you could tell that bothered Colson.

Ever since your outburst in the lobby after your friends had caught the two of you making out, Colson had listened to your request for him to leave you alone. Although, you didn’t give him much choice not to. Whenever he entered a room, you found a reason to leave, if there was a chance the two of you would be alone, you’d excuse yourself to make a phone call. You spent most of your free time locked in your hotel room and if you were required to follow Colson to line with your contract, you kept a safe distance. Always making sure he was within your eye line but never close enough that he could talk to you.

“I’ll catch up with you guys,” Ashleigh calls out as everyone begins to file out of the room. She sits crossed legged next to you on the couch, her whole body turned towards you, waiting for you to talk.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” you mumble, staring at your cuticles.

“I know but maybe it would help if you did. Everyone…” her voice trails off with a shake of her head.

“Everyone what?” you spit at her and you can feel the bile rising in your throat.

“Hey, calm down. It’s me, remember?” guilt floods you and you mumble an apology. “It doesn’t matter what everyone thinks but we are worried about the two of you. You haven’t spoken since…the incident and it’s starting to show.” when you go to speak, her voice cuts you off. “Everyone is noticing.”

You’re not sure what her emphasis means until she pulls out her phone and shoves it in your face. Dozens of text messages from Francis and Kathy questioning Colson’s mood in his latest interviews, his lack of stage presence and the fact that he hasn’t made an appearance at any nightclubs that he was scheduled at for PR photo ops. Ashleigh’s replies are her best attempt at mediating but you can tell by the responses she gets that they’re pissed. You see your name pop up numerous times in the message chain but you don’t want to know what they have to say about you. 

“Ash, I’m so sorry. I was here to make your life easier and I just made it worse.” you grab her hands in yours and try your best to apologise. 

“I knew there was something going on between the two of you but I couldn’t really put my finger on it. Rook was the one that thought you two were hooking up and I told him he was crazy. I guess he just knows you better than me.”

You don’t really know what to say to that. Although you’re closer to Ashleigh now, you have known Rook for longer and he just knows you. You’ve always known he’s an observant guy. He doesn’t pick up on nearly as much as Colson does but when he really wants to know something, he pays attention. 

“It’s over anyway, whatever the hell it was. I guess I could probably be nicer to Kells so he’s in a better mood but I can’t guarantee that will make a difference.”

“Ok, this is probably going to make me an awful person but do you think…maybe… you could try being more than a friend?” your jaw drops and she quickly rushes to explain. “I’m not saying you have to make out with him or sleep with him but could you at least flirt a little? Make him think he has a chance even if he really doesn’t?”

You don’t answer her. You just kind of shrug in a ‘no words necessary’ way. You’re not willing to commit to anything and you promised yourself that you would find your fun elsewhere for the rest of the trip but you can see the weight everything is having on your best friend. You don’t want to add to her burdens by being difficult. 

Just be nice to him and he’ll perk up a little. 

The cold shoulder routine was starting to wear on you anyway. It was a hard wall to keep up, especially with someone you care so much for. You also hated the way it made the rest of your friends so uncomfortable. You didn’t want to be the Debby downer on the tour. 

You follow Ashleigh out of the green room and to the side of the stage to watch the performance. You hadn’t really noticed it before but you could see that Colson’s heart wasn’t really in it. He was pulling his voice to stop from belting out his lyrics, he was barely moving around the stage and he wasn’t interacting with anyone, the crowd or his band. He looked bored. 

When the set came to an end and the crowd screamed for an encore like they always do, Colson ignored them, and Ashleigh, and headed back to the green room. He pushed past a large group of fans with backstage passes and all the girls in short skirts and low cut tops. It was like he didn’t even notice them there. 

Had I really been that blind to his attitude?

You tell Ashleigh to give you a minute alone with him and you push through the same crowd of now very angry people. When you get to the green room it’s empty so you head to the small restroom next door and hear the sound of the water. You wait awkwardly in the doorway for what feels like an eternity. When you realise he’s not planning to leave the shower any time soon, you decide to just have the conversation here. 

“Colson?” you call out and you hate the way your voice wavers on his name. 

“What?” he asks in such a monotone voice it barely even sounds like him. 

“Can we talk?”

“I’m a little fucking busy!” 

Ugh, dick. 

You push your way further into the bathroom and push open the stall door. Colson is just standing under the scorching hot water, staring up at the roof with no real emotion on his face. It’s…unsettling. You’re trying very hard to not let your eyes variate from his face but it’s easier said than done. 

“Get out of the shower,” you tell him in your sternest voice. 

“No.”

“I’m not playing. Get. Out.”

“No.”

You kick your shoes off before stepping into the cubicle with him. You reach for the tap trying hard to not step under the shower head but Colson has other ideas. He grabs the top of your arms and pulls you under the water with him, holding you against his body. You try to pull away but he’s too strong for you. You try to scream out at him but his lips are on yours too quickly, silencing you. You stay ridgid, not giving in to his kiss or his naked body. 

“Kiss me,” he begs against your lips but you still resist. “Please?” That soft word begins to crack its way through your walls. “I need you.”

You’re complete and utter putty in his hands and you hate yourself for it. Your lips begin to respond to his, allowing him to slip his tongue past them. He moans at the taste of you. You run your nails down his back and he growls, gripping your ass tightly. He tries to push you back against the wall but you hold your ground. If you’re doing this, you’re doing it your way. 

“Undo my pants,” you command him and he looks at you with a face that tells you he’s both pissed off and turned on at the same time. 

He kneels before you and unbuttons and unzips your jeans. You lift your soaking wet shirt over your head and discard it with his clothes. You unclip your bra and drop it beside him. He looks up at your naked breasts, lust filling his eyes at the sight. 

When Colson finally manages to rip your drenched jeans and panties off, he tries to stand but you hold the top of his head, forcing him to stay kneeling before you. He looks up at you from beneath his lashes with a confused expression. You just smile that sweet, flirty smile that you know drives him wild. 

“Eat me,” you demand and he needs no further instructions. 

Colson’s mouth immediately suctions to your pussy and you mewl with pleasure. You throw your head back and moan as his mouth and tongue assaults your slit. He finds your clit and circles it over and over with his tongue before sucking on it, hard. You grip his hair and tug every time he finds just the right spot. He notices your pattern and begins to focus all his attention on your clit. He slips his long slender finger inside you and begins to pump in and out of you like a mad man. Your vision begins to blur and your ability to hold yourself up becomes more and more difficult. Colson grips your ass, holding you in place and keeping you upright. He squeezes and the mix of pleasure becomes too overwhelming and a powerful orgasm tears through you. Your legs quiver and you worry you may fall but Colson ensures that you don’t. 

As you come down from your high, Colson stands and begins kissing your neck. He pinches your nipples between his fingers and you start to purr but then remind yourself you’re in charge. 

“Thanks for the ride, big boy,” you smile before pushing Colson back against the wall and away from you. 

You open the door, grab a towel to wrap around yourself and pick your wet clothes up from the floor. You leave Colson to stand there in his confusion and quickly sneak into the green room to grab a change of clothes from Sophie’s bag before anyone else appears. You sit down on the couch, a shit eating grin plastered across your face. 

Just because he wants me, doesn’t mean he can have me.  ********************

Tag list: @mgklove99xx

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

"Happy birthday, Rollo! I hope you like your gift. I worked hard on it!"

It's a photo album... full of photos of yourself. Tending plants, writing letters, taking walks below stained glass windows. There's even one of you fast asleep in an armchair, book in hand.

They're lovingly presented... but you have no idea when these were taken!

"I used the camera I got from the headmage!" I announced, "he told me to use it to take photos of my friends... and we're friends now, right?"

Proof that Rook is a terrible influence/j💀

I enjoy those fan arts where it shows how Yuu is taking pictures of each groovy illustration (even though Yuu is not present in the vignettes 98% of the time), there are unique props and angles that look goofy in that context. I don’t know if Rollo would be that thrilled to have… extra eyes on him… though 😔

When Rollo opened the album, he was immediately struck with a sense of unease.

The inside of the hefty volume yielded photograph after photograph of him, frozen in various parts of his day: in lectures, making purchases in town, watering plants, briskly strolling down hallways lined with stained glass windows. More alarmingly, there were also snapshots of his most intimate and private of moments: tending to the gargoyles and the Bell of Salvation, scrawling away in his journal, and…

Him, asleep in a plush armchair. The book he had been reading had tumbled into his lap. Rollo slouched to one side in the picture, head lolled forward. His short silver bangs shadowed his lashes, the mouth perpetually obscured or frowning now pert and wistful.

He almost appeared angelic, at peace with both himself and the world.

A spike of anger shot through Rollo, eyes flashed with disgust and a dangerous intent. He slammed the album shut.

“Hah!” He barked out a laugh, terse and bitter—like the bite of a pill swallowed.

Not a good sign to start with.

“Certainly not if you pull stunts that cross the boundaries of privacy like this,” Rollo snarled. “This warrants a restraining order.”

You blinked, oblivious to his upset. “Wait, what? Why?”

“You took pictures of me without my consent,” he stated frostily. “Half of these are taken in private quarters. How did you even conceal yourself in these locations, let alone get access to them?!”

"I picked up some photography tips and tricks from Rook-senpai," you said proudly (a little too proudly, if you asked Rollo). “Neat, right?”

Rollo shivered at the thought—of you creeping right behind, camera in hand and lens aimed at him. Hunched over in dark corners or peeking out from crevices, like a gremlin lying in wait to strike when he least suspected it. No safety, no security.

Only the pair of eyes on him.

Watching.

Judging.

“Absolutely NOT neat,” he spat out. “You think too highly of yourself—and you’re truly foolish if you think I would wish to associate with an individual who lacks basic respect for others and their personal space. The gall to gift such an abhorrent item as well… You have no shame!!

“I implore you to consider the teachings of common sense rather than those of… questionable peers—and refrain from engaging in further instances of this,” he instructed, waving the album in your face. “Lastly, you will purge all records and copies of these photographs you may have on hand.

“Is that clear? Yes?” He didn’t wait for you. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other. If you will excuse me then.”

“Where are you going?” you called out to him, confused. He had taken the album with him as he stormed into the hallway.

His answer came without him even turning to face you.

“Somewhere to burn this.”

[friendly-neighborhood-boricua]

The Bookshop

Summary: Bouquet in hand, Sirius feels slightly more prepared to see her. A lot has happened in the last five years, and the two have a lot to catch up on.

Notes: Harry Potter universe, famous!AU, rockstar!Sirius x reader, oneshot; part two of The Linguist. Let me know if you like it! Part three coming soon ...

Part 1!

Fistfull of flowers collected and paid for, Sirius continued down the cobblestone alley, eyes peeled for his destination. He had visited Teliska & Rook’s Rare Books once before, when Y/N had first acquired a job at the small shop, but unfortunately hadn’t had the chance to revisit the cozy corner of Paris since. 

Sirius’s heart stuttered for a moment as he rounded another corner and spotted the bookshop; the sign’s gold lettering was crisp as ever despite the faded evergreen color surrounding it and the bay windows framing the tall oak door could probably do with some dusting, but otherwise, the shop was just as Sirius remembered it. He squinted at himself in the reflection of a bakery window, fixing his hair and rolling his shoulders back to fix his posture, holding the bouquet tightly in his left hand. With a breath that Sirius hoped sounded more confident than he felt, he made his way to Teliska & Rook’s Rare Books.

The heavy door opened with a groaning creak and the light tinkling of bells, and Sirius was immediately hit with the scent of old books. He nearly sneezed as a cloud of dust furled up from the ground, rubbing his nose furiously to rid himself of the feeling. 

Once he had recovered his bearings enough to look around, Sirius was surprised at the familiarity of everything. The shop was organized in the same manner it had been nearly five years ago, with one corner designated to modern reads, another serving as home to a cluttered cedar desk where patrons could check out, and the rest of the small building crammed full of bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling. 

Closing the door behind him, Sirius tentatively stepped into the shop, which seemed alarmingly empty, and peered around. Truthfully, it seemed as if no one had stepped foot in the place in years. Sirius peered down one aisle of bookshelves, then another, until his eye caught on a familiar spine. Twelfth Night. Y/N’s favorite. She always found the classics a bit ridiculous, as her Muggle mother had made her read them all when she was of age, but Twelfth Night was “far too funny not to like”.

Sirius’s lips quirked up into a little grin, and he slid the volume off the shelf, opening it to a random page. To his mild surprise, this edition came with illustrations, though, upon closer inspection, Sirius guessed it wasn’t bought that way. Its previous owner seemed to have doodled the scenes in the margins, turning the book itself into a piece of art.

“Sérieux Noir?” An elderly man—Teliska of Teliska & Rook, if Sirius’ memory served him right—peered around the corner of the aisle in which Sirius stood, wide eyes magnified by Coke bottle glasses. “Sérieux, c’est toi?”

Sirius grinned. The man was very French and never could grasp that his name was ‘Sirius Black’ rather than ‘serious black’. 

“Oui, Monsieur. It’s been a while.”

“So it has, mon fils, so it has!” The lean man hobbled down the aisle towards Sirius, squeezing his shoulder with a falcon’s grip once he was within range. He looked to the bouquet in Sirius’ hand. “I assume you’re looking for our Y/N?”

Sirius smiled subconsciously. “Yes, I was.”

Teliska smiled knowingly. “She’s in the back. Elsie’s been getting sicker lately, so Y/N’s been drowning herself in work. You know how she gets.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sirius said as the old man guided him down an aisle, then down another towards the back of the shop. “Tell Ms. Rook I send my love.”

Teliska peered at Sirius, magnified eyes holding a grave sort of look, but nodded nonetheless. “I will.” The odd pair stopped at a plain oak door with a brass knob tucked away in the furthest recess of the bookshop, and Sirius’ palms began to sweat. He wiped them hastily on his trousers, exchanging the bouquet from one hand to the other. “She’s just through there. Working on repairing some ancient tome for the Sorbonne. They’re working her to the bone these days—far too much for what they’re paying her  …” 

Teliska muttered on as he hobbled back towards the front of the shop, and Sirius watched the old man’s thin frame as he went, silently begging him to turn around, come back so he could put off the meeting he knew awaited him beyond the oak door with the brass knob. 

But the old man was out of sight soon enough, and Sirius was once again alone in the bookshop, surrounded by books and dust and everything Y/N loved. He faced the oak door again and bit the inside of his cheek. Why was he so nervous? He and Y/N were never really together, so why did he feel bad? What did he even feel bad for?

Sirius huffed out a sharp sigh and forced himself not to think. Just open the door. Open it. And he did. 

If the rest of Teliska & Rook’s was dusty and crammed with books, the back office hadn’t been dusted since the store’s opening and had to be waded through due to the sheer volume of books piled on the floor, in cabinets, on shelves and countertops—any and every square inch of would-be free space was occupied by a book. This time, Sirius did indeed sneeze when he was hit with a waft of dust, cringing immediately after at the harsh disruption to the otherwise silent back office. 

Shutting the creaky oak door as gently as possible, Sirius blinked several times at the maze of stacked books that lay between himself and where he knew Y/N’s desk resided. He was a relatively thin and quite well-built young man, but these narrow, precariously constructed corridors of books weren’t exactly something he had expertise in navigating. Nevertheless, Sirius would try. 

Each step was made with bated breath as Sirius expected any second for half the books in the room to come crumbling down around him, and each time they didn’t was a small miracle. He snuck about the back office for several minutes, trying to find his way towards Y/N’s desk until finally, he came upon a small clearing in the paper forest.

Y/N sat hunched over her desk, eyes focused on the ancient, half-rotted book in front of her as she traced line after line with a latex-clad finger. Sirius found himself unable to move for several moments, simply watching the young woman read through the ancient text, scribbling away what he assumed was the translation without so much as looking at her hand. 

It was only when Y/N’s focus switched from the ancient text to her own notes that she noticed a pair of black combat boots planted at the mouth of the book maze, and her head whipped up to look at the intruder. Sirius and Y/N simply stared at each other for several minutes, Sirius anxiously awaiting Y/N’s reaction to his presence, before Y/N’s shoulders dropped, and the corners of her mouth drew barely upwards.

“Sirius.”

Sirius took the fact that she didn’t seem to despise his very presence as a good sign. “Hi,” he said, and immediately regretted sounding so dense. “I—I brought you these,” he said hastily, an even poorer attempt to rescue the conversation from its already awkward start, and thrust the fistfull of flowers out at Y/N, who huffed out a small giggle. 

“Oh, thank you,” she said simply, rummaging around her desk until she found a small drinking glass filled with water that was probably a day old. She took the flowers from Sirius’s hand—Sirius was struggling more than he had anticipated to keep from hugging the living daylights out of her—and placed them in the makeshift vase before turning back to him. The two stood awkwardly across the small office from each other, the books keeping them from maintaining any real personal space, and Y/N coughed lightly. 

“Can I … can I give you a hug?” 

Sirius blinked dumbly. 

“Ye—of—yeah! Yeah, of course—! Of course.”

Y/N smiled, and the two met in the middle, embracing each other tightly. Sirius sighed into her hair, nose pressed into the crown of her head, and felt his heartbeat calm. They were fine. There was no need to worry—though his throat did swell up slightly when thin fingers found their way over his shoulders and towards the top of his spine. 

Sooner than Sirius would have liked, Y/N pulled away, gazing up at him with a lovely look in her eyes. Now that he had a good look, Sirius began to notice the little changes Y/N had taken on over the years: her hair was, oddly, shorter, as well as choppy, as if she had cut it herself; her eyes were lighter from the sun; the skin at the outer points of her eyes just barely hinted at crows feet. 

“It’s good to see you, Sirius,” Y/N said, lips closing around her beaming smile. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sirius said, much more softly than he had wanted as Y/N stepped out of his arms and resumed her spot at her desk.

“How’s your tour going so far?” she asked as Sirius found a wooden stool and dragged it up to the desk’s side. 

“You know about that?” he said, a sudden pressure in his chest beginning. 

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Sirius, I know I spend all my time on the other end of a book maze—” she motioned to the mass of books he had traversed, “—but I don’t live under a rock.”

Sirius laughed, an embarrassed blush descending on his ears. “Right, right. I mean, I don’t like to assume. You never know.” Y/N nodded in understanding. “But it’s going well. Yeah, it’s fun. Remus has been working on something he won’t show the rest of us—we all think he’s seeing someone on the side—James is finally getting somewhere with Lily—”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Sirius chuckled. “It’s a miracle, truly. We’re all amazed. And … did you hear about the whole deal with Peter?”

Y/N nodded, and Sirius was thankful there was minimal pity in her expression—though there was something he couldn’t quite identify. “How are you all doing after that?”

“Eh, as good as can be expected,” Sirius said with a shrug. “Dorcas’s been on drums for us ever since. She and Marlene are still going strong.”

“Of course they are,” Y/N said with a hint of pride. “The relationships I put together always last.”

Sirius laughed lightly, eyes drifting through the room without really seeing before they landed again on Y/N. 

“And what about you? How’ve you been fairing?”

Y/N shrugged. “Ah, you know, the usual. Helping around the shop, doing some freelance work for the Sorbonne.”

“Mr. Teliska said something about how they don’t pay you enough,” Sirius mentioned, eyeing her with brows raised, and Y/N sighed, irritated. 

“Okay, listen,” she started, and Sirius laughed. 

“Had this conversation a lot now, have you?” he said, and Y/N rolled her eyes. 

“You’ve no idea.” Once Sirius’s giggling subsided, she continued. 

“Ivan thinks that because I’m basically doing research for the Sorbonne, I should be paid as much as a researcher—that I should be paid a salary—but, as I’ve explained to him countless times,”—Sirius began to laugh once again—“I simply don’t have the level of education that the Sorbonne is looking for in their faculty and therefore can’t be paid a faculty salary. I simply don’t have the financial means to go to school again.”

Sirius’ laughter had barely subsided when Y/N was finished, and he nodded understandingly. 

“You know, I could always just give you the money,” he suggested.

Sirius had never heard Y/N laugh so hard in his life. He laughed as well, though to a much lesser extent as he watched her hair bounce through peals of giggles.

“Oh please, Sirius,” Y/N said, delicately wiping a tear from her eye. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is,” Y/N insisted, letting out an incredulous breath. “Sirius, I am absolutely not going to take money from you. And I don’t have to work at the Sorbonne anyway. I’m getting by just fine with what I’ve got.”

“Y/N, life isn’t about getting by, it’s about enjoying yourself,” Sirius said, and Y/N shook her head. “Love, you can’t expect me to not try to help you when I’ve got the means to.” The pet name slipped without Sirius’s permission, but he stood his ground as Y/N sunk further into her chair. He knew her well; at the beginning of their friendship, she would have insisted on refusing, and he would have asked if she would do the same in his position, and she would go silent, and Sirius would have won. But Y/N was the smartest person Sirius knew. She didn’t need to go through the whole conversation to know what would be said.

But Y/N’s mildly defeated look made Sirius’s mind itch uncomfortably; he didn’t want to make the rest of this visit awkward or weird in any way.

“Have you eaten today?” he asked, commandeering the conversation away from whatever it was before. Y/N peered up at him, biting her cheek.

“I had a coffee this morning,” she mumbled, and Sirius’s face fell into a disapproving frown. 

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N.”

“Do you want to get lunch?”

“Will you eat something if we go get lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get lunch.”

Y/N nodded and the two stood, Y/N finding a thin jacket and Sirius standing at the mouth of the book maze as he watched her pack her purse. 

“Ready?” she asked, throwing the strap over her head. Sirius simply nodded, and Y/N drew her wand from her pocket. With a simple wave of the thing, the books blocking the floor between the two and the door flew into the air, some stacking onto other already-precarious piles and others floating close to the ceiling, creating a sort of paper-and-ink trellis under which Y/N walked. Once at the door, Y/N peered back at Sirius, who was looking at the floating books, jaw hanging open. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

[villaim]

nrc students get jobs?!

+ || if part-time jobs were available around campus, what jobs would they have?

ft — all nrc students

genre — slight crack, fluff, headcannons

notes — g/n reader, platonic/romantic, reader is only mentioned in some parts

barista —

lets be real, they wanted to experience a coffee shop romance. so when you just so happened to walk in one day, they stared you down (affectionate) and definitely put their number on the cup. maybe even gave you a free muffin, how generous.

+ CATER. DIAMOND.

nail tech —

+ (writing this as someone who used to work this part time)

having an eye for art and wanting to help the nice lady running the shop, they offered their assistance. they gossip with you while prepping the nails of a very confused customer, what else could they ask for?

+ ROOK, epel (rook dragged him. shat himself when vil struts in for a manicure), lilia

waiter at a dingy chinese restaurant —

+ (this is so awfully specific but hear me out!!)

stumbled upon this restaurant while walking around off-campus. in the end, they offered to help the elderly couple by serving customers! they are now that kid in the back corner doing their homework when business is slow.

+ jamil, trey (reminds him of his family’s bakery somehow)

gardening —

it’s relaxing to them honestly. they probably are already a plant parent so why not add 50 more to their family? do not worry, they already have their names listed and memorized! (and yet they still can’t memorize formulas for their alchemy exam tomorrow.)

+ JACK, malleus (wants to find a friend for gao-gao drakon-kun!!)

MACDONALDS —

+ THIS TURNED INTO A SMALL DRABBLE SO I JUST REPLACED THEY WITH ACE AND ADDED TO THE STORY

strolling into maccies, ace said 4 words. “i need a job.” the cashier looked at him, then behind him to see his emotional support crew (deuce and sebek) with the smuggest look on their face.

working at macdonalds was not as easy as ace thought it was. he had to deal with the long drive threw and stupid customers all at the same time. sebek was immediately kicked off cashier after he drove a whole line of customers away with his megaphone voice.. deuce is the only one doing his job correctly, greeting customers and efficiently taking orders. good job deuce. (ace is screaming at customers in the drive threw.)

epel walks in the next day and orders the whole menu during rush hour just to piss them off. ace quits on the spot.

already has a job —

how efficient of them! avoiding my wrath as usual. kudos to them.

+ azul, jade, floyd, vil, ruggie (is working all these jobs, take a break babe.)

to think that they would be working.. —

you will not catch them dead working until they graduate.

+ leona, idia, kalim, riddle (too focused on studies)

taglist —

@trappolaces @granzreichsgoldenberry @pastelmages @ineligible-indefinitely @ventisaircurrent

want to get on the taglist? send an ask through my ask box or by dm!

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Welcome (*・∀・*)ノ

My name is Yomogi- this is my tumblr for all of my ao3 writings. Rn I'm obsessed with Twisted Wonderland, but I'd like to write for fandoms like Genshin Impact, hypmic, etc. Lots of angst (*・∀-)ｂ

My special interests are in Art History and Literature so I take a lot of inspiration from that ♡

Currently not taking requests perse, but I'm willing to take any commentary or ideas to incorporate into my writing! Commentary always appreciated. I love hearing people's thoughts :)

☆ They/Them ; Queer ; Autistic ☆

Jap 日本語 / Eng OK!

よろしくお願いしゃーす～(っ´▽｀)っ

——————————————————

AO3 Account is Here.

✦·.⋆ Masterlist ⋆.·✦

Twisted Wonderland:

All GN MC!!!

Beloved Thy Name

Sequel (Beloved Gift) (AO3 Link)

Pairing: Lilia x Dullahan MC

Genre: Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending, Oneshot

Summary: Triumphing over your siblings on the human farm situated in the far corners of Briar Valley, you are implanted with the essence of the Tree of Eternity, gaining unmatched abilities in regeneration. When your Warden finds that the experiment is a success, you are promptly sold to the fae army as a weapon of destruction‒ a position you answer to with animal violence, much to the content of your handlers and the fae army, who name you Dullahan, after the myth of the headless reaper. When you come across the infamous Lord Lilia, great commander of the Fae army‒ he takes you under his wing, gifting you morsels of peace even with death on the horizon. You are simply taken with the sweet songs and sugary words which fall from his mouth‒ echoing them in the heart in your chest that did not feel like yours.

MC based off of Dullahan myth (Celtic headless omen of death)

AO3 LINK

Spolia

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 (COMPLETE)

Pairing: Malleus x Light Fae MC ; Parental Mozus Trein x MC

Genre: Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending, Slow Burn

Summary: You wondered why you ever got accepted into NRC but never bothered to look back when the infamous black carriage whisked you away from a place you could never call home. Having been handed an opportunity of freedom, of solitude, of hope- how come you're paralyzed with fear rather than excitement? Your sunny plein air sessions and nightly walks contemplating this has attracted a certain dragon fae with an affinity for your nimble gargoyle sketches and magnificent paintings

MC based off of changelings

AO3 LINK

Pygmalion

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 (COMPLETE)

Pairing: Rook x Pygmalion MC ; Platonic Idia x MC ; Platonic Ortho x MC

Genre: Angst with Happy Ending, Slight Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

MC based off of Pygmalion myth

AO3 LINK

Lasting Spring

Pairing: Vil x Orpheus MC

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Childhood best friends, pining, angst with happy ending

Summary: Great expectations are placed on you, coming from a line of extraordinary poets, bards, and musicians. You fulfill these expectations with ease‒ the lightness of your voice illuminating any room with divine merriment through a swift dance of your fingers on your lyre. Your fame is equally matched with the curse swimming through your family’s blood‒ one which announces death and tragedy to your lovers, unless they are your true love‒ your soulmate. However there is no assurance that soulmates truly exist, only the madness that comes as an endless thirst for it. So you extinguish that thirst, settling for quick, messy flings‒ much to the dismay of your childhood friend, Vil Scoenheit. You lament your own tragedy through woeful verses, masked in the sweltering felicity of your music. Vil always trails that sorrow back to you, wishing to embrace you in his warmth to take it away, even for a moment. But the members of your family who had found love unobstructed by the gods were great lovers to heroes, kings, queens, and warriors‒ who was he, seen by most as a villain, to taint that possibility for you?

MC based off of Orpheus myth

AO3 LINK

Ineffable Bloom

Pairing: Azul Ashengrotto x Siren Mute MC

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Maternal angst/Mother wound, childhood friends to lovers, angst with happy ending

Summary: Despite your status as siren, there are not many words that reach those around you anymore, voice now muted and marred from the surgeries you have endured to remove the carnations that once suffocated your throat. But you don't mind it, serving quietly as the gardener of Night Raven College, making do with a notepad and pen when necessary. You are pleased to find your childhood friend, Azul, now attends the school, who spontaneously hires you for the flower arrangements he decides to decorate in his lounge with. There's little hope you bear with the silent poetry you weave with each meticulously placed flower, only an ache which tumbles over you like the ceaseless seas. However, Azul is not deaf to this song you have sealed in your bouquets, having cherished the morsels of sweetness in your childhoods where you shared the silent language of each flower.

MC based off of siren

AO3 LINK

Merciful Crusade

Pairing: Jamil x Shikigami MC

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, angst, healing, slight enemies to lovers

Summary: The life of a shikigami, or a ceremonial servant spirit was a threadbare one. The small world you scarcely lived consisted of hard, earth‒packed walls framed tightly against a small cedar cell, illuminated only by the lonely starlight during your sleepless nights. Despite your human body, you’re almost certain you’ve never felt the blood move and warm your body in such a way that would indicate that there had ever been a human heart‒ having spent too much time gilded with a hardened iron face to even feel it if it had been there. Jamil‒ who untethers you from the spell that binds you to your onmiyoji master‒ becomes a peculiar mirror in your new life that reflects your choked breaths and measured footsteps. It never bothered you when your own body smothered what was left of your vitality‒ but when you watch Jamil from a distance, knowing the way he classifies each movement, the strangle of his muscles‒ something inside you aches. You don’t know why.

MC based off of Shikigami

AO3 LINK

Honey Lemon Crescendo

Pairing: Trey Clover x Vampire MC

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, angst, healing, friends to lovers

Summary: The gods should have made you better, so that they could love you.  The days you pray for the abolishment of your abhorrent form are rare in the centuries you have lived since your family's death, and your turning. Sharpened claws and teeth, the hellfire of your gaze are concealed for your own convenience, you tell yourself, especially as you enroll into NRC. The tonic of human affairs rarely interested you, yet when you find the truly curious case of Trey Clover, someone who is made only of that plain sort, you cannot help but to promise yourself one conversation, some several hours of the thousand thousand you have lived to taste what it is like to be treated, and be human again. But you're a fool, and a hypocrite‒ you find yourself breaking that promise over, and over, and over. Your fragile resolve frays at every sunbeam smile, every ringing laughter of his. 

MC Based off of Vampires

AO3 Link

Orchid Child, Dandelion Child

Pairing: Riddle Rosehearts & Sibling MC (not a romantic pairing)

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, sibling healing

Summary: This is going to take after Riddle’s overblot, and short and sweet. The term orchid child/dandelion child refer to children who may have very specific/different needs for their development, and those who need less accommodations or specific requirements for their development, respectively. They may grow up in the same environment but everyone’s needs are different, one child may have different coping mechanisms than the other. MC is heavily implied to have dyslexia, ADHD/Autism, and OCD (the latter two of which are often comorbid)

AO3 Link