This corner of the internet is strictly focused on Twisted Wonderland scenarios and headcanons. Crossovers or pieces focused on other fandoms will not be accepted.
All characters are aged up to be 18+
If you're a minor, please, do not interact with me.
Requests may contain a maximum of 3 characters. Any requests for scenarios with more than 3 characters will be ignored.
The requests can include any character of the cast that isn't a child. Requests that include Ortho, Cheka or Gino will be deleted.
I am open about writing angst.
The sender shall specify the sex of the reader. Requests without specifications will be considered GN.
Please show basic decency when making requests. While I do accept scenarios containing Yandere tropes, requests for rape will be ignored.
I will not write about any kind of watersports or scat fetishes, age play or threesomes envolving related characters (Diasomnia included).
Be respectful to the writer.
The requested characters will be written as AMAB.
If gendered, the reader will be interpreted as cisgender unless specified the transexuality.
If a request is too specific or doesn't please me, I have all the right to delete it.
You're welcome to request psychological analyses, but please note that they follow a specific set of guidelines:
I will not discuss the three taboo paraphilias: pedophilia, zoophilia and necrophilia.
Please limit your request to one character per post.
These analyses take time and depth, so I kindly ask for your patience and politeness.
If you have a specific headcanon, feel free to share it! Iāll explore traits that support or challenge it, drawing primarily (but not exclusively) from the DSM-5 and relevant psychological theories.
If my interpretation doesn't align with your headcanon, thatās absolutely okay. Since we're working within the realm of fiction, youāre free to believe what resonates with you - thereās no harm in that.
Please do not use my posts for self-diagnosis. If you have personal concerns, I strongly encourage you to consult a licensed mental health professional in your region.
Wow, it really is annoying trying to find a +18 TWST server just to make friends. I only talk about TWST with my own friend group. On Twitter there are some, but theyāre full of proshippers and people who will literally stone you for not shipping incest š¤š¤
Is it really that hard to be a normal person, or to be someone 18+ who doesnāt have the same ideas as a puriteen teenager?
...
I recently ended up finding a pretty decent 18+ server - however, I havenāt really had enough time to properly chat there yet.
But I do agree with you. Based on personal experience, I can say that this fandom tends to be very all-or-nothing. Some TWST fans are incredibly sweet and kindā¦ while others will say you should be on a police watchlist for writing smut fanfics of characters who have been aged up to 18+.
Surprisingly, Iāve never had issues with darkshippers/proshippers. All of my interactions with them have been quite positive - theyāve always been respectful enough not to share details of scenarios that made me uncomfortable. That said, when a ship involves themes I personally find too disturbing (for example, Lilia x Silver or Leechcest), I simply block the person and move on with my life.
These days, I only talk to a few people in the fandom. Still, I feel much more comfortable focusing on the quality of my mutuals rather than the quantity. I enjoy being around people who understand the difference between fiction and reality, who sit somewhere in the middle - between puritans and darkfic readers whose tastes I personally donāt find appropriate.
I just wanted to say holy shit, you write masterpieces. Like how does one write smut so beautifully. Adore your work <3
Thank you so much! Every time I receive comments like this, my heart feels a little warmer. Iām truly grateful for all the support, it means more to me than I can properly put into words.
January was a very busy and exhausting month, so I didnāt have any time to work on requests. But once Iām feeling a bit less drained, Iāll be sure to share more pieces.
Your writing is SO amazing, the first time I read one of your fics I had to stop browsing for a while afterwards to digest it because I wasn't gonna be able to focus on anything. Sometimes my brain still reminds me of some of the sentences in the specific fic. I am changed. This was a spiritual experience.
First of all, Iād like to apologize for taking so long to answer such a sweet comment.
Second, thank you so much. You have no idea how much messages like that make me happy. Hearing that people truly enjoy my fanfics always makes my day better - for some reason, it makes me really happy to know there are people out there who understand the passion behind my work and appreciate it.
Whyā¦ why must the universe conspire against me like this? Why finding adults-only TWST servers needs to be such an impossible task? I love this fandom with my whole heart and would kill to ramble with other fansā¦ but no minors. Ever. šš
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WAS GONNA SEND THIS AT 12 AM BUT IM NOT STRONG ENOUGH FOR THAT!!!!! THANKS FOR YOUR WRITING AND OYUR BLOG AND FOR BEING SO AWEOSOME THIS YEAR!!!!
:DDDDD
I'm so sorry, I forgot to answer this. I was so wasted during January 1st, haha... But thank you, Pumpkin. You are such an amazing reader. Thank you for all the support and Happy New Year!
Reading the news has been making me scared lately. They really are trying to turn Latin America into the U.S.A's backyard, huh?
I have so many things to say about recent events... however, I know this isn't the proper place to express my political views. Let's just hope the orange fascist cools down and stops trying to act like an imperialist piece of shit.
2025 was truly a wild ride. In the middle of the stress of everyday life, I decided to start writing fanfiction - and it turned out to be one of the best decisions Iāve ever made. Even with all the chaos around us, the rise of fascism, my brief battle with cancer and the daily negativity Iāve had to face, this year was still kind to me in its own way.
I met so many wonderful people and had so much fun writing for this fandom, which Iām incredibly happy to see growing more and more every day. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, dear reader. Thank you for being here, for following me and for taking the time to read my words.
Happy New Year. I wish everyone a beautiful and gentle 2026. š
2025 was truly a wild ride. In the middle of the stress of everyday life, I decided to start writing fanfiction - and it turned out to be one of the best decisions Iāve ever made. Even with all the chaos around us, the rise of fascism, my brief battle with cancer and the daily negativity Iāve had to face, this year was still kind to me in its own way.
I met so many wonderful people and had so much fun writing for this fandom, which Iām incredibly happy to see growing more and more every day. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, dear reader. Thank you for being here, for following me and for taking the time to read my words.
Happy New Year. I wish everyone a beautiful and gentle 2026. š
Hello! If it's alright with you, I'd like to request something nsfw with Lilia and a fem! reader, though g/n reader is fine too! Maybe something like both of them feeling very needy and desperate for the other after taking some edibles (<- if that makes you uncomfortable though, it's fine if you change that to them using an aphrodisiac)? Want it to be as messy, yet sweet as possible too, but only if that's alright with you! šš I really loved reading your other Lilia stuff and the analysis you did on him!
magicis herba
Content Warning: Lilia x F!Reader, edibles, sex, high sex, MDNI
Characters Count:Ā 9834
Art is born of love yesā¦ but also of rage. It rises from happiness only to collapse, moments later, into the ruin of sadness. Art is not a balance; it is excess. It is the fever that seizes the soul when language becomes too small for what one feels. Art, above all, is feeling - raw, inconvenient, often unbearable: just like the wound one insists on reopening simply to prove it was once real. And thus, when there is no feeling behind the words an author types - when phrases are assembled like cadavers stitched together by arithmetic, when sentences are vomited forth by obedient codes that mimic a pulse without ever knowing breath - there is no art. There is only a pale reflection staring back from a cracked mirror, convinced it is alive because it resembles the living.
I dare say this is not creation, but imitation. A mechanical parody of life, a copy that longs, pathetically, to reproduce the devotion poets feel toward their own suffering, toward the ink they spill as if it were blood. And it fails - inevitably, tragically - because devotion cannot be programmed, nor despair simulated without having once knelt before it. How can a machine be human? I do not know. And perhaps the very question already condemns the attempt.
Yet I know this: there are moments - brief, violent, unforgettable - in which humanity reveals itself with such brutal clarity that no imitation could ever hope to touch it. Moments that could be framed, frozen, and still throb with meaning centuries later. Like the way Lilia kissed your lips. Not tenderly, not innocently - but dripping with lust. With that delicious cruelty that belongs only to those who feel too much. He bit your lower lip just enough to wound, just enough to draw a thin, crimson line - an injury made from carnal wish. The blood did not fall by accident; it was summoned, coaxed forth like a confession forced from a reluctant mouth. And in that instant - so painfully human, so terribly alive - there was more art than in a thousand flawless paragraphs devoid of soul. Because art does not fear imperfection. It requires it. It needs shaken hands, reckless hearts, and lips that know how to wound as well as heal.
That is what art is. Not the echo of life - but its scar.
Ohā¦ how your passion so shamelessly resembled art. I do not know what treacherous faculty of my mind insists on calling poetry the way the faeās nails dig into your waist - with no hesitation, no mercy, as though your body were marble and he its desperate sculptor. I cannot explain why this gesture, so primitive and instinctual, awakens in me the same admiration one feels before a well-wrought verse. Perhaps it is because beauty, like violence, is often born of excess. I do not know what persuades me that the way you both lean toward one another - unsteady, intoxicated and feverish - searching for kisses that taste of sweetness and delirium, of forbidden indulgence and reckless hunger, is something to be admired. There is something indecently honest in it, something that mocks restraint angels hold. You kiss as though the world has already ended, as though tomorrow has been denied to you. And I, shamefully lucid, confess that I envy such oblivion.
Nor do I know why I - this witness, this uninvited conscience lurking - derive a perverse pleasure from observing how your hips find one another with embarrassing precision while clothes still cover your own intimacy, how your mouths cling together, joined by saliva and the faint metallic memory of blood. I should avert my eyes. I should recoil. And yet I remain, captive to the spectacle, like a sinner who recognizes hell and still leans closer to feel its warmth. I call your act shameful. I call you both disgusting - lost in lust, drowned in a carnal passion, stripped of dignity by love so intense it forgets how to apologize. And yet my condemnation rings hollow, for I am no saint. No angel watches from this corner. I am complicit the moment I continue to look, the moment I name what I see as beautiful instead of obscene.
Perhaps that is the truth I resist most. Perhaps it is precisely because you are too human - aching, desiring, foolishly sincere - that I find beauty in you. Because humanity, when stripped of pretense, is never clean. It stains, yearns.
Your hands seemed no longer your own, guided instead by the delicious haze left behind by the cannabis - the shared edibles you had tasted earlier now blooming warmly through your veins, lightening your body, softening the world at its edges. Laughter escaped you in quiet, breathless giggles, slipping between tender kisses as naturally as a sigh. Even joy, in such a state, felt like a transgression. Your fingers wandered with feigned innocence, brushing against Liliaās frame as though by accident, though both of you knew better. They lingered, insistent, betraying a desire to reveal what he so carefully concealed beneath the thin fabric of his shirt: a body narrow and delicate, almost fragile, one that seemed entirely incompatible with the legend of an ancient war general.Ā
His eyes showed no surprise. The fae, after all, knew humanity well - its hunger, its clumsy courage, its yearning to be seen and touched despite the consequences. He watched you with the patience of someone who had witnessed countless falls and never truly condemned any of them. And oh, how unbearably endearing were your efforts to tempt him from grace; the careful touches, the hesitant boldness, the challenge in your gaze as you invited him to descend with you into sin.Ā
It is no wonder that dull souls despise the effects of such an herb. Those who fear it do so not because it distorts the self, but because it strips away the tedious illusion of control. Under its influence, one does not feel less oneself - one feels too much. The body loosens its rigid obedience to reason; the mind exhales, gravity softens and the world grows warm, pliable, indulgent, as though reality has decided, for once, to be kind. You felt lighter - dangerously so - as if your limbs were no longer anchored to the floor but drifting through a honeyed fog. Happiness crept in unannounced, not sharp or triumphant, but slow and enveloping, a languid certainty that everything, even sin, was momentarily forgiven. You were lost - not confused, but submerged - drowned gently in intensity, where sensation eclipsed thought and desire no longer required justification.
Everything grew louder within you. Your heart announced itself with each beat, heavy and insistent, as though it wished to escape your chest. The scent of his perfume lingered thickly in the air - sweet, resinous, intoxicating - clinging to your senses until breathing felt like an intimate act. Even the smallest sounds seemed charged with meaning: the rustle of fabric, the hush of breath, the subtle betrayal of a sigh. And then there were Liliaās hands. They moved with patience, guided by curiosity, seeking your form as though learning it for the first time. Each touch seemed designed to expose you not merely to his eyes, but to your own awareness, as if your body were being translated into a language only the two of you could understand.
And so that language evolved, growing louder with each shared breath, each pause. It swelled until silence became unbearable, until distance felt like an offense neither of you could tolerate. You were drawn together not by reason, but by that familiar, reckless gravity that lust so effortlessly commands: the need to close the space, to fuse warmth with warmth, pulse with pulse, genitalia with genitalia. You connected as though separation were an error to be corrected, surrendering yourselves to the euphoric tremor that always accompanies desire. It was not gentle, nor entirely tender - but it was sincere. A collision of hips rather than an embrace, charged with the urgency to reach such orgasmic sensation.
His mouth found the vulnerable curve of your breast, lingering there as though it were holy. He kissed you slowly at first before teeth followed - brief, deliberate marks left behind like punctuation in a sentence neither of you dared to finish aloud. Each bite was filled with hunger not merely for flesh, but for love - something that might quiet the ache beneath his skin. His closeness was frantic, as though he were searching within you for a feeling long buried, perhaps long dead inside him.
And you allowed it. Not out of mercy, nor innocence - but because of that near-painful need to feel alive, you recognized something achingly human. And for a moment, you were his shelter - accepting gladly that delicious piece of meat that, undeniably, brought you pleasure. Soft sounds escaped your lips, those fragile notes you attempted to silence by biting down on your own mouth, as though purity was a virtue worth preserving. Yet why should such a melody be censored? Why deny him these fragile notes shaped by the sensation of his member bringing you pleasure? There was a kind of honesty in those sounds, a truth no carefully chosen word could ever rival. Why would you deprive him of the song he cherished most? Liliaās crimson eyes lingered upon you, drinking in the expression carved upon your face - an expression molded by pleasure, by something dangerously close to trust. There was no mockery in his gaze - only fascination.
And then he closed the distance.
Your lips met his, not as an interruption, but as a continuation - two voices joining to complete the same unfinished phrase as his hips collided with yours, fucking your senses numb. The kiss did not silence you; it transformed the sound, drew it inward, shared it between you. In that brief union, breath and breath tangled together and whatever shame had lingered dissolved into something that didnāt exist anymore and wouldnāt even dare to recognize until the night was over.
Ok Iāll ask here so everyone can knowā¦ whatās the family constellation method?
Family Constellation is basically a therapeutic theory that says a lot of our emotional issues, bad habits and relationship problems donāt really start with us. Instead, theyāre supposedly passed down from unresolved trauma or āimbalancesā in our family history.
The idea became popular because of Bert Hellinger, and his views were heavily shaped by his time as a soldier in Nazi Germany - which already raises some red flags. He talked a lot about something he called the āOrders of Love,ā which are these rigid family hierarchies where children are expected to submit to their parents and wives to their husbands. In his view, the family system matters more than individual well-being or morality.
Because of that, his ideas often slide into victim-blaming. For example, he believed that victims of sexual violence should submit to their abusers as a way of āhonoringā the family bond and keeping the system intact. He also claimed that incest (specifically between a father and daughter) often happens because the wife supposedly āwithholdsā herself from her husband. According to him, the daughter then āsteps inā to take the motherās place. This shifts responsibility away from the abuser and puts it on the victim, whoās treated as if sheās responsible for maintaining some kind of family balance.
So within this theory, if you resist a ābad fate,ā like being born into an abusive family, youāre framed as the problem. Youāre not suffering because of abuse - youāre suffering because youāre fighting against the so-called āOrders of Love.ā
