That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
this genuinely makes me so mad. some of you really don’t deserve fanfics. at all.
comment like this, besides the ai witch hunt, is one of the reasons why fanfic writers don’t want to post their fics anymore.
we write for free. whenever we can. whenever we have time. whenever we’re not too exhausted by life and responsibilities. we write for our own enjoyment. as a hobby. not a job. we update whenever we can. whenever we want. we do not owe anybody anything.
one of my favorite fics was updated after literal 13 years. but the point is that fanfic writers do not owe you anything. whether a fic was abandoned forever or updated after a decade or two is not something you as a stranger has a say in.
stop being entitled. stop treating fanfic writer as a content farm or a machine that produces contents for your enjoyment.
we’re not your employees. we’re not your slaves. we’re kind enough to share what we write for our own enjoyment with you for free. so either respect and appreciate us or be quiet.
sometimes I’m reminded that there are still people who don’t know ao3 was literally created by incest shippers — and the site’s sole purpose is to 1. be completely against censorship and 2. host all kinds of dark, taboo fics that are banned on other platforms — and the first ever fic that was posted on ao3 was a fic about an incest ship from supernatural.
you are in the house that was created by freaks. for freaks (affectionate). every disgusting thing you can think of is rightfully allowed and welcomed on ao3, because they are exactly the reasons why ao3 was created in the first place.
ao3 was created because its creators got tired of censorship, they got tired of dark and taboo fics getting banned on pro-censorship platforms, and they wanted a place that was safe for ALL FICS THAT WERE DARK AND TABOO.
ao3’s main principle is being against censorship and being proship / profic.
there are some things in fiction that make me uncomfortable, but instead of shaming people who are just minding their own business and not harming anyone in real life, I choose to curate my own internet experience by blocking/muting what I don’t want to see. ao3 has excellent tagging system, so instead of being a bitch, use their tagging system properly and you won’t see the things you don’t want to see.
it’s your job to curate what you see. it’s not other people’s jobs or responsibilities to censor themselves for your personal comfort. the world does not revolve around you.
also you cannot censor “only the things you personally hate” without expecting everything else, that isn’t of conservative beliefs, to be censored too. because censorship is a slippery slope and a fascist tool. I promise you there are people who think “why do tags for queer love even exist on ao3? they’re grooming children”.
if you allow the things that you hate to be censored — because someone with enough power gets to control what other people can and cannot create/consume, it will not stop at the things that you hate.
Can I get some Adaman x chubby!reader pretty please? 🙏🙏
Reader feels insecure about how she’s not skinny like other girls, and Adaman the Green Flag reassures her with some body worship?
(doesn’t need to be super smutty. kinda just want some comfort but also wanna feel hot yk?)
Adaman the Green Flag… Anon I will quite literally combust I love this idea so much
CW: swearing, body dysmorphia
Usually, Anthe’s work was perfect. Every hand-sewed kimono fit you perfectly… except for this one. It was an impromptu gift from Adaman, hoping to surprise you before the upcoming festival. It had been a while since you last saw Anthe in person, and the measurements she has are from a few months ago. Your wilderness lifestyle required you to be both strong and bulky, and apparently your measurements needed to be retaken. The top is tight around your shoulders and biceps; the accompanying pants are tight around your waist and the banded bottoms, and your ass filled out the back of them... quite nicely. The set wasn’t so tight that it didn’t fit, but you’d always preferred a looser fit. You’d grown to dislike the feeling of fabric on your skin. Drawing attention to your figure, whether intentional or not, has pulled several crude comments from people in the past. Your memories are lost, but the body keeps the score. And now, it’s reminding you with an uncomfortable wave of heat and nausea.
Naturally, Adaman wanted to see you in it right away. His smile is as wide as it can be when you step out of his bathroom. He’s almost too excited to notice your pale, uncertain expression. You’re avoiding his gaze, too. It takes Adaman a while to notice what you’ve been getting caught in. He’s never made a negative comment about your body, but he’s learning that you still can’t help but compare.
“Do I… look okay?” Your voice conveys no confidence, and you see something serious flash through his eyes.
“You’re as beautiful as always.” Adaman’s visibly ogling you, he felt the color palette complimented your completion perfectly. His eyes are sharp and intent, taking in his favorite details. A quiet, wavering hum leaves you as your skin starts to feel wrong.
“Stop staring. Please?” Tears welled up in your eyes, the burn growing too strong to bear.
“I knew those colors would be perfect on you.” Somehow, he still hasn’t noticed.
“Yeah... the colors. The best part.” Your voice is shaky, feeling heat and nausea rise in your body. Adaman tilts his head and furrows his brows. When your voice cracks, he’s by your side in an instant.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like it?” He leans back, quickly scanning you up and down before cupping your cheek.
“No, it’s- it’s not the outfit. It’s me.” Tears start to fall as the pain slips off your tongue. “I just- I look so…” Several words come to mind, but a sob catches you before you can fuel your own lies. You don’t notice the subtle way Adaman spins you, turning you to face the mirror with his handsome figure right behind you.
“Beautiful? Radiant?” Adaman is peering over your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re resilient, healthy, strong, and so fucking sexy.” Adaman pauses, giving you a gentle squeeze and holding that ever-fond expression. You avert your gaze from the mirror with an agonized look. He looked so beautiful, and then…
“You don’t see the way the other girls look at me.” In your mind, you see their stares, hear their laughs.
“I don’t see other women at all, sweetheart.” Adaman said it without a second thought, and the lack of hesitation has heat rising in your cheeks. “You’re the most divine being I’ve ever seen… and you have Almighty Palkia in your pocket.” He sounds completely genuine; he had a knack for flirting, whether he meant to or not. A few moments of silence pass as Adaman holds you in his arms. “I think they’re jealous.” He sounds all too mischievous, squeezing you as if to hold you still. “They’ll never get this close to their Clan Leader.” His head dips, tucking into your neck. “He’s taken.” Adaman’s head turns to the side, and he presses a kiss to the spot just below your ear. “By the most beautiful woman ever.”
“Adaman.” There’s still an ache in your chest, but his words are sneaking their way in. A smile starts to grow, despite your best efforts. The warmth of his care is bubbling up around the sharp edges of your pain, softening and easing the static in your mind.
“Imagine that, hm? Waiting for this strapping young man to decide who will have his heart. And then, get this, an angel falls from the sky. Immaculately gorgeous.”
“Stop!” You whine with a giggle, lightly slapping at his arm; unsure of what to do with his appreciation.
“A savior, chosen by the Almighty.” He’s far too determined now. Adaman’s words tickle your neck, arms tightening around you at the sound of your laughter. “And not only is this angel breathtakingly strong, she also swipes the Clan Leader right off his feet.” You scoff, hoping he can’t see your flush from his place against your neck. “Imagine having a crush on me for years, and then the sky opens up and drops…” There’s a pause, almost long enough to make you wonder if he’s forgotten. “…The best thing to ever happen to Hisui.” It’s easy for Adaman to get lost in your significance. You’d changed his entire world, chose to save it, and now chose to share that beauty and light with him. “…And to me.”
Fresh tears burn your eyes at his unabashed truth. His sincerity brought stability to your foundation. You could feel, through Adaman’s slow breaths on your neck and arms around your waist, the things he needed you to know. There’s nothing wrong with you, he closes his eyes and tucks his nose into the crook of your neck, you’re the beacon that guides me home, he takes in an unexpectedly shaky breath, you give me the life I didn’t know I needed, tears roll down your chest, but these ones aren’t yours. Once you notice, you crane your neck to confirm your suspicions.
“Adaman? Are you crying?” Your body shifts, trying to move under his face and cup his cheeks. He hums some form of denial, straightening his back.
“No.” Liar. He shakes his head, keeping his face out of reach. Adaman’s arms tighten around you again, lifting you suddenly. You squeal, having forgotten how easily he makes you feel weightless. He spins you with ease, quickly carrying you to his bed. Adaman is stronger than he looks, flopping you onto his bed and slapping a pillow in your face—so you can’t see his—before getting in next to you. Your complaint and following high laughter is muffled by the pillow, fighting to get it off your face before Adaman can tuck you into his chest where you can’t see. He’s faster, a warm palm pressing your cheek into his even warmer chest. You try to push back, now purely out of spite, but his other arm is tight around you and holding you in place. After a brief struggle, you concede with a dramatic sigh, and his grip loosens. The Butterfrees in your stomach—brought about by your feet leaving the ground—flew South as you remembered Adaman’s strength.
“My beautiful (Y/N).” His voice has evened out, and he shifts to kiss your forehead. “You were given to me… perfect as you are. How lucky I am to be graced by your divinity.” Slowly, Adaman lets you lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s loving, earnest, and still hurting. “Every moment with you is a blessing.”
“Your eyeliner’s smudged.” You quip, feeling shy under the warmth of his sincerity. Adaman rolls his eyes, but he can’t hold back a goofy smile. Your cheek hits his chest as his palm forces you back down. Laughter leaves you, thoroughly muffled by Adaman’s chest, and you can feel him holding back laughter of his own. He’ll worship you every day until you see the truth. And then, he’ll worship you some more.
Wrap Myself Inside Your Arms (I Cannot Rest) – Corbeau x OC (Èglantine Sycamore) part 2!!
Now with smut (and a cameo from Philippe!!)
Enjoy ✨️
As if he could sense her mood, Corbeau often materialised at his wife’s side. Today, she was hiding out in his office, the lights low. Scolipede was curled up and dozing in the corner in the massive bed Corbeau had bought for it. Èglantine ’s Zorua, Absol and Pumpkaboo were piled in a heap in the other bed, because Pumpkaboo seemed to think it was also a wolf. Her Aeigslash, ever loyal, hovered within arm’s reach and floated closer at the new movement. Corbeau heard her questioning chitter at his presence, but paid the ghost type no mind. He was used to his wife’s brood hanging (and floating) about.
“Hello, darling. What are you doing the dark? Headache?”
Èglantine groaned into her arms, head down on the desk. She looked up at Corbeau, barely seeing his outline in the darkness of the room. Her Chandelure floated in the far corner, the only thing giving off a lot of light.
“Not today, your grunts are driving me up the wall.”
“And why are they only mine today?” Corbeau asked, pulling Èglantine up and into his arms. “Docteur and Monsieur Rust Syndicate operate in this office, chèrie.”
Èglantine snorted a laugh. “They’re only yours when they’re annoying, ‘Beau.”
“Well… I’ve just finished my last meeting. We can let Philippe take the rest and go lay in bed,” Corbeau offered. “Maybe a little bit of TV? I saw a new series of the Real Housewives of Kalos has started.”
Èglantine agreed. She had a much better idea to distract her from her headache.
…
The city was not asleep, Lumiose never truly slept, but it was hushed at this hour. The Syndicate’s affairs were handled for the night. No meetings were waiting. No alarms hummed in the walls. For once, the master suite belonged only to them. It had been months since their wedding, but the thrill hadn’t worn off yet. Èglantine stood near the bed, framed by lamplight and shadow, wearing a plum-coloured robe that softened the sharp lines of her usual silhouette. It suited her – rich and crimson, complementing the darker streaks in her flame hair almost perfectly. Beneath it, something new waited, something she had selected with the same care she gave to blades and contracts. Something she knew Corbeau would like.
Corbeau sat on the bed, lounging topless. He was savouring a glass of something amber and sweet, eyes fixed on the sway of his wife’s hips as she approached from the bathroom. Èglantine let the robe fall open as she sauntered towards him. He took her face in his hands when she sat beside him, thumbs brushing the slope of her jaw, smoothing over the skin that only he was allowed to touch.
“My dearest wife, now where did you get this? Last I checked Lumiose doesn’t have a boutique like that…”
Èglantine allowed herself to be pulled into his arms. She smirked up at Corbeau for once, pressing a teasing kiss to his palm.
“The holonet has many wonders, ‘Beau.”
Corbeau snorted softly, dropping his hands to loosen the tie of her robe with unhurried care, unwrapping Èglantine properly. The plum fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled onto the floor, forgotten instantly. His hands followed, reverent, sliding over her curves and the fabric that highlighted his favourite things. His mouth brushed her temple, her jaw, the place beneath her ear that made her fingers tighten in his hair. He guided her back onto the bed, the sheets cool beneath their skin, his weight following. Corbeau pressed a kiss to her throat, just above where bruises often bloomed. He tugged Èglantine onto his lap, fingers unclasping the bra.
“It’s very pretty, chérie, but I like what’s under there more.”
Èglantine rolled her eyes, pressing her bare chest to his. She ground her hips against him, pouting at the barrier of both their underwear as Corbeau’s fingers settled on her tits, squeezing and pinching. Èglantine tugged on his hair harder as Corbeau’s mouth joined his hands. He nipped at one breast, pinching at the other, free hand reaching into Èglantine’s silky underwear, teasing her clit. Èglantine fought back a moan, arching into him.
“Take them off, ‘Beau, please. Need you.”
He licked and sucked a little while longer, content to torture the little bud. He ignored the whine of his name from his wife’s lips, pleading. Still, Corbeau was hungry for more than playing with her clit, and soon gave Èglantine what she wanted, groaning as she sat herself on his cock. She worked her way, slowly, down his length, letting out a delighted sound as Corbeau bottomed out, bullying his hips up into her.
“Come on, gorgeous”, Corbeau urged, “come ride me properly, sit on your throne.”
Èglantine was very happy to oblige
…
The bedroom door flew open, slamming hard against the wall. Philippe looked at his boss, lying on his back, hips half turned to the side. He was naked from the waist up, the sheet pooling on his hips. Èglantine lay on her stomach, head resting on Corbeau's chest rather than the pillow, sound asleep. She had a leg thrown over Corbeau, and he had a hand stroking her bare back. Blessedly for Philippe, Corbeau was awake. He shifted up at the noise, glancing down at his wife to see if she had stirred. Not yet, thankfully for them both.
"Keep your fucking voice down, took a strong dose of painkillers to get her comfortable and she's not long asleep."
So, Èglantine was in pain again, then. For as long as Philippe had known her, Èglantine had suffered with pain. He knew between Lysandre and Corbeau, everything that was available had been tried at least once. These new meds blessedly made her drowsy too, and helped her frequent headaches.
"There's a situation, boss. At the docks."
Corbeau's face darkened. "How bad?"
"Fighting, bad. Officers are getting called, we need to wash our hands of a few grunts."
Corbeau glanced down at his sleeping wife, sighing. He ran a hand through his messy hair and grabbed his glasses from the side table.
"And you need me because..."
"Some of the grunts are old Team Flare. Èglantine's recruitment. You know how that'll look if they go down."
At the mention of her name, Èglantine stirred. She shifted, already reaching for the sheet, dragging it up with a scowl that promised murder later. The skin under her eyes was bruised by lack of sleep. Her skin was pale and face tight.
“You burst into my bedroom,” she muttered, squinting at the light, “during the one hour this city leaves us alone. Putain de merde, Philippe, have you never heard of knocking?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t urgent,” Philippe said quickly. “I swear.”
Corbeau exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead briefly to Èglantine’s shoulder, mouthing a kiss as a silent apology – a promise to finish this later, before pulling back. He reached for his shirt and a pair of slacks, the persona snapping back into place even as Èglantine glared, furious and sleepy.
Philippe cleared his throat softly. “I can… wait outside.”
“No,” Corbeau said. “Go call who’s available to the office. I’ll be there in two minutes. Let me put some trousers on.”
He turned to Èglantine, who reached up and caught Corbeau by the collar, pulling him down just long enough to kiss him.
“Next time,” she murmured against his mouth, “tell Philippe to be quieter.”
Corbeau huffed a quiet laugh, forehead resting against hers for a moment before forcing himself away. He fastened his trousers before adjusting his coat. He fastened the last button, already folding the peace of the bedroom away behind a mask of authority as he stepped into the corridor. He did not look back. It was harder to leave if he kept looking at what he was leaving behind.
Behind him, Èglantine sat on the edge of the bed, the sheets twisted around her. The lamplight caught the edge of the discarded plum robe on the floor; the lace she’d chosen with such care was now nothing more than a reminder of interruption. It would be hours before she fell back asleep now, if at all. Corbeau heard her swear softly in three languages, smiling to himself as he descended the stairs. He knew his wife too well – knew that she would pace now. If the pain allowed her, she would prowl the room like a caged thing, irritation sharpening. She would try to distract herself, fail, and grow increasingly aware of every nerve ending that caused her pain.
Thankfully for them both, the problem was resolved faster than it might otherwise have been. Corbeau was determined to be quick when motivated.
When he finally returned to the headquarters, the halls were quiet again. Lamps low. Guards posted. The city subdued. Corbeau pushed the suite door open to see Èglantine standing near the window now. Her arms were crossed, her robe back on and her posture rigid. She didn’t turn, but she shifted her weight off her better hip when he entered. Pretending she was fine, then.
“You took your time,” she said, still fixed on the view from the window.
She had a heating pad beside her, discarded. It had either not helped, or she had grown frustrated with herself needing it, embarrassed that it did indeed help. Corbeau was willing to bet it was the first, given she was pretending to be fine.
“I came as soon as I could,” Corbeau replied, closing the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
He crossed the room without another word and slid his hands around her waist from behind, pulling her back against him. She stiffened for half a second out of principle and then melted with a quiet, traitorous sound Corbeau knew she would deny later. He knew she was lying but said nothing. Èglantine would talk in her own time. She always did. He kissed up her neck softly, feeling her relax into his touch.
“How,” he asked, voice low and steady, “can I make it up to you?”
“Kneel for me?”
Corbeau did not hesitate. If that was what his wife wanted, then Arceus he would give it to her. He would give her anything. He forced himself to let Èglantine go, missing the warmth of her in his arms, before lowering himself to the floor before her. The movement was unhurried, deliberate. Not submission born of weakness. No, this was a choice. Trust: the most dangerous kind of intimacy they shared.
Èglantine exhaled softly, amused. “Good,” she murmured.
She stepped closer, the hem of her robe brushing his shoulders. For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, looking down at him. Then she lifted one foot and rested it lightly beside his knee. Corbeau’s hands settled at her calf, warm and steady. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her thigh, just above the knee. Another, higher this time, his mouth tracing devotion rather than hunger. Èglantine’s breath caught despite herself.
“You do realise,” she said, voice thinner now, “this is not all you’re going to do for my forgiveness, ‘Beau.”
“I know,” Corbeau replied softly, lips brushing her skin again. “Nothing is ever too much, not for you.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, fingers threading into his hair. He stayed there, patient, attentive, reminding her with every quiet touch that he had returned – that he always would. That whatever the city stole from them, he would repay in ways that mattered. Corbeau took his time. He always did when he wanted something to last. His mouth lingered where he’d already been, then traced a slow, deliberate path upward, kisses pressed with care rather than urgency. Èglantine's breath changed, a quiet hitch she tried to swallow. Then another. Her fingers tightened in his hair, no longer holding him merely in place, but anchoring herself. Her legs shifted, once, then again, strength wavering despite her obvious irritation at the betrayal.
“Corbeau,” she warned softly.
He smiled against her skin. Her legs trembled despite herself.
Corbeau’s hands slid up instinctively, palms warm and steady at her thighs, fingers firm enough to keep her upright. He looked up at her then, eyes dark with satisfaction, mouth curved in that infuriating, knowing smirk she loved.
“Comfortable?” he murmured.
She glared down at him, jaw tight, eyes bright. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely. Though can move to the bed,” he offered lightly, voice deceptively calm. “If you’d prefer.”
For Corbeau, there was no victory sweeter than Èglantine's answering smile, soft and coy. That night they did not sleep. Not for long, anyhow. The night stretched and folded in on itself, hours losing meaning until time became nothing more than a dim suggestion beyond dark, heavy curtains. The city outside shifted from hush to the bustling noise of Kalos’ busiest city.
When morning finally came, it announced itself reluctantly.
Pale light slipped through, catching on the aftermath of their sleepless night. The sheets were twisted, pillows displaced to the floor. The careful order Corbeau usually insisted upon was ruined. He lay half-propped against the headboard, shirt discarded somewhere unseen, arm heavy and secure around Èglantine's waist. She was sprawled against him without ceremony, one leg thrown over his. Her fiery hair stark against his pale skin and the purple of his tattoos. The sharp elegance she carried into rooms when working had been burned away overnight, leaving her loose-limbed and unguarded in a way she allowed no one else to see.
She shifted as the light grew stronger, making a faint sound of protest. Corbeau pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough.
Neither of them moved for a long while. They both knew they had meetings to attend, but being right here was more important than anything else. Èglantine traced a lazy line along his collarbone with her fingertip, then stilled, eyes sharpening just slightly as awareness returned.
“We should get up.”
Corbeau tightened his arm. “In a moment.”
She considered arguing. She didn’t.
…
Morning in the Syndicate headquarters was usually a matter of routine, especially for Philippe, Corbeau and Èglantine.
Breakfast usually consisted of strong coffee, pastries that still warm from the ovens below, and conversation. It was narrow window of time where the three of them sat on the sofas in Corbeau’s office and talked strategy, agendas to meet, clients to follow up with. Philippe liked the predictability of it but this morning, the routine was broken. There was no breakfast, Corbeau had hastily wiped his schedule. Their usual 9.30 meeting was pushed back to 11am. That in itself was unusual.
Philippe arrived to find the boss sat there alone. He took one look at Corbeau and immediately knew he hadn’t slept after last night. The head of the Syndicate stood at the table, jacket immaculate, posture composed, but there was a faint bruise blooming along his jaw. Something easily missed unless you knew where to look. His movements were slower, more deliberate. Philippe said nothing, lest he get himself into trouble. He did not ask where Èglantine was, Corbeau did not volunteer the information.
They reviewed patrol rotations. Supply routes. A quiet dispute brewing near the southern rail lines. They spoke like professionals. Still, Philippe’s eyes kept flicking to the door.
“She’s late,” he said eventually.
Corbeau didn’t look up from the map. “She said she would be.”
“That’s new.”
Corbeau allowed a faint, huff of breath. “For her, yes.”
Minutes passed. Coffee cooled. Then the door opened.
Èglantine entered without hurry, boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She looked… composed. Hair neatly pinned back, her dress immaculate. Philippe said nothing, but he clocked her leaning a little too heavy on the cane she used when her stubbornness subsided.
Around her neck sat a new necklace, fine but unmistakably expensive. A statement, if you knew how to read it. Èglantine never wore jewellery day to day other than her wedding ring.
Her gaze flicked briefly to Philippe, unreadable, then to Corbeau. She crossed the room, unhurried, and leaned down to press a light kiss to Corbeau’s cheek.
Polite, almost chaste.
Philippe stared as Èglantine took her place at the table as if nothing were amiss, smoothing her gloves with deliberate care. She reached for coffee, unbothered, and only then did she glance at Philippe again.
“What?” she asked coolly.
Philippe opened his mouth. Closed it.
Corbeau cleared his throat. “We should begin.”
They did. Plans were discussed. Names mentioned. Decisions made. Èglantine contributed with her usual precision, sharp but measured, not once raising her voice. Halfway through, Corbeau reached for the coffee pot and paused. Èglantine wordlessly slid her cup closer.
Philippe watched the exchange wordlessly. When there was a break in conversation, Philippe finally leaned back, arms crossed behind his head.
“You two going to tell me if I need to worry about structural damage?”
Èglantine's fingers brushed the necklace absently.
“No,” she said. “No errands for you today, Philippe.”
Philippe studied them both: the faint bruise, the expensive apology glinting at Èglantine's throat, the careful civility layered over something volatile and intimate.
He nodded once.
The meeting ended as it always did, with papers gathered, chairs pushed back, work resuming. But as Èglantine rose to leave, she paused beside Corbeau and murmured, too quietly for Philippe to hear.
“Don’t make a habit of buying your way out of apologies.”
Both men watched her go, then Philippe looked at Corbeau.
“…The necklace?”
“An apology for last night’s disruption,” Corbeau replied.
Philippe snorted. “That’s one hell of an apology, boss.”
Part one of my Corbeau x OC fic-let/segment fic. Bits set before and during PL:ZA.
My OC is Èglantine Sycamore, the daughter of Lysandre and Professor Sycamore ✨️ gimme all the doomed yaoi perfectworldshipping feels!
Enjoy (also crossposted on Ao3 🫡)
Èglantine had a headache. That wasn’t particularly unusual, working long hours and splitting her time between guiding Mabel in the Pokémon lab and running logistics for the Syndicate with Corbeau and even then, she wasn’t particularly prominent in either location. It was the unfortunate way of things these past five years; first her father had a mental breakdown and tried to destroy Kalos in its entirety with the Ultimate Weapon and been presumed dead in the wreckage, then her papa had left for Galar citing the Team Flare turmoil (valid) and left Èglantine to deal with finding an interim Pokémon professor so parents would stop whinging their children couldn’t start their training (less valid), and then, just to top it all off, Grisham and Griselle had decided to restart Flare with Team Flare Nouveau and wanted funding – which meant Èglantine had to publicly acknowledge herself as the Lysandre family heiress to sort out the estate. All well and good until the tabloids got involved and she had to swear she had no idea her father was evil. After all, it was news to her too.
From the moment Èglantine was born, it complicated everything Lysandre believed about control, legacy, and perfection. Lysandre did not do accidents. If she existed, then she existed for a reason, and he would see that reason shaped properly. Her early life was hidden, compartmentalized the way all dangerous truths were. She was kept away from Team Flare’s public face, raised in carefully selected environments, surrounded by tutors and nannies who never quite understood why the man who preached purity and sacrifice softened, just slightly, when it came to her.
She called him Father, when she was old enough to talk.
Lysandre loved her fiercely, if unusually. He did not coddle. He did not lie. He spoke to her as if she were capable of understanding the world long before she reasonably should have been. He taught her that ideals mattered, that beauty and destruction were often siblings, that the world rewarded decisiveness far more than kindness. She never knew her mother.
When she was three, Augustine Sycamore entered her life and changed its shape forever.
Augustine did not arrive as a replacement.
He arrived as an addition.
Where Lysandre was intensity, Augustine was warmth. Where Lysandre saw destiny, Augustine saw development. Their relationship, intellectual, romantic, deeply complicated, was never hidden from Èglantine , nor was it explained away. Both men were unapologetic about who they were, about loving each other in the ways that worked for them. She said nothing when Lysandre told her she was to take Augustine’s surname rather than his own. It was safer that way, he told her.
Augustine became her Papa quietly, naturally.
If Lysandre gave her fire, Augustine taught her control.
By the time Èglantine was old enough to understand biology, no one felt the need to explain it to her delicately. She knew Lysandre was her biological father. She knew Augustine was not. That distinction mattered less than outsiders assumed.
She had two fathers.
Both loved her. Both shaped her.
Both were dangerous in different ways.
When Team Flare fell and Lysandre vanished, his memory shattered and identity erased, the loss was seismic. Èglantine did not just lose a father; she lost the axis around which much of her life had revolved. Augustine tried to pull her away from Kalos then, tried to save her from the gravity of Lysandre’s legacy.
But Èglantine was too much Lysandre’s daughter to flee.
Time and money went into the Rust Syndicate and Flare Nouveau (and Nouveau cafe) whilst effort went into supporting Mabel (Èglantine had known Mabel for a long time, being the daughter of the two most prominent men in Kalos helped, it was one of the rare times her parents’ work overlapped). Èglantine worked at the lab two days a week, practically paying herself as well as Mabel’s more major wage. It felt sometimes that Èglantine and her husband ran half of Lumiose. Corbeau had the head for management, he had learned that from Lysandre whilst being mentored, when Lysandre Labs really was just a scientific organisation. Èglantine had known her father’s business could be shady, but she had no idea he was planning on destroying the entire fucking region. A lot of the Lysandre family’s money had gone on repetitions, given Èglantine was the only one left to account for her father’s crimes. She knew why her Papa had fled the backlash, and given Professor Sycamore was so well known and liked, it was easy enough for him to be believed that he knew nothing. Lucky Augustine, on an extended “research” trip across the water. Èglantine had put her profession on hold to pull her life out of the sewers. It was only that Corbeau was… less than legal in most of his dealings that Èglantine managed to stay afloat. Most media wouldn’t come near the Rust Syndicate with a ten foot pole.
Such work didn’t allow much time for personal ventures, and the Pokémon lab suffered as a result. Lysandre Labs funded half of Professor Sycamore’s work, and Èglantine couldn’t keep paying herself. She had sold two of her father’s estates, one to housing developments and one to the Stone Corporation over from Hoenn for an inter regional office. She had kept her childhood home in the country, Lysandre Cafe and the lab below ground, as well as the large apartment her parents had shared when her Papa hadn’t slept at the Pokémon lab. The Syndicate took care of its own, so Èglantine was more than comfortable and had the luxury of her husband’s penthouse in the Rust Syndicate HQ. The biggest blow was a halt in her academic work. Èglantine came from a family of scientists though she wasn’t a particular fan herself; her work with Mabel mostly consisted of what Augustine had taught her. Nobody cared about Kalosian history from the daughter of the man who had tried to blow Kalos up. Her exhibitions in the Lumiose museum had been replaced with artefacts recently uncovered from ancient Sinnoh. Her monograph sales had halted and her teaching-research position was terminated at the university.
So yes – Èglantine thought it all warranted a headache.
Still, she had her father’s head for business and, despite the losses, the wealth to back it up. Corbeau’s childhood poverty and Èglantine ’s generation wealth seemed an odd mix, but Corbeau had become equally as comfortable with a lavish lifestyle now. Èglantine could be a bored housewife if she so wished, which right now sounded tempting.
Corbeau ruled the Syndicate. Èglantine , it seemed, ruled Corbeau.
…
Èglantine and Corbeau argued like a storm breaking containment. Frequently.
It started small. It always did: A missed report, perhaps, or a decision made without consulting him.
This time, it was Corbeau using the voice he used when he was already angry but refusing to show it. He had spoken over her in a meeting; Èglantine had stormed out of the room, uncaring about the grunts.
When Èglantine heard Corbeau’s footsteps behind her, she stopped walking. Slowly. Deliberately.
“I don’t answer to that voice,” she said, turning on him, eyes bright and sharp. “Not from you.”
Corbeau closed the door behind them with a bang. A mistake. He was already in trouble, but he knew Èglantine didn’t like slammed doors.
“You crossed three Syndicate boundaries without clearance,” he said. “You left evidence.”
Her laugh was sharp enough to cut. “What clearance? I fund this entire operation!”
“You escalated a situation I was containing.”
She stepped into his space, finger jabbing into his chest. “You don’t get to pretend you’re cleaner than me just because you sit behind the desk now.”
Corbeau’s temper flared hot and sudden. “I get to decide what keeps this Syndicate alive.”
“And I get to decide what you spend my money on!”
The words slammed into each other like blades. Èglantine shoved him. Hard. Corbeau caught her wrist instinctively, gripping it iron-tight. For a split second, the room was nothing but tension. Èglantine smiled. It was a terrible thing.
“That’s it,” she said softly, dangerously. “There you are. There’s the boy I fell in love with who got into fights on the street. Too bad you like sitting on your ass all day now.”
“You don’t get to run your mouth to me in front of the grunts, darling. You don’t get to undermine me in public.”
She wrenched her arm free and struck. Her open palm caught his jaw, not enough to break bone, but enough to remind him she could. He staggered a half-step, fury finally tearing loose.
“You don’t own me because you fuck me, Corbeau!”
“You think sleeping with me makes you indispensable? You think it makes you untouchable?”
“I was untouchable before you!” she shot back. “It’s my father’s desk; I just let you sit behind it!” She grabbed him by the collar, hauling him close, foreheads nearly touching. Her voice dropped low, vicious. “You knew what I was when you took me into your bed. Don’t act surprised now.”
“I will not clean up your impulses. You want to walk away?” he asked, hoarsely. “Do it. But don’t tear down what I’m building because you’re angry.”
She stared at him, chest heaving, hands shaking with the effort of not killing him where he stood. For a long moment, it looked like she might. Then she laughed.
“You infuriating, sanctimonious bastard,” she spat. “You’re the only man arrogant enough to think I’d want to walk away because I’m angry.”
Èglantine shoved Corbeau to the desk. Papers scattered. The fight didn’t end so much as burn itself out, violence transmuting into something just as intense but no longer aimed at killing each other. The room still ended up a wreck, but for a very different kind.
When Philippe found the aftermath, he knew better than to ask who won because with Corbeau and Èglantine victory was never quite the point.
…
Their wedding unfolded in the same way as everything meaningful between them had. It was quiet and private, romantic but no audience. An elopement. No announcements. No invitations. No press, no Syndicate pageantry, no aristocratic spectacle despite Èglantine’s lineage and wealth. The fewer people who knew, the safer it would be, for them and for everyone else.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t extravagant.
Corbeau chose a place far from Lumiose, high above the coast where Kalos thinned into cliffs and sea. A restored private château that officially didn’t exist on any public registry. Stone walls that paled with age, gardens kept immaculate by unseen staff sworn to silence. It overlooked the ocean, the horizon endless. Only five living beings attended.
Corbeau, Èglantine, Philippe (who would later insist this did not count as being a groomsman, even if he signed the necessary documents), a single discreet officiant who asked no questions and Èglantine’s newly evolved Aegislash, hovering solemnly, shield etched with old Kalosian symbols of oath and bond. The dusk stone used to evolve him from Doublade was a little chipped, the small gemstone left behind became Èglantine’s engagement ring, made by Corbeau himself.
Èglantine wore ivory. The dress had flowing sleeves and a long train. No family jewels, no inherited excess. The only thing old was the chain she wore at her throat, the one that had once belonged to Lysandre, now reforged so it lay lighter against her skin.
Corbeau wore black, tailored to precision, nothing ceremonial about it except the way he stood when he saw her, like the world had narrowed to exactly one point and stopped.
They walked the aisle together. The officiant spoke briefly. Some words about partnership, about choosing each other with eyes open. Corbeau barely heard them. He was watching Èglantine’s hands, usually steady and sure now shaking. Their wedding rings were understated: dark metal, custom-made. Corbeau slid Èglantine’s on with careful reverence. She took his hand without ceremony and did the same, fingers lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. When the officiant pronounced them married, there was a chaste kiss. The real celebration was for later, in private.
They stayed in the château alone, Philippe returning to Lumiose. Corbeau cooked for them both, and they ate on the terrace, the ocean wind warm. When the night had chilled, Èglantine found Corbeau’s jacket around her shoulders. They danced with no audience, no music or rhythm to follow but their own. Corbeau’s hand settled at her waist, familiar and sure. Èglantine rested her head briefly against his chest, listening to his heartbeat like she was memorising it.
By noon the next day, the château was empty again.
The paperwork would be filed under shell names and buried so deeply that it would take a miracle to uncover. The world would continue to see them as boss and enforcer, king and blade, dangerous and untouchable.
They had no idea that Corbeau’s secret weapon was his wife.
——————————
Part 2 coming soon! ✨️
A huge thank you to @bigguscheesius for inspiring my Corbeau love (mostly over on my main @ladyloggy but still!)
And tagging @corbeau-posting bc they asked to be tagged 🫶🏻
My Corbeau fic oc is going to be the doomed-yaoi-perfectworldshipping daughter of Lysandre and Sycamore because I loved those men at 12 and I love them still now at 24 🫡
Would anyone be interested in having their OCs in the same universe as mine? :3 I’d love to draw some of my girls (my OCs) with other OCs and make them friends hehe
There’s so much room in the Pokémon world, and I want my own characters to interact with other OCs instead of just characters from the games bc the world is so BIG and the opportunities are endless!
I think it would be really fun to have connections between our characters to expand our own alternate universe! I’m putting together some info about my girls if you’re interested ❤️
vaporwave
blakekathryn
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
2087
ellievsbear
