proud writing dump

20, She/her, multifandom oc x canon character enthusiast a place to share my writing with likeminded individuals

[erinye-headspace]

Introduction & Rules

hello and welcome to my personal headspace i'm a writer or an aspiring one and i made this blog to write the types of stories i'm fond of and emulate some really great writing blogs on this app/website you can call me erinye! i'm a 20 year old college student as of now i've been on tumblr for a while now and have two blogs under my name, but i dont post anything on those anymore this is just where i'll upload the fics and drabbles i'm proud of as well as try to interact more with followers and people who like my writing you're welcome to submit requests for headcanons and drabbles, i just can't guarantee how soon they'll be answered since i've got school and all in terms of rules, i'll write essentially anything, including fics with darker as well as 18+ themes (MINORS DNI) which will likely become a recurring theme on this blog lol i will write plenty of "x reader" content but another motivation for creating this blog was to introduce original characters of mine that i create for just about any fandom i get into so be prepared for canon character x oc fics to appear occasionally and if that's not to your taste, there’s a big wide world outside of this one blog lol i'm also trying not to constrict myself to any one fandom since i did that for my previous blogs and that's where i believe the downfall happened current fandoms i'm in and am passionate about are: - LADS (love and deepspace) - Twisted Wonderland - Identity V - Final Fantasy VII - Yellowjackets - Jojo's Bizarre Adventures (anything before Stone Ocean, i'm not fully caught up yet lol) - Black Butler - Tokyo Revengers - Castlevania - Devil May Cry there's plenty more that i haven't written down here, so don't be too shocked to see a fic for a fandom not listed pop out of the blue that's really all i have to say, i hope you stick around and like what i have to offer :))

[erinye-headspace]

ITS MY BIRTHDAY RAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

if you wish me happy birthday and leave a request for an x reader fic with any character you want (long as it’s one i know) ill pick one lucky winner and write the whole thing pinky promise

deadline will be till end of tomorrow cause im greedy lol

ANYWAY I CAN OFFICIALLY DRINK UNDER U.S. LAW!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

[erinye-headspace]

Matchup Trade For the Exceptional @lyneira / @ne-nene-ne

disclaimer that this is my first time doing one of these but it was genuinely a lot of fun on my end!! i hope you enjoy reading through this and that i wasn't too far off with any of my picks lol

Your STAND — Night at the Symphony ♫

This STAND is named after Night at the Symphony by Laufey, which contains one of your all time favorite songs, Let You Break My Heart, so I really wanted to incorporate that into your STAND.

In terms of appearance, I imagine this STAND having something like a Venetian Carnival aesthetic, drawing from your love of opera and classical arts. A mask for a face would be really cool (insert The Phantom of the Opera reference lol). I also think it would be interesting if your STAND had strong “diva” energy, contrasting with your shy and reserved personality. It would basically be the manifestation of your confidence on stage rather than off it, since fighting would feel like a performance for it.

In terms of ability, I imagine it being tied to sound and the emotional resonance of the song. You would need to be the one singing, and depending on what you sing, the effects change. When you sing, the vibrations or sound waves come directly from your STAND and appear like pale, glowing rings extending outward, though only within a fairly short range.

For instance, singing a long, sustained note can interrupt people’s attacks by slowing their movement. If someone is swinging something at you, it’s like they’re trying to move through water. This can also apply to people in your vicinity that you can’t see, so if someone tries to sneak up behind you, you’d have an easier time dodging them.

Short, sharp notes (like staccato) produce small bursts of invisible force that can push people away from you. They’re basically like quick sonic punches.

If you sing something soothing and light, it can emotionally resonate with people and influence their mood. If someone has a strong intention to hurt you, you might be able to momentarily sway their mindset, giving you time to collect yourself and follow up with another move.

Its passive abilities include being able to tell if someone is lying (since you tend to take things at face value, this would really come in handy) and sensing underlying fear or nervousness just by listening to the pitch and vibrations of their voice. Your hearing would also naturally be enhanced.

Your weaknesses come from the fact that this STAND is close- to mid-range and more defensive than offensive. However, it works well as support for allies and, more importantly, it can protect you. The abilities can only be activated when you sing, and opponents who make it so they can’t hear you—or who are simply out of range—won’t be affected.

Below is a moodboard of the design/aesthetic I had in mind. :))

Appearance Matchup — Caesar Zeppeli 🫧

The two of you would make a rather dashing couple appearance-wise. His wardrobe is full of bright colors, and he has a gentlemanly vibe about him that I think would complement your soft, “girly-girl” aesthetic, which you seem to favor. Even if you were to switch up your style, I think he would bend to compensate, he’s a romantic like that. Just imagine the two of you walking the streets of Italy arm in arm, you in a flowy dress and him in his pink scarf and baby blue jacket.

Sibling — Kakyoin Noriaki 🜼

Kakyoin is your older brother—gentle and always understanding, never one to raise his voice at you, especially since you’re younger than him. Because his STAND manifested early, he didn’t have many human friends growing up, so after you were born, the two of you became incredibly close. To everyone else, he can seem distant, even a little haughty and prideful, keeping most people at arm’s length apart from you and, later, the Stardust Crusaders. With you, though, it’s different. The two of you share inside jokes, and he always cracks a smile at your basic but charming wordplay. He’s the kind of guy who would drive you anywhere you wanted to go and sternly remind you when your curfew is approaching.

The two of you rarely argue. On the rare occasions when you do, you’re always the first to give in, heading straight to your room without another word. Not long after, there’s always a soft knock at your bedroom door. Kakyoin will hand you a sweet or a plushie he won from a crane game—he seems like the type who’d be good at those—as a quiet apology.

Before he went missing, however, his behavior changed drastically. A new harshness had crept into his personality, and he displayed a cruelty he had never shown before, even toward you. When he suddenly disappears, you’re naturally terrified for him, losing sleep as worry gnaws at you and you wonder what could have happened.

Then one day, you receive a call.

You hear his voice on the other end.

Relief floods through you, and you cry a little as he reassures you that he’s alright and apologizes for how he acted before. He tells you he’s traveling with a ragtag group of individuals and that he can’t come home just yet. He has to get revenge on the man who brainwashed him, and the others share the same goal. At first you try and convince him to go back, but as he talks you down from your high-strung emotions you eventually relent. All you ask is that he stays safe and comes home as soon as he can. He promises that he will.

You had no idea that this would be one of the last conversations you would ever have with him.

Months later, there’s a knock at your door. You race to answer it, reaching it before either of your parents, your heart pounding with hope that it’s your brother at long last.

Instead, you find an elderly man and a tall, solemn-looking teenage boy about Kakyoin’s age standing on the doorstep. The elderly man holds his hat in his hands, his eyes downcast as he explains that he and his grandson were part of the group your brother had been traveling with.

Their enemy had been defeated, but it came at the cost of your brother’s life.

The overwhelming grief and sorrow that follow his death are what ultimately awaken your very own STAND, Night at the Symphony, manifesting early in your childhood just like your brother’s had.

Best Friend — Muhammad Avdol `ঔঌ

I’d give him the title of “most tolerable man in Part 3,” the only one not raising anyone’s cortisol levels 😭. He’s serious, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to have a good time or let his guard down. I feel like he’d find your wordplay jokes extremely funny—he just seems like the type of guy who’ll laugh at a lot of things. You can absolutely be silly together! He also has a strong sense of loyalty and duty, which I think you’d really be drawn to, and the two of you would rarely fight. If anything, he’s the one fighting everyone else for you lol. He’s usually very level-headed, but he can get pretty panicky and stressed sometimes, so you’d occasionally have to talk him down—which is where your empathetic nature would come in handy.The two of you would definitely be bookworms, sharing recommendations and any art you feel comfortable showing him. He’d praise you to high heaven, and if you ever gifted him something you made, he’d treasure it for a long time. Avdol would also be the person encouraging you to unburden your worries and talk about what’s bothering you, he wouldn’t want you holding everything in. Shame about him dying though <3.

Rival — Leona Abbachio ☕

Let’s just say the two of you don’t get along the first time you meet. Upon that initial meeting, Leone is polite but very standoffish, and it doesn’t seem like he has any interest in getting to know you better. Considering you’re an outsider to the mafia, he’s got a pretty one-track mind about it. However, the more you become entangled in his life, Abbacchio realizes he kind of has to put up with you (why he does will become clear later). That said, he’s not exactly happy about it. To him, you’re a wallflower, and your shyness and discomfort around new people don’t really do anything to change his assumptions.

I also don’t think you’d immediately vibe with him, considering he literally smiles just to spite people. You tend to take things more at face value, so that difference would probably lead to a lot of misunderstandings between you two. Plus, he enjoys hazing people—we all know what was in the teacup, and he was willing to do that to a minor. I doubt he’d pull the exact same stunt on you, but he’d probably switch your sugar with salt or something just to knock you down a peg.

But alas, because you’re dear to someone he cares about a lot, he does eventually tone down the pranks. You do manage to get him back a few times, though—jump-scaring him when he’s not paying attention. Honestly, the guy kind of deserves it. As you spend more time around each other, his walls start to come down. You’d begin to see that he’s actually very self-loathing, and that he cares deeply about the Bucciarati gang’s overall goal. Eventually you might come to empathize with him—or at least sympathize—but that definitely wouldn’t happen for a while lol.

(Platonic) Relationships —

Jotaro Kujo 🐬

The two of you didn’t start out as friends, but being as close as he was to Kakyoin, he feels a certain responsibility for you. The shared trauma of your brother’s death slowly brings you closer—both of you mourning him in your own ways. Since then, he’s made a point to check in on you regularly, even calling from across the country when work takes him to the States. Your conversations are usually short and to the point—he’s not one to ramble—but when you speak, he listens patiently. Whenever he’s in town, he stops by to see you and takes you out for a meal, always insisting on paying. The two of you bond over your shared love of the ocean, and every now and then he’ll subtly nudge you toward marine biology as a possible career. Still, he never pushes, always respecting whatever path you decide to take. He’s also the one who helps you gain better control of your STAND.

Rohan Kishibe ✎ᝰ

Lowkey, I could see you becoming a manga assistant under Rohan at some point in your youth—something like an internship. He’d be the one to hand-pick you from a pool of candidates since he doesn’t trust what anyone says on paper. But hey, congratulations—your art and skills managed to impress him enough to get you hired!

He’s definitely a strict boss, and there are times when he barely scrapes by the deadline for his manga because he’s been caught up in some adrenaline-fueled creative mania. When that happens, you end up having to work double to help make up for the lost time. Still, I don’t think he’d be an abusive boss, there’s still a sense of respect and professionalism in your relationship but you try to give him as much space as possible. If anything, he’d apologize in his own way—ordering food for the both of you or even asking to hear your thoughts about where the manga could go next. You don’t expect much to come from it, but maybe—juuust maybe—you’ll notice something similar to what you suggested show up in a later chapter. What an honor!

Narancia Ghirga 🍊

After you move to Italy and open your vocal technique classroom, guess who ends up becoming your very first student. Why exactly he’s decided to take singing lessons will become clear later on, but for now he’s here. At first, he thinks the whole thing is kind of stupid. How hard can singing be? He sings in the shower all the time. But in him, you quickly discover a stubborn student who gets distracted very easily during lessons. Still, since he’s your first full-time student, you can’t exactly afford to fail.

Once the two of you really get into the lessons, though, his attitude starts to shift. He begins to develop a genuine respect for the craft, and you introduce him to techniques and sounds he’s never even heard of before. He hadn’t realized he could sound that good. 

At first he’s embarrassed to practice around the rest of the gang, but as his confidence grows, he starts belting out dramatic ballads just for fun. The shocked expressions from everyone else only encourage him more.He also comes to admire you as a teacher. Your patient, gentle approach is a stark contrast to how he remembers teachers from school or Fugo trying to tutor him. Before long, he’s showing up to lessons with a bright smile, actually looking forward to them, sometimes even bringing small trinkets or sweets for his favorite teacher.

Love Match — Bruno Bucciarati ⋆˙⟡♡

Ta daaaa, he’s finally here!! The man of your dreams! He checks every single one of your boxes: righteous, compassionate, kind-hearted, and dreamy! Not to mention, the two of you would make a stunning couple visually—he’s effortlessly classy, and you lean into a more traditionally feminine presentation, so together, you’d easily be the best-looking couple in Naples.

Picture this: you make the big move to Italy, study opera and classical singing at a quaint little university, and now you’re finally ready to chase your dream of becoming a vocal teacher. You start small, renting a room above a café that doubles as both your apartment and your classroom.

Unfortunately, what you didn’t realize was that the street you chose happens to be a hotspot for mob activity—especially from the big mafia group, Passione.

You keep your head down and focus on recruiting students. The locals are pleasant and affable enough, so you don’t run into trouble…until the night you’re walking home and get mugged.

You’re so shocked you don’t even think to activate your STAND, but it turns out that isn’t necessary. The man running off with your purse suddenly trips and crashes hard onto the pavement. What he tripped over is his own…arm?

For some strange reason, the mugger’s arm lies detached on the ground beside him, palm open, fingers unfurled, with what looks like a closed zipper where the shoulder should be.

“These streets are dangerous at night,” a smooth, unbothered voice says from behind you.

You turn to see a man with sun-kissed skin and short black hair, dressed in a pressed white suit. His hands rest casually in his pockets, a gentle smile on his face. With an almost eerie calm, he walks over to the arm lying beside the groaning, confused mugger and plucks your purse from its limp grasp. Then he carries it back to you, and you finally get a proper look at just how handsome he is.

“Especially for a lovely young lady such as yourself.”

It’s certainly a memorable first meeting for you.

For Bruno, though, it isn’t exactly the first time he’s noticed you.

Since you live directly above the café where he and his gang regularly meet, he’d already seen you around. At first it was just passing curiosity—the kind you have for a stranger you can easily pick out in a crowd. It didn’t hurt that you were cute, either. Still, he couldn’t help wondering how a foreigner like you ended up on a street so steeped in crime and mob activity.

After the mugging incident, he realizes just how out of your depth you really are.

At first he tells himself he’s simply looking out for you. You seem naturally trusting—exactly the kind of person a smooth-talking mafioso could easily take advantage of. So he starts stopping by the café without the rest of his gang.

The more conveniently timed “run-ins” the two of you have, the more he realizes he genuinely likes you. He’s especially fond of your passion for opera and your shy disposition, and he’d gladly take you to the theater anytime you wanted to see a performance. In turn, you admire his zeal, his kindness, and his determination to protect the people of Naples.

He’s even the one who brings you your very first student—encouraging (forcing) Narancia to take lessons from you while he pays for them himself. And more often than not, he tries to hand you more than your usual fee.

“Narancia here has always loved opera so I figured he’d be the perfect student for you.”

“No I haven’t, where did ya hear that-”

“Yes you have.”

“Yes I have.”

He does eventually introduce you to the rest of his gang, though he’s careful not to mention their ties to the mafia. Personally, I think he’d try to shield you from that side of his life for as long as possible, wanting to keep you separate from anything dangerous. But eventually the day comes when he can’t hide it anymore—especially when the STAND users from La Squadra start targeting you in order to get to him.

You’re still kept mostly on the sidelines since your ability isn’t suited for direct combat, but when they’re fighting on home turf, your STAND ends up being incredibly useful for support. You help by misdirecting opponents and giving Bruno’s team the upper hand when it matters.

Bruno, for his part, doesn’t shy away from your love of physical affection at all. And if you think you’re spoiled by your family already, get ready for that to triple with him. During those first few months of courting, the gifts he brings you start piling up in your room. Honestly, it probably wouldn’t take long before the two of you move in together—he’d insist that his place is not only nicer, but much safer for you.

To you, it feels almost like a fairytale romance. Still, you can’t help but worry when he leaves for a job or comes home incredibly late. Given what happened to your brother, there’s always that looming fear in the back of your mind that today might be the last time you see him.

Whenever he notices that worry creeping in, he pulls you close, kissing you deeply and reassuring you that not even death itself could keep him away from you. In a strange way, he ends up keeping that promise when he returns after becoming something like the undead due to Giorno’s STAND; you’re one of the first people to realize that something isn’t quite right with your beloved. (spoiler alert he's a reanimated corpse lol)

that's all, hope you like it!!

[erinye-headspace]

getting into a show that's been out of the loop for like a decade atp is the loneliest feeling </3 no one to talk to about the plot twists or the peak writing, uuuuggghhh anyone wanna yap about westworld hit me up im literally through the first season and its consumed me

[sokodraws]

fine, you want the butcher? come on

[erinye-headspace]

LADS February Banner Hcs

this post has been a long time coming, me and @an-ari came up with a "cdrama/ancient china" au forever ago and when i heard that LADS was gonna be releasing an "ancient china" themed banner in february i wanted to unveil everything we came up with together :)) this was supposed to come out before the trailer but life got in the way but if anything in the cards is even remotely similar to what's on here, just know that Infold totally looked into my Google Drive and took our ideas (despite the fact that MC's not an Empress in the official banner rip) 10k words

Background:

It is the dawn of a new dynasty in Not-China-But-Obviously-China. The noble Empress Dowager—your beloved grandmother, Zhāng Sù (Josephine)—has at last succumbed to her old age, and you, her chosen heir, now ascend the throne. The nation bows to your will, yet the court teems with vipers: schemers and opportunists eager to see your reign cut tragically short.

Trust is a rare and precious thing. Among the few you hold close are your attendants and dearest confidantes—Jenna, Tara, and Simone; your palace physicians, Dr. Noah, Greyson, and Yvonne; and the steadfast officials of Nero’s faction.

These are treacherous times, made more trying by the relentless pressure for you to take a husband. Courtiers parade their favored candidates before you, each match drenched in flattery and political ambition, hoping to guide your hand through what they mistake for youthful folly. You dismiss them all. Your heart has already been claimed—by one such individual whose voice makes your soul tremble and whose yearning will one day shake the heavens for you.

+:★:+*━━━━━━━*+:★:+*━━━━━━━*+:★:+*

Xavier, The Runaway Prince:

He didn’t enter your life so much as you stumbled into his.

You were still a princess then, when your grandmother had sent you deep into the mountains to learn the art of cultivation, to protect your qi force against demonic energy (more on that later).

You traveled with an entourage until you reached the fabled Temple where the best cultivators in the land gathered and studied the art diligently. 

Upon your arrival, you wander through the Temple’s lush, untamed grounds until the sound of rushing water draws you to a great waterfall. 

However, when you try to get a closer look, you trip over something. You look back and realize that “something” is actually a pair of legs attached to a still body and delicate face.

The man lies there, fast asleep, peaceful despite the roaring falls, cradling his sword in  his arms.

He stirs when you lean in to examine his youthful features, and you see his eyes, a deep blue like the night sky.

Your first interaction is less than ideal. He’s incredibly stand-offish,  chastising you for disrupting his nap and showing absolutely no respect for your status. Thoroughly offended, you march back to the Temple in a foul mood.

You later retell the story of this encounter to one of the sect’s more friendly high-ranking disciples, Jeremiah. He struggles to hold back his laughter as he explains that the rude, lazy disciple you met was none other than Xavier, the Temple’s Head Disciple.

The same one who will serve as your teacher.

You are, understandably, not thrilled by this revelation, but Jeremiah is quick to reassure you that there is no one better suited to guide you on the path of cultivation.

What he failed to mention is just how strict Xavier is. Despite looking no older than you, he criticized your form without mercy and buried you under endless stacks of scriptures to copy. When you finally asked why any of this is necessary, he answered simply that this is how he learned.

You had very nearly written an angry letter to your grandmother—complaining about your teacher, begging her to let you come home early. You had even imagined the words, sharp and indignant. But in the end, you held yourself back. You were not one to retreat from a challenge.

You would succeed in spite of him, not because of him.

That resolve was tested on one of your treks up the mountain, a heavy bundle of firewood strapped to your back for the Temple. Your “teacher” walked far ahead, urging you onward, though his own load hardly compared to the weight you bore. Each step burned, your legs trembling against the incline.

Suddenly, Xavier halted.

You took this opportunity to catch up with him, but noticed that he hadn’t been waiting for you. His head was tilted slightly, listening to the wind itself.

Before you could ask what was wrong, he spoke sharply. “Cover your head.”

You were halfway through a confused question when something massive dropped onto the path ahead, shaking the ground beneath your feet. A grotesque, hulking demon rose before you, blocking the narrow trail.

Xavier’s sword was in his hand in an instant. He leapt forward, steel flashing as he met the creature head-on.

Terror seized you. You had never seen a real demon before. Panic overwhelmed training, and you turned to flee back down the mountain—only to freeze as a smaller demon crawled into view, cutting off your escape.

Your hand trembled as you drew your sword. The bundle on your back dragged your center of gravity off balance, the weight threatening to pull you over with every movement. You had to watch your footing as much as the demon, one misstep from a fatal fall.

You risked a glance over your shoulder.

Xavier was barely visible—moving so swiftly, so fluidly, that he seemed more blur than man, completely fused with his blade. The sight stole your attention for a heartbeat too long as the demon pounced on you.

You barely reacted in time, finding an opening by sheer luck. Your blade struck true, severing its head in a single desperate swing. But the force sent you stumbling. Your feet tangled beneath you, and the pack of branches wrenched you backward, preventing any hope of recovery.

You screamed as the ground slipped out from beneath you.

Xavier shouted your name. You thought you heard it, but it was swallowed by the roar of wind as you tumbled through open air, arms flailing uselessly. For a fleeting, impossible moment, you swore you saw someone leap after you—feet planted on the flat of a sword, gliding toward you through the sky.

Then the world went dark as you were thrust into water.

You awoke to a gentle warmth on your face.

As your vision slowly adjusted to the dimness, the scent of smoke and the feeling of hard stone reached you first. 

You were inside a cave. A small fire crackled nearby, its glow casting soft shadows along the walls. Propped carefully against the stone wall was Xavier’s sword, and beside the fire lay two sets of white disciple robes—his and yours—spread flat to dry.

Your breath caught as you looked down at yourself, dressed in nothing but your chemise.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

You turned toward the cave entrance. Xavier stood there, shirtless, a large bundle of twigs and branches balanced easily in his arms. 

You immediately averted your eyes, folding your arms across your chest out of instinctive modesty. He, however, seemed entirely unconcerned, stepping past you and setting the firewood down before kneeling to tend the flames.

Despite yourself, your gaze drifted back to him. His bare chest and the definition in his arms caught the firelight, and you found it difficult to look away.

It was not an unpleasant sight.

He explained, calmly, that you had fallen into the river and that he’d dove in after you. You had both been soaked through, and in the time it’d taken to bring you to shore and find a place for you to rest, night had fallen. Traveling back to the Temple in the dark would be far too dangerous. You would leave at first light.

Then, just as plainly, he added that he’d undressed you to prevent sickness.

You snapped at him, insisting he had no right.

He merely nodded. “I shall remember that for the next time I come to your rescue.”

“There won’t be a next time,” you muttered, though the severity of your words was immediately betrayed by the sneeze you failed to suppress.

His attention was immediately ensnared. Without a word, he stood, picked up his larger robe, and crossed the cave toward you. He pressed close, and you instinctively leaned away, startled. 

He paused, blinking in genuine confusion, as though unable to understand why you reacted that way.

“You are cold,” he said simply. “If we are not careful, it will lead to an illness. This is the best way to warm ourselves.”

Before you could protest, he draped the robe over both of you and slid an arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer. Only then did you realize how violently you’d been shivering. The heat of his skin seeped into you, grounding you, causing you to almost melt in his gentle hold.

You looked up at him. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, his profile outlined in the flickering light. The clean line of his jaw, the curve of his neck—you thought, fleetingly, that he looked more like a prince than a disciple.

You tore your eyes away the instant he noticed.

But it was too late. You felt the soft vibration of his laughter ripple through his chest beneath your cheek.

It was not an unpleasant sound.

Unfortunately, you did end up with a cold, which delayed your departure further. Xavier abandoned all training and drills without hesitation, insisting you rest as much as possible. To your surprise, he proved to be a capable caretaker—tender and quietly attentive. He fetched firewood, brought you cool water, and never strayed far for long.

Somewhere along the way, his presence ceased to irritate you, becoming a comfort.

After all, the heavens alone knew you would be dead if he had not leapt after you.

You survived on berries and whatever meat Xavier managed to catch and cook over the fire. It wasn’t luxurious by any measure, but it was filling. One evening, he told you about how, when he was much younger, his master had intentionally left him alone in the woods to see if he had the will to survive. He’d been forced to fend for himself, relying on his instincts and what little training he’d had before finding his way back to the Temple.

By comparison, with you, he seemed a far more lenient instructor.

On one particularly bad day, when your strength had fled, he fed you soup he’d made from vegetables and herbs gathered in the forest. When your hands were too weak to hold the bowl up to your lips, he steadied it for you, patiently helping you drink. 

Your nose wrinkled at the taste, and you nearly choked on the oversized chunks of wild carrot and bitter leaves. It was positively dreadful.

Still, he insisted you finish every last drop. You managed, gagging quietly once the bowl was empty and he turned away. You blamed the taste on medicinal herbs before he returned, holding a cup filled with a strong-smelling liquid.

“This is made from medicinal herbs,” he said calmly. “It will grant a speedy recovery.”

…Never mind.

In time, you did recover. When you were finally well enough to travel, the two of you began the journey back to the Temple. Whenever the steep incline proved too much, he offered to carry you without hesitation, scooping you up as though you weighed nothing at all. In his arms, you felt safe, in a way that was new and foreign to you yet you didn’t reject this new feeling.

Returning to the Temple’s hectic rhythm of life, you found your perception of him had shifted completely. 

He was no longer the harsh drill instructor you’d resented. Instead, you discovered a mischievous streak underlying his discipline. Lessons turned into games, and he smiled openly when you laughed, making him look his age.

He always seemed to have extra portions of your favorite snacks tucked away. He rewarded you when you did well—and even when you didn’t, encouraging you to work through your frustrations with food and quiet conversation. 

You found you could tell him anything: your worries about succeeding the Empress Dowager, your anxieties over whether you’d be a good leader, and your smaller, more mundane irritations. He accepted it all without judgment.

At night, he delighted in pointing out the constellations scattered across the mountain sky, stars brilliant and close in the thin air. He guided your gaze patiently until the hidden patterns emerged. It felt natural to sit close to him, to let his soft voice wash over you. Occasionally, you even found yourself drifting off to sleep in his arms, but you always ended up back in your bed when you woke in the morning.

Somewhere along the way, “Master” became simply “Xavier”—or “Xav.”

And you became just “Y/N.”

The change was so gradual you couldn’t name the moment it happened, but you didn’t mind it at all.

One evening, Jeremiah asked you to deliver a letter to Xavier, instructing you to find him in his private chambers.

You went at once. But when you arrived, the room was empty.

You told yourself you would simply leave the letter and go. Instead, you lingered, taking advantage of this rare opportunity. 

You let your hand drift through the robes hanging neatly in the wardrobe, brushed your fingers over the plush blankets spread across the bed, traced the edges of the writing table. 

You were just about to set the letter down when the wax seal caught your eye.

It was unfamiliar—not the insignia of the Empire, but one you dimly remembered from lessons back at the castle in your youth. It was the mark of a neighboring kingdom, sharpening your curiosity. 

You opened one of the desk drawers and found a thick stack of letters, bound loosely together. More envelopes followed, all bearing that same foreign seal. Your pulse quickened as you untied the string and quickly grabbed as many letters your hands could hold. The language was close enough to the Imperial tongue that you could read it without much trouble.

They spoke of a castle. Of births and deaths within the family. Of changing seasons, shifting alliances, and even the flowers “he” had planted long ago, lovingly tended in his absence. Several ended the same way—with pleas for him to return home, to abandon this “childish rebellion.”

You were so absorbed that you didn’t hear him enter.

A soft clearing of a throat froze you in place.

Xavier leaned against the doorway, his robe loosely tied, silver hair damp from the baths. Water droplets traced slow paths down his bare chest and abdomen, catching the candlelight. His expression was unreadable—but not angry.

You spun around, stammering apologies, fumbling for excuses, painfully aware of how incriminating you must look. The letter trembled in your hand.

Then he laughed.

“If you wished to know about my past,” he said gently, stepping toward you and slipping the letter from your fingers, “you only needed to ask.”

He didn’t scold you. Instead, he told you the truth—confirming what you had long suspected. He was not a native of the Imperial Empire.

What you had not expected was the rest.

Like you, he had been born to royalty.

He told you calmly yet bitterly how he had refused to participate in the court’s endless games of manipulation, unwilling to pit himself against his own siblings for a throne stained with blood and betrayal. 

Rather than play their game, he disappeared into the mountains with his most loyal retainer, Jeremiah, choosing obscurity over power.

Here, he had built a new life as a disciple, the walls of the Temple his sanctuary from those who would go looking for him.

Still, the siblings he trusted enough to confide in had written to him over the years—news of the kingdom’s fortunes, the castle’s state, and, woven through it all, pleas for his return. Those letters remained unopened. 

He admitted this with hesitation, watching your face closely, as though bracing himself for disappointment. Quietly hoping that this truth had not altered your image of him.

You told him that nothing you could learn about him would ever make you think less of him.

In the silence that followed, something unspoken passed between you—a recognition of how deeply intertwined you had become. The bond you shared no longer needed words to define it.

And in the pale wash of moonlight spilling through the window, a bond was not the only thing the two of you shared that night.

(it’s a kiss, get your mind out of the gutter (jk))

Your time at the Temple came to an end sooner than you would have hoped. 

You asked Xavier to return to the palace with you, certain your grandmother would grant him leave to stay close to you. He refuses gently, unwilling to trade one cage for another. You accept his choice, and the two of you remain close through exchanged letters.

On the eve of your coronation, you invited him once more, thinking it little more than a pipe dream that he might come now that you were to ascend the throne.

You were stunned when Xavier arrived alone, watching with quiet pride as the crown was placed upon your head—and later, as he was named Royal Cultivator.

From that day forward, he remained your most trusted confidant—and your fiercest ally against the demons that plagued the realm. You still fought side by side when duty demanded it, blades moving in quiet harmony, much as you once had in the mountains of the sect.

Only now, you were no longer the clumsy disciple struggling to keep up, but a warrior in your own right.

Rumors inevitably ripple through the court. Officials whisper behind your backs, compare him to one of your concubines, and speculate about the closeness between you. Xavier does not seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, he rather likes the title—because the two of you know the truth: he is yours, wholly and willingly.

At last, he has found his rightful place—beside you.

•─────────•°•❀°•──────────•

Zayne, The Cursed Healer:

For as long as you had lived within the palace walls, you had guarded a truth the vipers of court could never be allowed to exploit.

You were not human.

Not entirely.

Your heart was demonic—quite literally, the heart of a demon.

Because of this, your life has always been treated as something fragile and dangerous in equal measure. 

You were handled with care, studied and scrutinized before a small circle of palace physicians, bound by oath and fear alike.

Even they did not fully understand it.

They could not remove the demonic energy without stopping your heart entirely. And so, for years, they tried instead to temper it—to dilute its influence with medicines, charms, and talismans. Your health was monitored obsessively; even a common cold became a matter of alarm.

When you were still a princess, it was Dr. Noah who proposed an alternative.

He spoke of a former disciple from the Academy—a traveling physician who wandered from town to town, gathering both renown and infamy. They called him a man who could cure death.

If anyone could offer a solution to your condition, Dr. Noah insisted, it would be him.

He was summoned to the palace without delay.

You had expected someone older, weathered and somber, having knowledge of all the secrets that confounded mortals. Instead, you were introduced to a young man, his gaze cold but his eyes the deep green of a forest at dusk.

This was your new leading physician, Zayne.

He was different from the start.

Zayne never poked or prodded at you, never drew blood or subjected you to the invasive examinations you had grown accustomed to. 

He always wore gloves, never removing them for anyone—except during your “treatments”.

You would lie on a woven mat in a darkened room, the air heavy with incense that clung to your skin. 

He would kneel beside you and slip the gloves from his hands, then take your palm in his bare hand, his touch cool and steady.

Before you could ponder too deeply as to what he was doing, sleep would pull you under. It always felt the same—like cold water washing over your body, soothing rather than shocking.

When you woke, you felt better than you had in years. Stronger. Lighter.

You did not understand his methods, but the improvement was undeniable, so you could not complain.

As time passed, his role in your life shifted almost without notice. 

He was no longer merely your physician. He became your tutor, guiding you through your rigorous lesson, yet his instruction was much more preferable to your teacher’s monotone droning.

He grew to be your companion, the two of you often seen walking through the palace gardens together, talking softly beneath flowering trees, or seated across from one another over a go board.

You lost far more often than you won. Zayne claimed it was because you overthought every move. You accused him of enjoying your defeat far too much. He never denied it.

You were endlessly fascinated by him. You asked about his travels, the towns he had passed through, the people he had treated—stories of lives far removed from palace walls. You wanted to understand the kingdom you were meant to lead and he always indulged you.

He always answered your questions honestly, not one to sugarcoat anything to “protect” you. Yet there was one question that unsettled him when you finally gathered the courage to ask.

Could he truly cure death itself?

His expression darkened, his voice firm as he dismissed it as exaggeration, a myth. No one could reverse death, he said. But he had pulled people back from its brink, when all hope was thought lost.

You didn’t press further, but his answer stayed with you all the same.

Zayne carried himself with a natural seriousness, reserved and disciplined—but around you, something softer emerged.

He teased you in a way that felt boyish and endearing, and smiled more often than he seemed to realize.

You learned his quiet preferences in these moments.

He held a fondness for the cold and the long winters you experienced at the palace. 

When snow dusted the courtyards in white, the palace grounds transformed into an imaginary battlefield. Snowballs flew through the air, dignity abandoned in favor of laughter that echoed through the halls.

Despite how often he lectured you about your diet, you discovered his greatest weakness.

Sweets.

With a platter of egg tarts or tangyuan, you could usually bribe him out of a grueling lesson in favor of flying the kite he had helped you craft.

He would scold you half-heartedly, clearly amused—only to insist, later, that you complete the lesson properly.

One night, before the day of your coronation, you had asked him to help you jailbreak the palace during a festival, promising an entire buffet of his favorite desserts if he agreed. It had taken some convincing, but he surrendered to you swiftly.

That night, you slipped out beneath the cover of darkness, cloaks drawn tight around you both, faces smudged with paint to ensure no one would recognize you. Together, you vanished into the city.

You had never seen anything like it.

Lanterns were strung overhead like fallen stars. The scents of sizzling meat and sweet pastries mingled together, dizzying and warm. Music poured through the streets as performers dazzled gathered crowds with song, dance, and impossible feats.

Zayne stayed at your side the entire time, smiling softly at your wonder. He followed your every whim as you dragged him from stall to stall—marveling over trinkets and jewelry, devouring skewers of roasted meat, clapping along to jubilant music. 

When you tried your hand at the festival games and failed spectacularly, he would step in with effortless grace, earning you a prize while feigning indifference.

When the fireworks finally bloomed across the sky, you wandered down to the riverbank. Bursts of color rippled across the water as you stood shoulder to shoulder, the backs of your fingers brushing against the cool leather of his gloves.

You looked at him then.

In the shifting light, everything felt suddenly clear—your feelings crystallizing all at once. Your gaze dropped to his lips, your breath catching. You tilted your face toward his, a silent invitation.

For a heartbeat, you thought he might accept.

Instead, he smiled—gentle, almost wistful—and turned his face away.

You turned back to the fireworks, forcing yourself to smile as though nothing had changed. But your heart ached with a quiet, unfamiliar sadness.

Your coronation arrived and as you walked the long aisle toward the throne, your gaze found him among the assembled attendees. 

Zayne stood quietly amidst the blurred faces, watching you with a gentle smile. Pride shone in his eyes, yet beneath it lingered traces of sadness.

You turned your face away before he could see the tears welling in your eyes. Whatever closeness you had once shared could not continue. You cherished him too deeply to pretend otherwise, and loving him without being loved in return hurt more than you had ever imagined.

Afterward, he continued to treat you as always—but something had changed.

Each session left him more exhausted than before. His precise movements grew clumsy, his bright eyes dull, and his skin more pallid.

You, meanwhile, felt stronger than you ever had in your life, yet you were unnerved.

Zayne assured you nothing was wrong, shutting you out of his office, urging you to focus on your duties as the new sovereign.

It was Dr. Noah who broke the news to you.

Zayne intended to leave the palace at dawn. He stated that he believed it was for the best.

You went to him at once—furious that he would dare abandon you without a word. But when you found him, your anger dissolved into horror.

He lay in a crumpled heap on the floor.

His skin was deathly pale, lips tinged blue, his breath rattling in his chest. When he tried to speak, he broke into a fit of coughing, wheezing as he begged you—weakly, desperately—to leave.

You refused, cradling him in your arms, demanding he tell you what this maddening affliction was.

And then, at last, he told you everything.

Zayne had been born with an overabundance of qi—his life force so powerful it could retrieve a soul on the brink of death. Every time he touched another, he gave a piece of himself away. Every “healed” person cost him his own vitality. 

That was why he wore gloves. Why he travelled alone through the land, saving those who were in need while preserving his own life force by limiting contact.

When he treated you, he did not merely heal—he overwhelmed your demonic energy with his own qi, taking its burden into himself. Each session strengthened you and siphoned him.

This was his cursed fate, to drain himself to save others.

He told you that if you could live—if you could live a life that was full—then his death would be a small price to pay. He would die at peace, knowing his life had meant something.

He wiped your tears as they fell, his sunken face still radiating that tender warmth you knew so well—but you would not accept this fate he had chosen for himself.

With shaking hands, you tore the glove from his skin and seized his bare hand in yours. This time, you did not resist your nature—you gave in. Your mixed energy surged into him, blistering hot compared to his soothing cold. Pain speared through both of you, as your very essences intertwined.

When you opened your eyes, Zayne lay breathing steadily in your arms. Color had returned to his face, his pulse strong beneath your fingers. He was weak—but alive.

You laughed and cried all at once, clutching him as though he might vanish if you let go. You begged him—through broken sobs—never to leave you again.

This time, he did not turn away.

Zayne cupped your face with ungloved hands, his touch warm for the first time you had ever known it. 

From that day on, your bond changed.

Your energies no longer consumed one another—they balanced instead, sustaining you both. You were no longer merely vessels for higher powers, but people who had chosen to live.

Zayne remained in his role as a physician alongside Dr. Noah, Greyson, and Yvonne, working solely in traditional and modern medicine. Yet the truth was known throughout the palace, spoken softly but without doubt:

He was no longer just your healer.

He was your chosen companion.

⊹︵︵︵︵︵︵︵⊹ 𝄞 ⊹︵︵︵︵︵︵︵ ⊹

Rafayel, The Sacrificial Bride:

You remember learning from your tutor that there was a race of mystical mer-people who resided beneath the seas.

Not only were they more beautiful and talented than humans—their siren songs hailed as the most exquisite music one could ever hear—they also possessed the power to wield magic, far surpassing even the most skilled cultivators.

For that reason, they were shunned by mortals and feared by those in power—so much so that before you were born, your father, the Emperor, waged a long, bloody war to subdue the Sea People and plunder the treasures hidden in their waters. A war in which your ancestors were victorious.

When you ascended the throne, one gift in particular drew attention. A man with divine beauty, cascading hair, and robes that shimmered like the ocean, yet he would not meet your gaze.

An ambassador of the Sea People whispered the truth to you: to secure peace and prove their loyalty to your reign, they had sent their very own prince, offering him as a bridegroom.

You were unsure what to do with the man named Rafayel, so you gave him his own wing of the palace and the freedom to go wherever he pleased.

He accepted these gifts with bitterness. You were not surprised by his resentment—he and his people had endured long years of abuse at the hands of your kind: captured, kept as pets despite laws forbidding it, and sometimes even killed in attempts to unravel the secrets of their magic.

Yet you treated him with dignity and patience, granting him space and respect. Even when he climbed into your bed, you refused to reciprocate intimacy, explaining that your union was purely for appearances. You assured him that, when the time was right, he would be given the means to leave the castle and return home, making clear that you sought to repair the harm your ancestors had inflicted upon his people. Your words seemed to both confuse and shock him.

You allowed him to sit in on policy meetings, despite the outrage of several loudmouthed officials. To your surprise, he offered counsel of his own, carefully veiled in platitudes and neutral observations.

From then on, in the dead of night when he came to your chambers, rather than fall into depravity, you discussed matters of state together. His intellect and political insight helped you craft laws that served both your peoples.

The more time you spent with him, the more you discovered Rafayel’s depth: he was a true artist, skilled with brush and voice alike. All of his paintings and woodcuttings found a place in your quarters and study, and you even had a gallery installed so the rest of the palace could appreciate the craftsmanship. 

You also realized he could be surprisingly clingy, wearing a shameless pout whenever you informed him you could not spend time together. 

Whether it was genuine or a subtle strategy to worm himself further into your heart, it was effective.

He was a fantastic pipa player and he’d often perform for you when you were alone, but one time he chose to sing along with his playing. You were unsure if the beauty of the music came from the gift of his people or from the singer himself.

He’d also protected you from an assasination attempt when the two of you were strolling the grounds after dark, when a poison dart flew at you from the rooftop. 

You shielded your face but when you opened your eyes, the dart lay in a pile of dust, and flames licked at Rafayel’s fingertips, his eyes an unearthly shade of blue.

Despite the growing closeness between you, a sliver of doubt always remained: were his words and actions truly sincere, or, like so many at court, was he seeking a way to manipulate or overthrow you?

As these thoughts ate away at you, one of the eunuchs approached with alarming news: he had seen Rafayel meeting with certain administrators in secret.

The eunuch had overheard fragments of the conversation. They were instructing Rafayel to poison your drink the next time you were alone together, so that he could finally return to the ocean while a more “suitable” ruler took your place. The man had fled in terror upon hearing the plan, leaving the rest of the plot unknown.

Horror surged through you, yet a part of you clung to hope—hope that Rafayel would not betray you.

That night, when you were alone in your chambers, he poured your tea as always, telling some innocuous tale about a cat he had “bravely” scared off—he had detested the poor creatures ever since he came on land.

You picked up your cup, keeping your eyes fixed on it, and recounted the amusing rumor of him gaining followers in court. He did not confirm or deny, instead asking quietly whether it upset you, as if probing how much you already knew.

This time, you looked him squarely in the eye. You mused aloud about how poison could slip into tea so subtly, how you would not know until it was too late. 

He nodded, agreeing with your observations, all while that perfect, disarming smile of his played across his lips—the very smile you had come to adore.

You lifted the tea and drank it in one measured gulp.

Setting the cup back on the table, you and Rafayel sat in silence, the air between you uncharacteristically tense.

Before long, your body began to relax. The tea was safe—there had never been any poison.

He then revealed the truth: yes, men had come to him with a plot to kill you, offering him the chance to assist them given his unique position—but he had refused outright. He even swore he would report them personally to the Empress. Yet he had noticed the way you had acted around him, the suspicion in your eyes, and he had understood that you doubted him.

Overwhelmed by relief and shame, you felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You implored him to leave the palace at once, fearing for his safety, knowing that you could not always shield him from the wrath of the court.

Rafayel, however, reminded you that he needed no protection—it was they who should fear him. And what kind of bride would dare abandon his Empress’s side when she needed him most?

That night, the two of you embraced, unbound by ancient feuds or lingering mistrust, allowing the walls of suspicion and fear to crumble between you.

⋅━━━━━━⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰━━━━━━━⋅

Sylus, The “Demon” Chancellor:

Navigating the royal court—even from the highest seat of power—was like crossing a minefield blindfolded. One misstep could leave you exposed; one careless act could send you hurtling through the air beyond saving.

In those early days, only a handful of nights after your grandmother’s death, you attended a council meeting convened by the officials who had served her for decades. Your body was locked tight with tension, spine rigid as men twice your age spoke at you—about taxes and imports and policy reforms, words piling up into a dull, meaningless drone.

That was when you saw him.

An official whose smooth face was untouched by time, his features prominent and handsome, as though sculpted by celestial hands. His gaze had been focussed elsewhere, but the instant you noticed him, he lifted his eyes. They were red—precisely the shade of his exquisite robes. 

You had never seen anyone like him.

He caught you staring. He did not flinch, rather, the corner of his mouth curved upward.

Mid-lecture, as an elder official embellished details about potential export reforms, the young man interrupted with ease, pointing out how the policy would line the old goat’s coffers rather than ease the burdens of the common people.

The elder’s lips snapped shut, his face mottled with fury, yet he did not utter another word for the rest of the meeting. When the council finally adjourned, the young official glanced back at you and winked.

From that day on, he was everywhere.

At every meeting you presided over, he stood at the fringes of the gathering, but  you watched as entire rooms bent around him. A few carefully chosen phrases were all it took for seasoned men to swallow their insights as well as their insults.

Who was this man who wielded such quiet dominion over your court?

You dispatched your attendants to learn everything they could.

His name was Sylus.

He had entered the court recently, replacing an older official from the foreign land Sylus came from. In a remarkably short time, he had secured the loyalty of many younger officials through luxurious gift deliveries and under the table dealings. Even the elders dared not oppose him, for his wealth was beyond measure.

He held interests in weapons manufacturing and jewel mining. Treasures made their way into his hand as easily as water; nothing was too precious for him not to have. 

Yet darker rumors trailed him: people vanishing from their homes when they refused his terms, tortured in secret until they yielded completely.

Even your grandmother, it was said, had begun to fear the extent of his influence.

But you would not cower.

If Sylus had meant to issue a challenge, you would meet it head-on.

When the next meeting convened, it began meaninglessly enough, a familiar parade of dull reports and stifling formalities. Before long, however, the discussion turned to armament contracts.

One of the younger ministers spoke first. His tone was reverent, almost rehearsed, as he detailed the necessity of securing new weapons to “ensure stability along the borders,” his phrasing a transparent nod toward Sylus’s enterprises.

Yet before Sylus could generously offer up his services, you spoke, commanding the room’s attention.

You wondered aloud whether the borders were truly as fragile as the minister implied, noting that you had received no such cause for alarm. Had he access to information that was impervious to the Empress’s ears?

He blubbered, stuttered, and could not stop himself from glancing toward Sylus for rescue. None came. Sylus remained silent, his attention fixed solely on you.

You announced that you would be commissioning an independent review of all previous armament contracts, analyzing closely at their origins and beneficiaries. 

You turned to Sylus, inquiring politely whether he found this course of action appropriate, or whether you were, in his estimation, overstepping.

All eyes were on him. No one spoke, they dared not even breathe. At last, Sylus inclined his head. An untroubled smile settled onto his features.

“As you command, Empress.”

The meeting was adjourned not long after, but the energy in the chamber had shifted, the scales tilting in a new direction.

You had shown the court that he could be challenged—and that you were the one who would do it.

Rather than being diminished by your challenge, Sylus seemed only to grow bolder. 

He no longer sat in silence while others spoke on his behalf. Instead, he addressed you directly—posing questions about your intended rulings on policy or law, openly disputing your answers, and turning entire council sessions into what felt less like meetings and more like personal tête-à-têtes.

You found, to your surprise, that it invigorated you.

The other officials appeared uncertain where their loyalties should fall. They watched the two of you spar in near silence, hesitant to interject, and in that quiet you found yourself able to move reforms and enact decisions with newfound speed.

After the most recent meeting, one of your attendants informed you that a package awaited you in your study.

Inside, you found a dagger.

It rested in a scabbard etched with intricate carvings—symbols of the empire that you traced with your fingers. 

When you drew the blade, it revealed itself to be the finest steel you had ever seen. You tested it on the flowers arranged nearby; the blade parted stem and blossom as if cutting through air. More striking still, it fit your hand perfectly, as though crafted with you in mind.

A note accompanied it, bearing Sylus’s name.

May this blade be wielded as lethally as your words.

The dagger’s design was unmistakably foreign—its lines and craftsmanship marking it as a product of the land from which Sylus hailed, a nation renowned, and quietly envied, for the make of its weapons.

You did not hesitate.

A private meeting was arranged—not out of secrecy, but courtesy—to thank him for the gift. Yet the rest of the court wouldn’t see it that way. 

He was calm and composed, betraying none of the fear you had come to expect from men who stood before you—especially those who had dared challenge your rule. He sipped his tea at an unhurried pace, as though this were a social call rather than a reckoning.

When you brought out the Go board, asking if he knew how to play.

He seemed faintly amused and assured you that he did.

You began the game—though in truth, one was already underway.

This meeting could end in only two ways: with him leaving the palace with his status revoked, head bowed in dishonor, or with him walking out untouched, and the court waking the next morning and witnessing the two of you now standing in league.

He knew it as well as you did.

As the game unfolded, neither of you yielded ground. Territory was claimed and tested. And as the board filled, you chose not to mask your intent.

There was no reason, you said, that the two of you could not see eye to eye when it came to managing the other pieces on the board. They required guidance—something you both dispensed with ease.

There did not have to be a single victor.

You revealed your final formation then, one in which the board lay balanced, each of you holding equal ground.

So long as it served you both, you explained, the outcome could be called a draw.

When your gaze met his ruby eyes, you realized he saw beyond your imperial façade, and what met you there was not condescension, but a spark of genuine intrigue directed wholly at you. You felt a flicker of warmth lap at your core. 

At the next council meeting, he took his usual place, but his challenges were fewer now, his arguments measured. The officials, watching closely, understood exactly where he stood.

With rumors already in full flight, you found it almost amusing to fan the flames. You invited him to further one-on-one meetings, to strolls through the palace gardens where the two of you moved openly together, unrestrained.

Sylus was a breath of fresh air.

He was an excellent conversationalist, sharp-witted and perceptive, and he teased you with an ease few others dared—giving you the moniker of a feisty kitten. You laughed more in his presence than you had since ascending the throne.

You discovered he was a man of refined tastes, particularly in music. In response, you arranged a court performance featuring pieces you knew he would enjoy, seating him at your side so you could murmur observations to one another, giggling like you were old friends.

The gifts did not stop, each was more lavish than the last.

Once, he presented you with a hand-crafted hairpin, inlaid with a jewel so rare and precious it could have purchased a small country. You wore it without thinking twice.

Admittedly, you had begun to see him less as a political rival, and more as a cherished companion. You delighted in the stories he told you at night—of his homeland, where life was nomadic and brutal, where strength determined one’s survival and the weak were afforded no mercy.

He spoke of fighting and clawing his way into a position of power, of the hardships he endured. Those memories he divulged to you in strict confidence tugged unexpectedly at your heart.

Gradually, you found yourself reopening discussions of the armament contracts, with a more lenient attitude towards renewal.

Like a fine liquor, Sylus was intoxicating. Delectable in careful measure, yet dangerous in excess. You told yourself you were drinking in moderation.

How could someone who made you feel unequivocally human be harmful?

The answer came one night, brought on by the hushed words of a spy, carrying unsettling news about your new “favorite”.

Per your request months ago, your spies had continued digging into Sylus’s past, maintaining a quiet watch over his movements. 

No record of a man named Sylus existed in the empire’s public archives. Nor did he appear in the annals of his homeland—at least not until recently, when he suddenly and mysteriously rose to power and was named an “ambassador” shortly before arriving in your court.

Until last night, however, nothing about his behavior had warranted alarm.

That night, two men dressed in black—identical in height, identical in dress, their faces concealed behind matching crow masks—were seen slipping into his residence in the Imperial City.

Your spies followed them in.

They managed to draw close enough to peer through sheer curtains and make out the figures inside. The men in black knelt before Sylus. They spoke in a rough, unfamiliar tongue, one that Sylus answered fluently. Though the language was foreign, one of your spies recognized fragments—words that carried meaning even without context.

Progress. Empress. Control.

When the spies attempted to listen further, they were discovered. The masked men fell upon them with terrifying speed and brutal efficiency. Only one spy returned alive to tell you what had transpired. Clutched in his bloodied hand was a pin torn from one of Sylus’s men, its insignia unmistakable—the mark of a rebel organization that had openly denounced the monarchy.

You were left reeling.

Had Sylus harbored ulterior motives all along?

You dismissed the survivor and sat alone with the weight of the truth. If the captured spy still lived, they might already be under torture, forced to reveal that you had been investigating Sylus from the beginning.

If he learned that—

You exhaled slowly. What would his next move be?

The next day, for the first time since his arrival at court, Sylus did not appear.

More unsettling still, you scarcely saw him in the days that followed. Word came through his assistants that he had been abruptly summoned back to his homeland and was making preparations to depart for a short stay.

The news lit a blazing fury in your chest.

You ordered the assistant to relay a message. If he left, he need not bother returning to court at all.

The shock on his face was fleeting; he bowed and fled to deliver it. You told yourself you felt nothing for him. You understood now that his loyalties had never truly been yours.

And yet…something in you still ached.

He had taught you one thing well: strike while the iron is hot, rather than wait for power to slip out of your grasp.

That night, sleep refused you.

A cup of tea sat untouched beside you, once steaming, now long since gone cold. You turned the hairpin he had given you over and over between your fingers, tracing the smooth curve of the jewel.

Your other hand closed around the dagger, the very first gift.

You pressed the blade’s tip to the gem, ready to wrench it free—

—and froze at the sound of a body hitting cobblestone.

You rushed outside.

One of your guards lay sprawled on the ground, breathing steadily, a razor-thin needle protruding from his neck. Beside him stood a cloaked figure who raised a hand in an almost cheerful wave, introducing himself as Kieran.

Another body collapsed nearby. A second cloaked man appeared, identical in dress, offering another wave and a cheery voice stating he was Luke.

You drew your dagger at once, grip firm. “If you’ve come to kill me,” you said coolly, “you’ll find it won’t be easy.”

They stared at you in genuine surprise.

“Kill you?” Kieran echoed. “No, no—Boss Man would have our heads.”

“Boss Man asked us to bring you,” Luke added. “If you’d be willing to come with us. He expressly told us not to use force. If you refuse, we’ll leave.”

You hesitated only a moment before sheathing the blade—though you did not let it go. You gestured for them to lead the way.

They took you through the quiet corridors and into the courtyard, stopping beneath a willow tree whose branches gently swayed in the breeze.

Sylus waited there, leaning against the trunk moonlight catching in his hair. His expression softened when he saw you. 

You knew why he would choose this spot, the two of you coming here on your casual walks more times than you could count. And yet there was nothing pleasant about meeting him now.

“You received my message,” you said flatly.

“I did,” he replied. “And I wasn’t keen on obeying it.”

Your chin lifted. “What if I want you gone? You no longer have a place in this court. I do not keep allies who plan to dispose of me.”

For the briefest moment, his composure cracked. True pain flashed across his features.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Listen to me.”

He told you everything.

Of how he had risen to status in his homeland, backed by rebels who held substantial power within the nation’s fractured government. Of how his strength and cunning had earned him their favor—and how they had sent him to your empire to undermine your rule. The wealth he wielded, the influence he commanded—it had all been supplied by them.

But he had not been summoned home to conspire.

He had sent word refusing to continue their schemes.

Now he was a wanted man in his homeland. His assets were seized. His supporters shunned him.

“I have nothing left to offer you,” he said softly, stepping closer. The wind stirred his hair, rustled the willow’s branches. He took your hand in his, gentle as he’d always been with you. “Nothing but this.”

And he knelt.

“I swear my loyalty to you,” he said. “You are the finest ruler I have ever known and your dynasty shall be a great one. My only wish is to remain by your side. Whatever punishment you deem fit, I will accept.”

He pressed his lips to the back of your hand.

That familiar warmth surged through you, dissolving the last of your resolve. You pulled him up and wrapped your arms around him, breathless with the force of it.

“For your disservice against the throne, I command you to never leave my side. You will serve and accompany me till the day you die.” 

He laughed softly, bending to murmur in your ear, “That, I can do.”

Stripped of wealth and standing, Sylus could no longer serve as an official. His former allies looked down on him now—yet none dared speak when he appeared at meetings seated beside you, facilitating as he always had, cutting short the tongues of fools and those who tried to sway your opinion selfishly.

His new title was unspoken but unmistakable.

And when the two of you retired to your chambers at night and you caught that familiar grin on his face, you knew—

He was more than pleased with his new role.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Caleb, The Traitorous General:

Your grandmother had taken a secret to her grave—one that would have shaken the foundations of your claim to the throne had anyone known.

You were not the true heir.

Before your parents’ deaths, they had adopted you—a girl born with a demonic heart, captured by cultivators. Your father believed that with such a heart, you could become a far more powerful weapon than any nation could possess.

The child who was meant to inherit the throne from birth was your adoptive brother, Caleb.

You were raised together within the palace walls. Though he knew the truth of your demonic nature, he treated you with kindness, and in turn, you grew to love and rely on him.

Your childhood was an idyllic one. Caleb took to the role of your protector naturally: your guardian, your knight, the one who would rush to your side at any hour, anywhere you may be.

As you both grew older, however, life began to pull you in different directions. 

Caleb immersed himself in military strategy and combat, preparing to serve the empire in ways you could not. Meanwhile, at your grandmother’s orders, you were groomed to ascend the throne, trained to rule, and slowly, the closeness you had once shared began to strain.

As Caleb rose through the ranks of the military, earning the title of a venerated General, he began to see that corruption and deadly conspiracies ran far deeper than either of you had ever suspected.

There were those who sought to exploit your youth—who wished to place you upon the throne not as a ruler, but as a mouthpiece, a carefully dressed puppet. Opposing them was a growing faction who named themselves Caleb’s supporters, men who whispered that he should be the one to rule instead.

Caleb knew what that meant for you.

Your claim to the throne was fragile. If anyone investigated your past too closely, it would be contested, and he would not allow that to happen. Your safety had always been his highest priority—above rank, above honor, above even his own life.

So he resolved to disappear.

When he was sent to battle—a campaign that should have posed no challenge to a strategist and warrior of his caliber—tragedy struck. In the dead of night, his tent was struck by a cannonball. It erupted in a burst of fire and smoke, leaving nothing behind.

No body was ever recovered.

Only a single, scorched scent pouch—one he had carried on his person ever since you gifted it to him as a child.

You were inconsolable for days. Grief hollowed you out, left you raw and unsteady. You nearly postponed your coronation to observe the full mourning period, but even in death, you could hear his voice—sharp and unwavering—calling such a decision reckless.

You knew, deep in your heart, what he would have wanted.

So you claimed your fated inheritance.

The crown was placed upon your head, and though the people celebrated for days on end, your heart ached with every passing moment.

Moons passed. Then word arrived from one of your border spies.

The empire’s bitter enemy had been sighted—an encampment forming in the distance, their forces preparing to strike. The reported formation tugged at something in your memory, uncomfortably familiar, but you dismissed the thought.

You moved swiftly. Drawing on every lesson Caleb had ever taught you, you instructed your generals, shaping the course of battle. Your heart clenched at his absence, but you refused to let grief dull your judgment.

Your soldiers emerged victorious.

They returned in triumph, prisoners in tow, greeted by the roaring cheers of palace civilians. Among the captives was the enemy’s leading military general, brought before you in chains.

Nothing could have prepared you for the moment you looked upon him.

His hair was longer now, his right arm replaced by one of cool steel. His eyes—once so bright—were dimmed by exhaustion and something far heavier. But even so, you knew this man.

You would have known him in any form.

It was your dear Caleb. Back from the dead.

You ordered that he be locked away in a solitary cell deep within the dungeon, separated from his comrades. He didn’t utter a word in his defense as your guards roughly dragged him off, their faces cruel.

The first time you went to see him, he sat slumped in the corner, his gaze fixed on the stone wall before him. His eyes were empty in a way that made your chest ache.

You knelt beside the bars and whispered his name, scarcely daring to believe it.

“Is it you? Are you truly alive? Why were you fighting for the enemy? What happened to you all this time?”

He did not answer.

The silence crushed you. You fled the dungeon with your nerves in tatters, tears blurring your vision. It hurt too much to even look at him—to see him and yet not have him.

When you returned days later, your heart sank. His cheeks had grown hollow, the sharp lines of hunger carved into his face. His right arm was completely gone and fresh bruises marred his skin. It didn’t take long to understand what had happened.

The guards had not been feeding him. Worse still, they had taken their revenge on the so-called traitor to the empire.

Rage and guilt twisted together inside you. You swore, through tears, that the men responsible would be beaten within an inch of their lives. You begged him to speak, to look at you, to tell you he recognized you—anything.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

His eyes locked onto yours at last. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough, as though he hadn’t spoken in a very long time.

“Who are you?” 

You were left in complete shock.

You told him your name, demanded to know if this was some cruel joke, your voice trembling on the edge of a shout—but he offered nothing more.

You summoned Dr. Noah at once.

He examined Caleb thoroughly, tending to his wounds while scrutinizing his condition. When he finally spoke, his words confirmed your worst fear.

Caleb’s memory had been wiped clean.

He remembered nothing of the palace. Nothing of his former life. Nothing of you.

You begged Dr. Noah, practically on your knees, to find a way to reverse the affliction but he could only shake his head. Recovery, he explained gently, depended entirely on the patient. The mind would return—or it would not—on its own terms.

Your heart felt unbearably heavy, yet your resolve hardened in its place.

You ordered that Caleb be restored to health—beginning with the return of his arm and his removal from the dungeon. He was transferred to the Cold Palace, where he could be properly cared for by men you trusted, far from prying eyes.

Only there, he was safe. 

Each day, no matter how full your schedule grew, you carved out time for him. Sometimes you shared quiet meals within the palace walls; other times, you took short walks together as he slowly regained his strength. At first, he spoke very little—his answers were curt and vague, fragments of half-remembered things when you asked about your shared past.

But gradually, something shifted.

He began to speak more. His cadence softened, familiar inflections returning. In those moments, you could glimpse the Caleb you had loved so dearly, reassuring you that somewhere deep within him, he still existed.

Yet the world refused to leave you in peace.

The officials whispered. They made offhand remarks in council chambers and behind closed doors, noting how soft-hearted you had grown toward a traitor. They questioned your insistence on restoring his memory, your reluctance to pass judgment.

Punishment, they reminded you, had to be meted out.

He must be executed. Like the traitor he was.

You knew you could not delay the inevitable much longer. If justice was to be done, it would be by your own hand—you would not allow anyone else to humiliate him further.

In the dead of night, as he slept peacefully in his bed, the guards outside let you pass. Hidden within the folds of your dress was a dagger, its weight a heavy reminder of what you had come to do.

For a moment, the sight of him undid you. His face was unguarded, almost boyish in sleep, and your resolve wavered—just for a heartbeat.

Then you raised the blade.

Silently, you begged his soul for forgiveness. You promised you would find him again in the afterlife.

The dagger cut through the air.

A hand clamped around your wrist.

In a blur of motion, you were flipped onto your back. His grip tightened, painful enough that the dagger slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor as you cried out. You stared up at him, breathless.

Caleb was wide awake.

His chest rose and fell rapidly as he looked down at you, confusion flickering in his eyes. And there—against his chest—hung a familiar scent pouch. The very one you had recovered from the wreckage all those moons ago.

When you were both seated and steaming cups of tea were placed before you, he revealed to you everything.

His memory had never been lost.

There was a traitor in your court—but it had never been him.

He told you how he had gone into battle prepared to die if necessary, though the explosion that destroyed his tent had not been part of his plan. It had been planted. 

Someone within your own ranks had wanted him dead. Instead, he lost his arm and was taken prisoner by the enemy. 

They tortured him for months on end. When escape proved impossible, he made a choice. 

He feigned memory loss—not for himself, but for you. To protect your secrets and your life.

In time, they realized the asset they had gained. Rather than kill him, they elevated him—installed him as their military commander and gifted him a new arm. Yet through it all, his loyalty never wavered.

It had nearly broken him to pretend he did not know you. Still, he confessed, he had selfishly cherished the stolen moments—the quiet meals, the walks, the time when you were his alone. Above all else, he was grateful to see you alive and crowned Empress.

But he had known it could not last.

Sooner or later, the court would demand his execution. He had accepted that fate willingly if it meant you could rule without fear.

You refused his sacrifice.

You told him that the only way you could ever be a ruler worthy of the prophecy was if he lived—if he stayed at your side. And at that, he swore he would never part from you again.

Together, you uncovered the true traitor within your court.

It was that man who met a brutal end, torn limb from limb by horses. Caleb was restored in honor, hailed as a returning war hero and returned to his rightful position at court.

And this time, the two of you stood closer than you ever had before.

[jiianie]

[altades]

Cooking up my SwapAU

Refs! Feel free to use them for your aus (with credit) The gist of this au is Shroud leads SDN. Z-team are a bunch of mediocre heroes who fucked up in one way or another. Roberts gets captured and is offered a deal to become a part of the phoenix program. He's hired as Z-team's dispatcher (totally not as a way to torture him) and given limited freedom.

You're welcome to ask me some questions!

[erinye-headspace]

How I feel after continuously saying Infold should release a LADS Idol banner and then Infold proceeds to announce they’re releasing a LADS Idol banner:

[erinye-headspace]

LADS as a 2000's Reverse-Harem Anime

me and @an-ari were chatting and saying how it sucks the LADS LIs don't interact more even though they're so deeply interwoven in the same woman's lives so then we got on the topic of LADS functioning like a cringy 2000's reverse-harem anime/dating sim (i am a veteran of these) i wanted to share our hcs and expand on them too

General Setting

Obviously they're all in high school so they're all students attending Deepspace Academy

The story is mixed with supernatural and slice of life, with people being born with evols and Wanderers being a big enough threat that you go to school to become a Hunter, mixed with all the cute interactions and events you get from them being students

Hunters are already a huge deal in base canon but I think in this universe they're given the recognition and renown superheroes have so obviously everyone's dream career is to be a Hunter

MC is still the most special girl in the universe being the literal universe inside of a human shell, it's peak writing

Not exactly sure how the reincarnation bit comes into play but it would be cool how in the "dating sim" game, the more you advance down your chosen love interest's route, the more you learn about your past life together

⊹︵︵︵︵︵︵︵⊹ 𝄞 ⊹︵︵︵︵︵︵︵ ⊹

RAFAYEL, the Rich One

The first LI to get introduced plus he's also literally InFold's golden child and mascot of the game

Do you know the first scene in uta no prince sama where the MC is late to her entrance exam because she was helping a lost kid and the security guards won't let her in but Ren pulls up in his fancy car and fights for her to get in

That's what I picture Raf's first interaction with MC being like, except later down the line you realize this man has no charisma or suavity, but that's what makes you choose his route because he's your pretty princess

I'm not sure what kind of "-dere" archetype he'd be, he's not ouji- or hime-dere since he's not all that arrogant, but I think in this universe he might actually be kind of arrogant just to contrast the other LIs

Very Tamaki Suoh coded

He is ranked in the top 10 best fighters at the Academy but he doesn't care all that much about grades or social standing, preferring to spend training time working on an art piece instead, probably the president of an art preservation club or something like that

His pet name for the MC/player would definitely be "my muse"

Regarding his family, he comes from old money so he's rich rich and he flaunts it in the LI's faces at every opportunity

But his family has a secret......they're actually descended from mermaids!!

He transforms when he touches the water (H20 core) and the reveal is definitely an intimate scene because he's displaying such a big vulnerability to the MC which would push you closer together

For the obligatory beach episode, they would all go to Rafayel's family's private island and when the LIs are busy, he transforms for her and they get to have a little moment before a storm suddenly hits and he has to save her in his mer-form

•─────────•°•❀°•──────────•

ZAYNE, the Student Council President

It's hardly surprising that Zayne is the ultra mega super powerful highly ranked and respected student council president

Is also among the top 10 Hunter trainees in the entire school

But you know him as Zaynie, your childhood friend who always had a bandaid in his pocket for your cuts and bruises and who moved away before middle school started for "reasons that don't concern you" (they absolutely do)

He's the second love interest to get introduced after Rafayel; you just happened to bump into him while trying to find your advisory class and made him drop all the textbooks and packages he was holding

Is for sure a kuu-dere/the emotionally unavailable one

His route is definitely one of the harder ones to complete and is chock full of angst and endings that result in MC dying

I personally think it would be hilarious if Dawnbreaker ends up as a secret love interest like Ukyo or Saeran and is Zayne's twin brother who ran away from home

Would be the second yandere character after Caleb but he'd actually kill you

Going back to Zayne, he's the one who volunteers to tutor you when your grades start declining and obviously all the other LIs have to include themselves so he ends up tutoring everyone while failing his own exam

Caleb is his main "rival" for you and he also is actively trying to protect you from Dawnbreaker

The other LIs don't want to admit it but they genuinely like him as a person because he is the perfect man (I'm biased)

The best cook in the group which Caleb is forever irritated by so they'll definitely get into a cook-off one episode to settle the debate but MC ends up not being able to eat their dishes because the other three devoured them before she got to try

⋅━━━━━━⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰━━━━━━━⋅

SYLUS, the Delinquent

Should be no surprise that he falls into the "class delinquent but he has a soft spot only for you" trope

What I do want to see is him having a mullet bc I think visually he would be the better Mage from Dance with Devils or Yuma from Diabolik Lovers

Definitely one of the best fighters in the whole school but everyone is scared to death of him also teachers are scared of him too and label him as a troublemaker

Rumored to have been held back a few years but at most it's one and it's because he doesn't give a damn about grades or school itself until MC comes along and he thinks "maybe it's not so bad after all"

Is the leader of a small gang which includes Luke and Kieran

Enemies to lovers except it's one-sided because MC is the one who hated him day 1 but he was fascinated by her from the beginning and loves to tease her to see her reactions

Is very fond of teasing all the LIs too but he doesn't shy away from inserting himself in moments where she's having some alone time with another guy (Mephisto was watching them the whole time)

She came across him and Luke+Kieran threatening a guy and obviously she steps in to help because of her strong moral compass and they have a little stand-off before he just claims it's "not worth it anymore" and walks off with the twins

And then plot twist MC discovers this violent, no-good delinquent is in her class!!

I do think he would still have built and kept Mephisto and it can serve as a bonding point for him and MC because it's very attached to her (he programmed it to be like that)

In terms of how him being a dragon would come into play, his thing could be that he's either turning into a monster because of the Protocore in his eye or he was half "Fiend" to begin with so that checks off another trope box

Doesn't particularly hate any of the other LIs, if anything he probably thinks of them as just one big friend group, but I think he wouldn't like Xavier just because he's "too bright" also Xavier proposed to MC soon as he walked into the classroom

+:★:+*━━━━━━━*+:★:+*━━━━━━━*+:★:+*

XAVIER, the Foreign Exchange Student

The Western/white, blonde hair, blue eyes love interest in every reverse harem piece of media

Since they're all canonically Chinese, Xavier in this story is wasian but the white genes are stronger so people assume he's French and he just goes along with it

Gets introduced as the fourth LI

His secret is he's the vigilante Hunter, Lumiere, and yes, he would still be super petty if MC ever brings up the fact that she admires or thinks highly of his alter ego your likability points would get reduced so fast

He's definitely the dan-dere archetype so would be a lot more expressionless than he is in canon but it's revealed his limited emotional range is because he's an alien and came to Earth/Gaia in search of a power source for his dying planet

Is literally next in line for the throne on his planet too

I think the reason he goes undercover as Lumiere in this universe is because he came to Earth several years prior to going to DA and encountered Wanderers then began killing them because he believes they hold the secret to finding a power source

Only came to DA specifically because he was "called" there in his dreams

The "falling in love at first sight" trope is heavy in his route because as soon as he sees MC he just knows she's the one and immediately gets down on one knee in the middle of the classroom and proclaims his desire to marry her and whisk her off to his planet which irritates the other LIs sitting in the class

For funsies, I think the LI he has the biggest beef with would be Sylus

Forces of light and darkness duking it out for your love is always a fun time

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

CALEB, the Childhood Friend

Last but not least, the second of your two childhood friends who has been with you for practically every day of your life until he set off for pilot school which takes longer to complete than the Deepspace Academy

Was only introduced as the fifth LI second season of the anime and is one of the hidden LIs in the dating sim but he is definitely a fan favorite

The running gag is he doesn't even go to MC's school but he's there practically every day just to see MC and ward off her other suitors and then Gideon has to come and drag this man back to class while he's kicking and screaming the whole way

Hates every other LI but has a special hatred reserved for Zayne, will always be around to sabotage everyone else

Would probably also know about Dawnbreaker so is ultra protective of MC due to that and in his route, it wouldn't be Zayne who saved MC from him but Caleb

I would like his myth to stay in the game/show but only because everyone else will insist they join in on the VR experience and then they all get their own avatars and it becomes an RPG adventure, it would be very fun

First yandere in the game and I think more palatable than Dawnbreaker bc that guy's route is a lot more intense content wise

Bad ending is straightforward: he isolates MC, has her drop out of school, and they both live in the house they grew up in only MC can't leave because she's literally got shackles on her

now the only question left is....who are you going to choose?

[erinye-headspace]

heyy guys soooo ik i've been inactive for a rlly long time i was away for 2 months working as a camp counselor and there was no internet plus i didn't rlly have the time to write since i was supervising children 24/7 i will try to get the fics i promised out but i can't give an exact timeline you can still send stuff in thru my inbox if anything i'll appreciate the ideas haha but yeah thats all i wanted to say, toodles

[an-ari]

made a lil raf keychain

[an-ari]

made another one for my friend @erinye-headspace

these things are kinda hard to make 😭😭😭😭

[erinye-headspace]

THEYRE SO CUUUUUUTTTEEEE

THANK YOU AGAIN I LOVE IT SM ALREADY MY FIRST PIECE OF LADS MERCH 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

[lijean]

Imagine him proposing with a snowflake ring

[aerosarrow]

dawnbreaker zayne doodles because me personally,, i do not believe a man consuming liquid food for sustenance would look put together..

[erinye-headspace]

REEEEEAAAAAALLLLL

i wish InFold wasn’t terrified of making the guys look disheveled or haggard, dawnbreaker literally eats candy for all three meals this dude is NOT okay physically 😭😭😭

[erinye-headspace]

I AM HEALED THE WORLD IS GOOD!!!!

[erinye-headspace]

LADS girlies im trying to settle a heated debate once and for all hear me out….

is Xavier’s hair blonde or silver/grey (based off how he LOOKS in game)

That man is a Blondie if I’ve ever seen one

Erm ackshually he has silver/grey hair bc its lore accurate 🤓☝️

Voting ended onMay 24, 2025

(this has almost torn apart a friendship choose wisely)

[erinye-headspace]

literally me rn