STOP I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THISSSSS

can you do malleus x y/n?

Do you?

Malleus Draconia x GN!Reader

TW: None, just fluff!

Malleus Draconia, the stoic Fae prince, and future ruler of the Briar Valley had always been a figure of intimidation. Since he was born, no one had ever dared to go against the prince. It was surely wonderful to be respected as such, even feared.

Yet, he couldn't help but feel so dreadfully lonely.

Everyone saw him as a prince, a man who would one day rule over all faeries, a man who who could kill in just a snap of his fingers.

A boy who was never invited to events, a boy who was feared so much that he never lived like a child. A boy who's name could cause thousands, if not millions, to cower.

Then why were you not scared?

Why was it that whenever you saw him, you smiled? Why was he always greeted as an individual, a friend, whenever he met up with you? Why did you trust him so easily?

Were you foolish or naive? He did not know, but what he did know was that you were endearing, a sort of light amidst his black and white world.

You had opened his eyes to what friendship was, what it was like to be cared for unconditionally.

Yet he was greedy. It was in his nature, after all, he was a dragon. He was a dragon who wanted to hoard this newfound treasure.

That treasure was you.

You weren't like his retainers, you never served under him. Nor were you like his followers, you never worshipped him. Then what were you?

The simple idea of someone so peculiar messed with his brain. He wasn't sure what category you were part of. You started off as "just a human" a very peculiar one, but still a mere human.

"Tsunotarou!" You'd say with that same goofy smile plastered on your face. Did you really not know what he was capable of, or were you just that brave?

Yet, whenever you said that name, reaching your arms out to engulf him in your embrace, he couldn't help but smile. The corners of his lips tugged to a grin, showcasing his sharper teeth as he returned the gesture.

He didn't know when nor did he know how it happened, but soon enough, you weren't just a human anymore.

You were his human, his peculiar human that he wanted more than just a friend.

He wanted to be more than "Tsunotarou".

His greed longed for your love, his greed longed for your touch, his greed longed for you.

"Child of man, what do you see me as..?" He asked, his voice deep as usual, his left hand cupping your face. He leaned down to your height, his lips awfully close to your neck.

"What am I to you?" He asked, his voice a whisper. The room seemed to go silent as you stood there, his free hand snaking around your waist.

What started of as a normal walk in the woods, turned into something more serious, much more intimate. The way his right hand snaked around your waist as the other one cupped your face, it was all so confusing, yet so fitting.

Fireflies seemed to dance around you, illuminating the dark night. The wind made the trees dance, the moon seeming a bit too dreamy than usual, as it made a pond nearby glow. The scene was right out of a fairytale, and it seemed as if he were a prince and you were his fated lover.

This was the first time he'd been so outright blunt with you, and so awfully close. Yet, it felt nice, the way his hands fit against you, the way his breath felt on you neck, and the way the blood rushed to your cheeks.

As he moved away from you neck, you looked up at him, your neck craning a bit. His emerald eyes looked into yours with something you couldn't explain, they were seeking an answer, they were longing for you.

"You're Tsunotarou, my friend..." You replied, your mind running a bit too fast for your liking as your heart skipped a beat. What was happening to you? You weren't sure what he was hinting at, what exactly was he asking, so you stated the obvious.

He wasn't stupid, he already knew this. He wanted to know more, what exactly he meant to you, what the possibilities were.

He pulled you closer, your face buried in his chest as he leaned down a bit so you could hear his words as clearly as possible.

"What if I want to be more than friends?" He asked, as the arm gripped around your waist tightened.

"You've given me the chance to experience friendship, something I am deeply grateful for. Yet, friendship doesn't soothe the longing in my heart." His words were careful, slowly reaching the goal he was aiming for.

"I want to be yours."

He let go of you slightly, allowing his eyes to look into yours. His grip loosened a bit as he waited for you to run off, for he may have made you uncomfortable. Yet you didn't, you simply stood there in his loosened embrace.

Your face was flushed, the usual childlike smile nowhere to be found. Instead, your face was red, an expression he'd never attained from you, an expression that he wished to see more of.

The fireflies still danced in the night, the moon glowing brightly, the trees swayed with delight, as you two stood there, relishing in the serenity.

"Do you long for me as much as I long for you?"

Note: Sorry for leaving at kind of a cliffhanger but I wasn't sure how far I was supposed to go and whether it was supposed to be wholesome or more heated. Please do give me more premises and ideas to write about, it would be greatly appreciated.

If you enjoyed it please interact with this post and.or follow me to support! If you wish to request something please read the pinned post first! Thank you!

AHHHHHHH I LOVE THIS OMG OMG IM SQUAELING

ORTHO AND GRIMS PART BAHAHAHHAHA LOVE ITTT

" 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 "

It wasn't the usual request, when you asked your partner to do your make-up . . but now you're here, while he tries his best to paint you like a canvas . . Ft. dorm leaders + ortho & grim

gender neutral reader / established relationship / some sections are suggestive / mean!vil(?!) / slightly self indulgent / squirmy / fidgety reader / semi-edited / proofread (I skimmed it over a couple times) / platonic for ortho & grim / confident!Idia(?) . . I got carried away / slightly rushed on some parts (Azul) /

a/n: new account who this? (old account is @/cupids-chambers)

"Ah— fuck", Leona mutters, clearly displeased, leaning closer into your face to inspect his mistake, carelessly he dragged his finger down the bottom of your lip, hoping to wipe away the remnants of his careless mistake.

"Happy now?", he asked, leaning back, crossing his arms as a shit-eating grin adorned his face, admiring the work of art he had created on your face, though he'd never quite admit how gorgeous you looked, right now—if he was an artist, you'd be his magnum opus—of course a brilliant art piece can only be made with an equally brilliant muse.

Your hand gently grazed over your face—Leona was surprisingly good at make-up, despite struggling in the beggining, you accidentally let a word of praise slip past your lips—which earns you a cocky chuckle from the man—"Told ya', I'm great at everything."

Vil's hand gripped your thigh, holding your legs still and in place—his other hand, gently lifted your chin, facing you towards him, your gaze meeting his—"Hold still for me dear", were the words he spoke, his tone firm and commanding.

You could smell the cologne he used from this level of closeness—and you're sure that if you leant a little closer and stuck your tongue out, you'd be able to taste it—The familiar and comforting, clean earthy-musk scent, you've gotten so accustomed too, the scent whic—"Y/n, darling—are you listening?"

When you don't respond, he clicks his tongue in annoyance, the grip on your thigh tightening in response, and you winced at the shift in demeanor, "Ah my apologies, I did tell you to hold still . . . did I not, my love?"

Malleus's hand grazed the side of your cheek, his movements gentle as he tilts your face towards his, your eyes finally making contact.

His gaze seemed so focused—so entirely enraptured by you—he noted all the details of your face, and engraved it in his brain—the curve of your nose, the plump soft flesh of your lips . . The way your pupils dilated upon eye contact—you were so perfect, tooth-rottenly sweet.

He gripped the liner in his free hand, eyeing your face curiously, "Ah—close your eyes for me, my dear—please?" . . He watched as you closed your eyes tightly, as if on instinct—'Dear seven why were you so fucking adorable?'

He chuckled softly, "This won't do—" he spoke casually, his thumb gently traced the bottom of your lips, "Relax my love, stop squirming . ."

"Rosebud, I don't think I was the right person to ask for help on something like this . . ", Riddle mumbles, as he runs the brush through your face with such accurate precision, although he seemed to be so very against the idea of doing your makeup, aware that he'd probably mess up . . Riddle still found himself agreeing to your request.

"Stop smiling this isn't funny", he spoke, his voice was gentle—although you could tell, he was trying to sound angrier, though he was failing miserably.

Riddle had done a great job, despite his various protests, he was practically straddling you, with how close he was right now, Riddle was asked to do something well, and he was committed . . . even if that meant being this close to you . . Something, he unsurprisingly, wasn't use to—or at least something he didn't personally initiate often.

Kalim giggled as he fiddled around with the makeup brush in his hands, he carefully tapped the extra product off the blush before gently gliding the brush over your face—he tried his best to not overdo the blush.

Kalim had made quite a few mistakes during this whole process, on account of his fidgety hands and general inability to remain still—"There, all done!", he announced proudly, as you examine his work—"You look gorgeous", he mumbled out unconsciously.

Though at your lack of response he grew a bit concerned, "Ah—I'm sorry, I probably took a lot of time . . Right?", he asked, his tone more apologetic, than proud . . until he noticed the shift in your demeaner—"Though—as they say—you can't rush perfection!" he joked, trying to lighten the air once more, thankfully it worked, as he watched the concern on your face morph into that of content.

Azul held the eye shadow palette up in the air, trying to figure out which shade would best suit the look he was going for, he had quite limited options . . not that you had a few eye shadow options, just that the pallets you had, had a limited shade range.

Azul dapped the brush into the navy eye shadow, "I'll use this as a base, if that's okay with you?" he asked for confirmation, and only proceeded after you nodded. "You know . . you could be a makeup artist . . I heard Vil's looking for a new on—" you spoke up with a smile, a teasing edge to your words that caused Azul to smile.

His fingers lightly tapped the side of your cheek, "No, this is just for you, all for you."

Idia was hunched over, in front of you, hand gripping the bottom of your chin, lifting you up to meet his gaze, "Could you like, part your lips for me?", he asked, gripping the lip liner in his other hand, "Yes, just like that" he grinned as you followed his demand, his thumb dragging just below your lip, pulling it just a bit more apart.

He dragged the liner carefully, following the outline of your lips, then grabbed the lip shade he had in mind, filling in your lips . . "Shit, got put too much on—" he paused, "let me just—", he leaned down, your lips meeting his for a soft, lingering kiss, "there . . perfect . ."

Ortho fiddled around with your lip options, fingers digging through your makeup bag, for something that could work. Well, you found out Ortho could match your makeup with colour theory, artificial intelligence and all. But what started as a harmless experiment, and fun activity, now had you glued to a chair for the past hour.

Ortho held up his lipstick of choice, "How about this one?" he asked curiously, and before you could respond Grim piped in, "Too dark, makes them look like a—", your glare cut him off, "never mind, it looks great! . . henchman looks amazing in everything!!"

@ devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.

GUESS WHAT ITS MY BIRTHDAY (I HAD THE NEED TO ANNOUANCE IT BECAUSE IT DOESNT FEEL SPECIAL AND I WANT IT TO AND I KNOW KNOW ONE ACCTUALLY READS THESE BUT THAT'S OK)

Everyone: Floyd give us that...rat

Floyd: Nuh uh *Hugging stitch who's a menace to everyone but Floyd*

Ace: IT BIT MY ASS OF WDYM NUH UH

Yuu: That thing knows exactly what he's doing and he's smart enough to cling to the one person who no one's really gonna mess with. Fascinating.

Floyd: Me and you're gonna be best buddies (Let stitch bite Ace's ass off cause he made him angry)

Stitch: *Biting Ace's ass off*

Floyd: I think Crabby likes it

Ace: AHHHHH GET THIS THING OFF ME

Yuu: *Vlogging this whole scene* So yeah guys, this is life

AGHAGHFFFJK AHHHHH OMGGGG WOWOWOWOW

sypnosis. a queen waits for the return of the man who promised he would always come back. her lover, who disappeared years ago chasing an adventure only he could see. the court demands a king, and suitors press in, but she remains unmoved, weaving a shroud of time until he returns. then, a challenge: whoever can string her betrothed’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve battle-axes will claim the throne. the suitors fail, but the beggar steps forward, rook, disguised. the bow bends, the arrow flies true, and rook stands before her, alive, and home at last.

note. i was listening to “the challenge” and thought of rook, stupidly enough cause of the bow & i immediately thought of “rook would love this” but you get it ^^’’ !!! immediate apologies if it may seem ooc, or off grammar (unfortunately, english isn’t my first language)

𝕿He. . . loom stretches before you, a seemingly endless web of threads that twine and twist in complex patterns. It feels like an impossible task, one you can never quite complete. Each morning, your fingers move with purpose, the rhythmic motion of weaving pulling you deeper into the task, a desperate distraction from the ache in your chest. Each night, when the rest of the castle has drifted into slumber, you return to the loom to unravel the threads, as if in some way, that will erase the time that’s passed — the time that you’ve been forced to endure without him. They do not know. The suitors who fill your court like hungry wolves — bright smiles and velvet robes hiding the sharp edges of ambition — believe you are near the end, that soon, you will choose a new king.

But you are still his.

He left you years ago, chasing a challenge that only he could see. The great hunter, the man who had seen beauty in every fleeting moment, had sworn to return. His final words still echo in your memory: “Mon amour,” he had whispered, breath warm against your temple, hands pressing over yours. “I leave not for adventure, but for the promise of coming home to you. What is love, if not the patience to wait?”

But patience is cruel, and faith wears thin when it is constantly tested by the long silence between you. The world does not stop spinning while you wait for a man who might never return. You have held your breath for years, hoping against hope that the promise he left you would hold true, but as the days turn into months, and the months into years, you begin to wonder if perhaps the sea has swallowed him whole.

The kingdom stirs. The whispers grow louder each day. It has been too long. He is gone. A queen cannot rule alone forever, they say. And so they press closer, thousands of men draped in velvet and gold, smiles dripping with false sweetness, eyes gleaming with greed. They speak of duty, of stability. They speak of the future.

But what of the past?

The love you held for Rook is not something fragile that can be traded away. It is not a thing to be bartered like the throne you sit upon. And yet, the court grows impatient, the vultures circling, waiting for their moment to swoop in.

“Your Majesty,” one of them says, his voice smooth as silk, his hand lingering too long on the armrest of your throne. “The throne needs a king.“

“A nation without a ruler is weak,” another murmurs, his eyes glinting with something more dangerous than mere concern. “Choose, and we will grant you peace.”

Peace? How.. humourous. As if the love you hold for Rook could ever be bought, as if it were something to be sacrificed to ease their hunger. As if you are not the woman who has held the kingdom together, the queen who ruled with strength and wisdom while he was lost to the world. But they do not understand. They never have.

Still, they will not stop.

So, you buy yourself time. But, is it for yourself?

“I will choose,” you say, your voice steady, betraying none of the chaos inside. “As soon as I finish weaving this shroud.”

They believe you. And so, the cycle continues.

Day after day, you sit at the loom, hands moving with mechanical precision, the rhythm of the work a small comfort in a world that no longer makes sense. You tell yourself that you will be free once it is finished, that once you have completed the task, you can let go. But every night, you return to unravel the work of the day, pulling the threads free, watching the promise of completion slip away like sand through your fingers.

And unexpectedly, the storm will come by.

Huh, the weather today.. seems peculiar. I wonder.

You thought, the sky today looks unlike anything you have ever seen, dark clouds gathering on the horizon, the sea thrashing wildly as though it too were in mourning. The wind howls, rattling the castle walls, and in the darkness of that night, something shifts in the air, a whisper, a possibility. Could it be—?

No.

But still, there is a flicker of something. Was it hope? Something that makes your pulse quicken, something that stirs in your chest and makes your breath catch in your throat.

You do not sleep that night. The next morning, the court is restless, but you do not care. Another suitor has arrived. You barely glance up at first, prepared for the same hollow flattery, the same empty promises they have all offered. Another face, another man desperate for the throne. And then—

“Your Majesty.”

The voice is low, rich, unmistakably familiar.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You lift your gaze, and the breath leaves your lungs.

There, standing before you in the grand hall, disguised as nothing more than a beggar? A tattered cloak hanging from his shoulders, boots caked in dust, golden hair hidden beneath a hood, is him.

Rook.

“Mon amour,” he breathes, and it is neither a plea nor a question. It is a vow renewed, a promise fulfilled.

The court does not understand why your fingers clutch the armrests of your throne, why your breath trembles in your throat. They do not understand the weight of this moment, the storm that has raged inside you for years, breaking now into sunlight.

But they will.

“A challenge,” you announce, your voice ringing out through the hall, silencing the murmur of voices. “The one who can string my betrothed’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve battle-axes shall take the throne beside me.”

The suitors laugh. They know the stories of Rook’s war bow — the weapon only he had ever been able to wield.

The bow itself, was a testament to strength, a mark of kingship, a relic of a past only one man could claim. Crafted long before his reign, it was a thing of unyielding power, curved in a perfect arc. Only he can wield.

One by one, they step forward, pride on their faces, convinced that they, too, can master the impossible. One by one, they fail. The bow does not bend to their hands. The string does not yield. Each failure cracks their pride, their frustration mounting as they realize that they are not Rook.

And then, the beggar steps forward. The court erupts into laughter.

“Surely, Your Majesty, you do not mean to let this vagrant attempt—”

But you do not stop him. You do not move, barely even breathe as he steps forward, his hands brushing against the polished wood of the bow, a deep, knowing silence settling over the room.

With a swift movement, the bow bends. The string sings its familiar song as he draws it taut, the echo of it resonating through your very bones. You can feel the air shift, the energy in the room snapping like a taut wire.

The arrow flies.

The sound of it is pure. Sharp and true, slicing through the air with deadly precision. It whistles cleanly through each of the twelve axes, the force of it a declaration. A promise.

Silence.

And then, he lifts his head. The hood falls away.

Rook stands before you, golden-haired and smiling, as if no time at all had passed. As if he had never left.

You take a step forward, your breath catching in your throat, but you do not move too quickly, afraid that he might vanish as suddenly as he appeared.

“You’re late,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but it carries through the silence like a blade.

Rook’s smile widens, his eyes sparkling with the same wild fire you remember. “Ah, mon amour,” he breathes. “But I am here.”

And then, he kneels before you.

The years between you crash down like a tidal wave, the weight of everything you’ve endured settling heavily upon your chest. You do not hesitate. You move toward him, your hands trembling as they find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. He leans into your touch, eyes closing for a moment, as if memorizing the feel of you, the texture of your skin beneath his fingers.

“I should kill you for making me wait,” you whisper, your voice breaking with the ache of all that has been lost and found again.

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your wrist, “you have never looked more beautiful than you do now, in your fury.”

You let out a breath, half a sob, half a laugh. But it is enough. It is everything. You pull him to you, your lips crashing against his, desperate and alive, the years of longing melting into this single, fleeting moment.

The court watches, but you do not care. The suitors recoil, but you do not see them. There is only Rook. his hands in your hair, his arms around you, the warmth of him solid and real after all these years. When you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours, and the world is suddenly right again.

“You came back,” you whisper, a question, a plea, a confession.

“Always,” he swears, his voice rough and raw. “I will always find my way back to you.” This time, you believe him.

That night, the castle breathes with a new kind of silence. The suitors have left, some in anger, others in shame, their ambitions shattered like glass beneath the weight of inevitability. The whispers of the court fade into the distant hum of the sea, and for the first time in years, you are alone.

But you are not lonely.

Rook stands before you in your chambers, no longer the beggar who had slipped unnoticed through the doors, but the hunter who had once stolen your heart with laughter and reckless devotion. He is older now —sharper in some places, softened in others — but when he smiles, it is the same as it ever was. Wild and knowing, like he has already mapped out every thought in your head before you can voice it.

And yet, for the first time since his return, he hesitates.

“You are staring, mon amour.” His voice is lighter now, teasing, but underneath it, there is something else. Something unspoken.

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “You disappeared for years, Rook. Forgive me if I wish to confirm that you are not merely a ghost come to haunt me.”

His lips twitch. “And if I were?”

“Then I would curse you for eternity,” you say, stepping closer, until only a breath separates you. “And still, I would not let you leave.”

The teasing falters in his expression, giving way to something raw, something that makes your pulse thunder in your ears. His hands, calloused and sure, come up to cradle your face, his thumb ghosting over the curve of your cheek. “I was gone too long,” he admits, a confession, a wound.

“Yes.”

“I have no excuse.”

“No.”

His fingers tighten, the breath in his chest shuddering. “And yet—” He swallows, eyes burning gold in the candlelight. “Would you still have me, knowing that I am a man who loses himself in the hunt?”

Your breath catches. Not because you do not know the answer, but because he would even dare to ask.

You take his hand, pressing his palm flat against your chest, where your heart beats strong and steady. “You left,” you say. “And I waited. And I cursed you. And I wept for you. And still—” You inhale, exhale, let the weight of the years settle between you before crushing them beneath your next words. “Still, my heart knows only your name.”

Rook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but it is too broken, too relieved to be anything but the unraveling of something long-held. “Then it seems,” he murmurs, leaning in, his forehead pressing against yours, “I have found my way home after all.”

He kisses you, it is not with the desperation of before. It is steady, certain. It is the promise he made you all those years ago, at last fulfilled.

© 2025 padf-0-ot . i only post in this app ^ᴗ^

Maybe

Rook Hunt x Fem! Reader

TW: Implied sexual themes, implied gore, blood, injuries, stalker-ish behavior from Rook Hunt, obsessive themes, worshipping of reader. Reader is implied to be gender neutral but some parts refer to them in a more "feminine" manner.

Synopsis: Rook was not a sadist, but his actions said otherwise. Was he really to blame when your fear-stricken face was just so endearing? No, Rook was not- he could not be a sadist. At least that's what he told himself. But, was he really so horrible or was there something more to it?

Note: Read at your own risk

Rook was a lot of things but he was not a sadist, he never found pleasure in another's pain- he was not so cruel. Bullshit. Because when it came to you, even the most ghastly wound became a fine piece of art. When you came into the question, Rook took being a hunter quite seriously. After all, would he really be one, if he didn't somewhat enjoy how you writhed in pain?

It was wrong. Rook knew it was wrong yet the pleasure he felt seeing your poor, frail form, all dependent on him- it was enough for him to forget all his morals.

Maybe it was that look of despair in your eyes, or it might have been how you desperately clutched onto his shirt. The way your eyes were wet with tears, heavy breaths leaving your lips as you felt the rip in your flesh.

How could he deny helping this broken beauty? After all, Rook Hunt would never deny a damsel in distress of her knight in shining armor.

The way protests left your mind, how your arms clutched around his neck as he picked you up. He saw it all.

It was beautiful- the lack of defiance, the docility, the obedience. The usual you would make a snarky comment, tell him to "fuck off", and of course he loved that version of you too. Yet, this frail, broken you was so deliciously compliant that he couldn't help but relish in it.

Don't get it wrong, it wasn't exactly your pain that he loved- but your dependence on him. The way you had no choice but to give up and let him take care of you. Wasn't it perfect? He got to care for you and you didn't even have to worry your pretty little head. You could be at peace while he guarded your precious body, so reminiscent of a temple.

It was his dream to serve you, to take care of you, to be in your presence without the mask you put up for others. It was his dream to see the real you, and right now, he got the chance to see a glimpse of it. He had the opportunity to see how you handled pain. Upon witnessing it, he couldn't deny that he wanted to see more.

He was sickening.

The way he had access to your room, the way you trusted him in this moment- it sent the blood rushing to his face.

It felt so right to carry you, to hold you, to embrace you- so endearing you were as you wet his shirt with your warm tears.

You said nothing, only weeped. You were scared, so frightened of the monster in front of you. Yet, you had no choice but to let him in, after all, your injuries were severe and he said he knew how to treat them. And he did treat them, letting his hands wander alongside.

His eyes were locked with the purple of your bruises, so reminiscent of fresh violets. How your crimson blood stained his clothes, the scent of iron engulfing him in a frenzy.

He loved it.

It wasn't as though he was only enjoying the view, no, he would never be so cruel. Still, he relished in the sight for as long as he could before wrapping your wounds in bandages. The feeling of being able to patch you up, bring you back to shape- as one would to a marionette- made him feel as though he was your god. It was this exact devotion he craved, though it may have been a trick his mind played on him for the looks you sent him were everything but welcoming.

He observed you, how you reacted to the burn of medicine seeping into your skin, the way you winced as he caressed your bruises. It brought such a perverse smile on his flushed face.

He was addicted to it.

No, Rook wasn't a sadist but at times the hunter within him just couldn't help but relish in the sickening sight of his beloved fawn. You were beautiful in all forms, yet one of his favorites was when you left yourself in his care, so dependent on him.

He loved you no matter how broken you could be.

He knew he was disgusting, revolting even but the way you called out his name, gruelling in pain was enough to feed his delusions that you didn't mind. How he wished he had snapped a couple photos of you, or maybe even drawn portrait as you lay in bed, so meekly.

He was twisted.

No, Rook was not a sadist, he did not enjoy another's pain but if that pain belonged to you, then even even something so vile could be beautiful. That pain, suffering- it belonged to you so of course he loved it so. It might have been perverse of him, vile, or even cruel but no matter what it was, once it belonged to you it would be the most beautiful of all.

How could he not find it beautiful?

Your body was coiled up, whimpering in such a delightful manner. Your eyes were half-lidded as you wept and your crimson blood seeped through the pristine bandages he'd covered you in. No matter how he perceived you, in that moment, your pain was the most heavenly vision of all.

Nevertheless, it did torment him to see you all bruised and broken- that was why he whispered sweet nothings in your ears, words that were incoherent in the moment. That was why he cradled you in his arms as you struggled to leave- he chose to ignore that. That was why he treated you as one would a lover, his hands crossing boundaries as you fainted.

How sinful you must have felt.

No, Rook was not a sadist- but upon witnessing your agony, he felt nothing but pure bliss. No, Rook did not love this version you because of the pain you felt- he loved it because of how dependent you were on him. No, Rook wasn't cruel, he wasn't twisted either- you were just too heavenly.

Maybe Rook was a sadist.

Note: If you enjoyed this, please interact with this post and reblog! Thank you! Any kind gestures are greatly appreciated!

Note 2: I love how Rook's character is a great source for dark material yet he can also be written in a more sweet manner. (I love this man with all my heart)

Note 3: Any unhealthy behavior depicted in this fic is not condoned nor encouraged by me. If you are facing any mental/physical abuse, please seek help immediately!

If you like someone's writing, art, or any other type of work they create- you should let them know. Be it through a comment, a follow, a reblog, a message, or an ask. A little reminder that their work is appreciated means so much. If you have requested something, just a like isn't enough- it's insulting. A simple "thank you" also does so much. Not to mention, how motivating it is, as a writer, to see people enjoy my works. If you like it, express it.

Kindness really goes a long way, it might just motivate your favorite writer/artist/etc to create something new.

-Brownie

TWST Rambles #1

Random thought but like why does Leona and Malleus' rivarly/whatever the word is for this- remind me of draco malfoy and harry potter. Like idk much abt harry potter but why does Leona remind me of draco and Malleus of harry (kinda).

"Draco: POTTER"

HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Leona: LIZARD LOOK I'M BETTER AT POTIONS THAN YOU HAH

Malleus: Son of a beast- It's not a competition (It is)

ORRRRRRR

Leona: LIZARD LOOK AT HOW REFINED I AM UNLIKE YOU I DON'T HAVE HORNS

Malleus: My horns are far more refined than your ghastly ears, thank you very much

ORRRRRRRRR

Leona: LIZARD I'LL BE WINNING THE SPELLDRIVE TOURNAMENT THIS TIME ROUND

Malleus: *Does that hot smirk thing* Oh yeah? We shall see about that.

*After the competition (malleus won)*

Malleus: It's true, you're just all bark no bite

Leona: ......

Leona: fuck u IM GONNA GO NAP

LIKEEEEE SOMETHING???? ANY CORRELATION OR IS IT JUST ME???

why do i feel like leona just wants to be frnds with malleus but is bitching and moaning abt it cuz he like got rejected/malleus didn't get the memo cuz leona also never straight up told him. (They're both too arrogant sometimes which is a given cuz they're so high in status)

but just my opinon

WE DID IT!!!

I have reached my first goal for this blog all thanks to you guys!!! This motivates me to write more in the future!!

Thank you so much everyone!!!

"So many treats to choose from, so many more to come"

-Brownie

TWST Imagine with a Desi! Y/n

Cater: Hey Y/N, Have you tried this new tea? It's trending on Magicam!

Desi! Y/N: Oh! Can I try?

Cater: Of course! Go ahead! Desi Y/N: *Takes a sip*

Cater: Do you like-

Desi! Y/n: *Spits it out* AHHHHH WHY'S IT COLD!? WHERE'S THE REAL MILK!? WHY'S IT WHITE NOT BROWN!?

Cater: Y/n-

Desi! Y/n: CATER YOU HAVE COMMITTED A SIN CRIME BY DRINKING THAT...THAT ISN'T CHAI...IT'S POISIN

Cater: *Unsure what to do as Y/n dramatically faints holding their throat* Uh...