Yanadere

Silver Thorns and Sugar Wings

A fantasy world where fairies are real, and long ago, they made a pact with humans — only to be betrayed. Now, fairies are bought, sold, and enslaved by humans who steal their wings to control them. However, a select few humans known as Silver Artists craft edible, enchanted confections with magical properties and are permitted to work closely with fairies… if they earn their trust.

Hi guys!! I found an anime by the name "Sugar Apple Fairy Tale" and the premise sounds super interesting!!

I was hoping to do a slow burn romance inspired by the plot. Even though I just started it, but we don't talk about that..

I'm looking for:

• 18+ partner, any gender or identity
• Can write at least 2+ paragraphs and enjoys detail/character-driven scenes
• Interested in exploring themes like power imbalance, emotional healing, and the tension between freedom & belonging
• Loves collaborative worldbuilding and building out a unique fairytale-esque world together

To Hold Back The Dark

Take your time, enjoy the vacay!

Hello, I'm new

A random fact about myself? Hmm. I hate almost everything I make or write lol.

@BunniesOfDoom

Not sure why because I love the way you write???

Anyway, welcome new friend!

Funfact about myself, if you haven't gathered, I am a HUGE Legend of Zelda geek! Mainly Skyward Sword, but I love all things Zelda c:

What Are You Listening To?

The border between today and tomorrow is still missing
Sleepless nightmares never end
But I never forget my hope
Through every dark night there's a bright day, even here

A Veil of Lies

So I don't lose it, but I don't think I ever will, the World Lore. It is ever changing and updating.

The world map

A Veil of Lies

Eryn let his head rest gently against the padded wall as Azariah spoke. The jostle of the road made their shoulders occasionally bump, but it was not unwelcome. His warmth bled quietly through layers of silk and lace.

The time for pretending was over, but how far could Eryn allow this facade to continue?

His gaze, half-lidded with fatigue, turned to Azariah when he spoke of his father. The pain in his voice wasn’t loud—it was barely a whisper in the shape of words. But Eryn knew the shape of grief worn like armor. The grief you weren't allowed to show. His fingers tightened faintly around his husband’s, their clasped hands still resting between them.

“I know,” he said at last, quiet. His hand remained laced with Azariah’s, fingers brushing the faintest, thoughtful rhythm across his knuckles. “He will be free, however it must happen, I will be there to support you.” There was no judgment in his tone, only a certain stillness, the kind that came from someone who had already wrestled with his own ghosts and come out hollowed but resolute. Eryn had long since stopped believing in clean victories.

When the other shifted the conversation to something lighter, he allowed the change. Not because he needed the reprieve—though perhaps hhe did—but because Azariah did. He turned his face toward the window for a moment, letting the image of a seaside celebration take shape in his mind.

“The sea sounds nice,” Eryndor murmured, the edge of a smile playing at his lips.

He paused, then added, “If it were up to my family, I’d be wedded in silence and sent off like a well-packaged export. So..no, I wouldn’t expect many Luneveres to show. But I wouldn’t mind one or two friendly faces, if they exist.” His voice was light, but the flicker of bitterness was undeniable.

When he bumped his shoulder, Eryndor looked back at him—amused, a little wary. “Loud and vibrant, hm? That sounds like my personal version of hell.” His grin deepened. “But I admit, I’m curious. I’d like to see what makes a Nymere celebration different. Just..don’t expect me to sing. Or dance. Or speak to more than five people at a time.” He nudged him back gently.

At his husband’s teasing, his expression turned indulgent. A rare softness settled over his features as their fingers intertwined again, the simple motion sending a warmth he didn’t care to name fluttering low in his chest. He didn’t pull away.

When he leaned in, whispering, his breath caught for just a second, not out of fear or surprise, but awareness. A flicker of something not quite spoken. His smile curved slowly, lips pressed together as if weighing whether or not to indulge him. “You?” Eryndor echoed. “I imagined you..older, wrinklier.” An awkward laugh shook his shoulders while a pink dusted his cheeks. "Not all free-spirited and charismatic."

Eryn looked at him then, gaze lingering longer than before, searching. “But I do like the real thing, much better. It takes a weight off my chest knowing I won't have to worry about my husband dying of old age much sooner than intended.” He pursed his lips for a moment, hesitant on whether or not he should choose his next words carefully. "And of me? Did I meet your expectations?"

A Kingdom of Broken Names (Kensai x HyliaIncarnate)

Leah said nothing at first.

The silence between them wasn’t cold, nor was it hostile, it was the silence of something tightly wound, carefully measured. She stood with her hands lightly clasped in front of her, eyes fixed not on the horse, nor on the offer extended to her, but on the woman herself. That smile..it wasn’t empty. Not forced, either. But Leah saw the ghost that passed behind it, the shadow that moved through Estelle’s expression before the warmth could reach her mouth. She knew what grief looked like when it wore its best clothes.

Her gaze dropped, slowly, to the hand Estelle had offered.

Scarred. Callused. A hand that had not known softness in some time, and likely did not seek it. Not the hand of a courtier, nor a priest, nor a gentlewoman cloaked in ritual. No, this was the hand of a fighter. Someone used to holding weight, drawing lines, reaching for answers that didn’t always come clean.

And now it was reaching for her. “I think,” Leah said slowly, carefully, her voice lilting with quiet disbelief, “you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Even as she said it, her breath caught. Her tone held no mockery, no sharpness, only the hesitance of someone long unaccustomed to being wanted. Her eyes lifted again, studied the woman. There was something unshakable in the way she stood, something old and bruised and still burning. She didn’t look like a liar.

But people rarely looked like liars. Especially the good ones.

Leah turned her head slightly, gaze flicking toward the cottage behind her. Ivy ran like veins up its stone face. The shutters remained drawn. Nothing moved within, but she still felt it—that oppressive weight, the one she’d never been able to name. Her guardian, her jailor, the magic that wrapped itself around her bones like roots from the day she was old enough to speak.

The garden had always been her whole world. Until now.

Her eyes returned to Estelle. “I don’t know who you think I am,” she said again, softer this time, “but if you knew how long I’ve waited for someone to say something like that..” She trailed off, just a breath, just long enough for the ache to show. “You might not ask me to decide so quickly.”

And yet, she didn’t step away.

Didn’t reject the hand.

For the first time in her life, Leah lingered at the edge of her world, not looking in, but out. Toward something she couldn’t name.

The Golden age of Piracy

The heat clung like a jealous lover.

By midmorning, the deck of the Gunpowder Storm shimmered with it, boards creaking under boot and bare foot alike as the crew bustled in the unrelenting Caribbean sun. Sweat ran in rivulets down brows, soaked through linen, stung eyes. Below deck, the air was worse. Stale. Breathless. And laced with the acrid bite of black powder. But Babel preferred it here, where she could still taste the fire of cannon smoke on her tongue, where the echo of thunder hadn't quite settled into silence.

She sat cross-legged atop a powder keg like it was a throne, one boot heel tapping idly against the wood. Her crimson scarf was tied tight around her wrist today, fingers stained with soot and oil as she cleaned Darlin' and Devil—her twin flintlocks, always treated with more tenderness than most men ever earned. On the small table beside her, her daggers Dainty and Dirty gleamed beneath the glow of lantern light, edges freshly honed despite the lack of blood spilled.

The failed convoy attack gnawed at her. They should’ve had them. Spanish sails, ripe with gold and arrogance, slipping through their fingers like sand. She didn’t blame the Captain. Storms, tides, and powder misfires were all part of the game, but it still soured her mood.

A bead of sweat trailed down the hollow of her throat. She let it fall. No rain today, no cloud, just heat and silence and the ship groaning under the weight of its own frustration. “You’d think with all that noise we made, we’d have come back with more than bruised pride and empty barrels,” she muttered, voice low and musical as she snapped Darlin' back together with a practiced flick.

Outside, someone cursed loudly over tangled rigging. Another shouted about sails. Babel stood slowly, eyes narrowing toward the stairwell. "Well,” she murmured, holstering one pistol and grabbing her scarf with the other hand, “if we’re stuck sweating our skins off, might as well make it interesting.”

She slung her belt over one shoulder, twin daggers glinting like a promise as she made her way up toward the deck—graceful, deliberate, and every bit the storm the ship was named for.

The Golden age of Piracy

[]

The Golden age of Piracy

Babel "Baby" Huron

"Call me 'Baby' again, love—see what happens."

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Alias:“Baby”
Role: Master Gunner
Age: 26
Weapons: Darlin’ & Devil, Dainty & Dirty

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Biography:
Babel Huron was never meant for still waters. Born in the gutters of a bustling port city, she grew up beneath the keels of passing merchant ships and learned early that trust was a luxury and gold bought silence better than friendship. Nicknamed "Baby" by her first crew for her deceptively delicate looks, the name stuck, but the jest died quick on the lips of those who saw her fight.

Babel is sharp-tongued and sharper-eyed, a woman with a silver voice and a dagger behind her back. She speaks a half-dozen tongues, which earned her the name “Babel,” though some say it's because she never stops talking. Rumor has it she once sweet-talked a navy officer out of his own ship, then sold it back to the crown under a different name.

She's got a fondness for fine silks, stolen rings, and rum laced with cinnamon. But beneath the flirtation and flair lies someone with a brutal past—she lost her first crew in a navy ambush, and she’s never let go of the grudge.

Now, as part of a new crew, Babel carves her way across the sea, chasing fortune, freedom, and a place where no one ever calls her "little" again.

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Notable Traits

• Fluent in multiple languages; skilled negotiator and manipulator
• Deadly with dual daggers and a flintlock tucked in her bodice
• Keeps a small locket with an unknown portrait inside
• Often wears jewelry from every port she's ever stolen from

@HyliaIncarnate

is this approved?