#infernal robe

[weenwem]

Wyllyam Ravengard

[skawdia]

I felt the need to draw Wyll and Astarion hugging after the Cazador fight because the man deserves a hug.

[tys-kitty]

Me when I see a Silent Brother for the first time:

[shiniestcrow]

been playing bg3 again lately and my in-game justification for playing origin Astarion way nicer than he actually is, is that throughout Act 1 his only companion was Wyll. so Astarion basically went

"well, shit, I need him for protection but he's such a goody-two-shoes that he'll run for the hills if I act too much like me an arsehole. gotta pretend to be at least a decent person"

...and somewhere along the way he accidentally fell in love with Wyll which did not improve his situation

then in Act 2 Halsin joins which elicited the reaction of

"oh fuck another one and this one comes with a dash of protecting nature on top"

and then Jaheira joins and he gets to be all

"thank the gods finally someone who appreciates me being a little bitch at them"

which at this point is almost as good as all the horrible shit he would have liked to be doing all along

[justabiteofspite]

My DJ Shadowheart Origin is going to be with Ascended Astarion because as a Catholic Toxic Girlboss Girlpope, a woman can only hold power when a man holds power over her.

[timothylawrence]

she said 'get in there wyll break down the door' and he did it before turning back at her with a smile he's SO DORKY.

[perce-jpg]

i always be pondering bg3 builds

[moonselune]

OOooOOOoooOOO can i PUHLEASE get the companions hit by a lovebug or lust curse and all they want is you but you aren't allowed to be intimate because it would spread to you. They pursue you heavily and you can't help but indulge when they are being so whiny and pathetic. I love love love your work miss seluney xox

yessss i freaking love this trope

CW:dubcon themes

part two!

Karlach:

You spotted them stumbling back toward camp just as the last rays of sun dipped behind the hills. At first, you thought something must have gone terribly wrong. Shadowheart’s robes were torn and half-soaked, her hair plastered to her cheeks, water dripping from her sleeves. She was muttering under her breath, her face twisted in pure, seething exasperation.

Behind her was Karlach — and gods, Karlach was smoking.

Actual tendrils of steam rose from her skin, curling lazily into the cooling evening air. Her plates of infernal metal armor hissed softly where droplets of water struck them from the conjured raincloud above her and evaporated on contact. Her flushed face was bright, gold eyes huge and wild — and locked squarely on you.

The moment she saw you, she lit up, a beaming, breathless smile splitting her face. Her tail thumped excitedly against the ground, sending little puffs of dust flying, and she lurched forward with dangerous intent.

You grinned, starting forward automatically — happy, relieved—

"STOP!" Shadowheart barked, raising both hands like she was halting an angry owlbear.

You froze mid-step, one hand half-lifted in greeting. "Uh—?"

Shadowheart stormed up, water dripping from the hems of her robes, her expression done in a way you hadn't seen since Wyll tried to "fix" her armor once with a hammer.

"She's cursed," Shadowheart said flatly. She jerked a thumb back toward Karlach, who was bouncing on her toes. fangs peeking out from the wolfish grin on her face, still visibly smoking. "Lust curse. Picked it up poking around the ruins."

Your mouth opened. Closed. "...Lust curse?"

"Yes," Shadowheart looked like she wanted to strangle someone. "If she gets intimate with anyone, the curse will spread." She jabbed a finger toward you. "And she really wants to be intimate with you."

You glanced past her to Karlach, who gave you an innocent little wave and a gigantic, toothy grin. Steam rose from her hair, framing her head like a crooked halo. She gave a low, eager whuff, like a hound scenting its master. Your heart melted—and then seized with alarm as Karlach started sprinting toward you.

"No!" Shadowheart snapped, and with a violent flourish of magic, threw Karlach sideways into the river with a massive shove of divine energy.

Karlach hit the water with an enormous splash and disappeared under the surface for a long, heart-stopping second before popping up, sputtering and laughing. She shook her head like a dog, sending water flying, her tail splashing gleefully behind her.

"You—" you turned a stunned look on Shadowheart, who wiped her hands cleanly.

"Don't thank me yet," she said grimly. "You need to stay close to her, or she might explode. Literally." Shadowheart's voice dropped to a near-growl. "But no kissing and gods help you, no sex - at all."

You stared. Shadowheart stared. In the river, Karlach was floating happily on her back, trailing little plumes of steam, grinning at you like you were her salvation incarnate.

"Babe!" she called brightly. "Come in! It's nice and cool! Promise I won't even smooch ya!"

You folded your arms, fixing her with your best stern look. "You're the worst liar I've ever met."

Karlach grinned, all teeth and mischief, and paddled closer to the bank, water sloshing noisily. "Swear on my big ol' heart! Just coolin' off!"

You hesitated. Shadowheart gave you a flat look that screamed, You deal with this. With a long, suffering sigh, you knelt by the riverbank, arms still crossed.

"Karlach," you scolded. "You stay right there."

Her lower lip trembled in an exaggerated pout. "But I miss you..."

"Still nope," you said, firm.

For a moment, you thought you might have won— And then Karlach lunged, her infernal strength letting her surge out of the water like a breaching dolphin, grab your arm, and drag you bodily into the river with her.

You hit the water with a yelp and went under. Freezing-cold river water closed over your head. You flailed, resurfacing with a gasp, hair plastered to your forehead—

And Karlach was there, clutching you tightly, steaming body pressed close to yours.

"See?" she said sweetly, breathless and hot even in the chill water. "No kisses. Just cuddlin'."

You spluttered and glared at her, wiping water from your eyes. But gods, it was hard to stay mad. Her expression was so earnest, her tail a slow, lazy wag behind her in the water. She nuzzled against you, purring low in her throat.

You let yourself relax — just a little.

Karlach hummed contentedly, squeezing you closer, lips brushing over your neck. You could feel the rumble of her heart against your chest, the press of her cheek against your temple. Her hands slid lazily over your back, tracing idle patterns.

"You're so warm, well, warmer than usual," you murmured, shivering a little despite yourself.

"Only for you, baby," she mumbled, practically glowing with affection. It was almost sweet—almost safe—

Until you felt her hand slide lower. Far too low.

"Karlach—!" you warned. But she was faster. She ducked forward, caught your mouth in a searing kiss—

And the curse snapped between you like a struck match, flaring to life inside you. You reeled back, gasping, as the maddening heat took root deep in your chest, spreading outward in molten waves. Karlach pulled back just far enough to beam at you, her tail wagging furiously, steam rising from both your bodies now.

"Now we both got it!" she said triumphantly. "So no we can-"

You pushed her back, hard enough for her to resubmerge under the water. Your chest was heaving, the curse was already clawing through your veins, making your skin buzz and your thoughts slip dangerously sideways. Karlach reemerged, eyes peeking out of the water as she took in your flustered form.

"You—" you sputtered as you splashed her, "You menace!"

Karlach stood, now fully surfaced and laughed, carefree and delighted, and hugged you so tight you thought she might crack a rib.

"You're lucky I love you," you muttered into her soaked hair, heart hammering as you already began prying off her armour.

"Damn fucking right," she whispered, holding you tighter than ever. Around you, the river hissed and bubbled with the heat of two bodies who wanted nothing more than to melt into each other. Ignoring Shadowheart's screeching and Gale deciding he could wash the pots later.

Minthara:

The moment the curse hit her, Minthara changed. Gone was the cool, ruthless drow general. In her place was something furious, wild — and whining.

"This is insufferable," she spat, pacing the ruined clearing like a cat in a cage. Her armor was already half-discarded, her hair clinging to the sweat on her brow. "Fix it. Fix it now!"

You leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed, biting back a grin. "Minthara, you heard Shadowheart. No touching. No kissing. No... other activities."

"I don't care what that prissy cleric says!" she snapped, spinning toward you, her crimson eyes alight with rage and need. "You belong to me — and you are going to satisfy me!"

You laughed — actually laughed — and that made it worse. She stomped toward you, hands clenched into little fists, trembling with pent-up frustration.

"Do you think this is funny?" she hissed, standing barely a breath away, her chest heaving. "I am suffering!"

"You'll live," you said easily, though it was getting harder and harder to ignore how flushed and gorgeous she looked like this — desperate, vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be.

"I will not live," she whined — actually whined — the sound raw and furious. "I will wither away! My body is burning and you just stand there like a fool!"

Minthara tried to grab your tunic, to drag you down to her, but you stepped aside, letting her stumble slightly past you. She whirled around with a gasp of pure outrage.

"Stop running from me!" she barked. "You are mine!"

You chuckled under your breath. "You should see yourself right now. You're like an angry kitten."

"I will kill you!" she screeched — and then immediately slumped, groaning, running both hands through her hair in pure agony. "I need... I need..."

You watched her struggle, and you almost — almost — pitied her. But it was far too amusing. Minthara glared at you from under her bangs of white hair, breathing hard. Then something in her broke. Her expression shifted — determined and furious and done with your games.

"Fine," she growled lowly. "If you will not help me..."

She launched herself at you. You tried to dodge, but she caught you around the middle, shoving you against the tree with surprising strength for someone so desperate. Her mouth crashed against yours in a messy, furious kiss.

And the curse spread.

It hit you like being punched in the gut — that raw, aching need suddenly clawing under your skin, setting every nerve on fire. You gasped against her mouth, your knees buckling slightly from the force of it.

Minthara pulled back just enough to smirk, victorious, her lips swollen and smug. "Then now you suffer with me."

You growled low in your throat, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her, pinning her against the tree instead. She gasped, wide-eyed, laughing breathlessly — but she didn’t resist.

"You little brat," you muttered, pressing your forehead to hers, your hands locking around her wrists. "You just couldn't be patient."

"I do not do patience," she whispered, shivering against you. "Now take what is yours."

You did. Oh, gods, you did. And Minthara, for once, had nothing to complain about.

Shadowheart:

You were still chuckling about Gale’s lecture as you wandered deeper into the woods, a basket under your arm for the handful of herbs and berries you intended to collect.

Everything was fine, he had said. Shadowheart said she would sleep it off, he had said.

You plucked a sprig of wild mint and tossed it into the basket, trying to shake off a lingering doubt gnawing at the edge of your mind. It wasn't until the third patch of violets that you frowned, thoughts darkening.

A lust curse.

Not a fever. Not exhaustion. Not some harmless little enchantment. A curse that preyed on every base, starved desire you harbored. A relentless, gnawing thing that��tortured the mind until you either gave in or went mad from the wanting.

And Gale—bless his trusting, naive heart—had taken the word of an ex-Sharran that she could just sleep it off?

You stood there, basket dangling forgotten from your hand, heart beginning to race. You turned on your heel, about to sprint back toward camp—

Too late. There was a rush of movement, a flicker of shadow—

And then Shadowheart was on you, slamming you back against a tree trunk with surprising force, arms locking around your shoulders. Your basket hit the ground with a soft thump, forgotten.

"Found you," she breathed, her voice low and velvet-thick, dripping with sultry satisfaction. Her silver hair tumbled around her face in wild disarray, her cheeks flushed a dangerous pink.

Before you could react, she ducked into the vulnerable curve of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your skin—hot, insistent, needy.

"Shadowheart—!" you gasped, hands immediately trying to push her off, but she clung to you with desperate strength.

"You don’t understand," she whispered between kisses, her body pressing closer against yours, her thigh slipping between your legs with wicked, slow friction. "I need you. I’ve needed you for so long..."

You struggled, trying to slide sideways out of her grip, panic clawing up your spine. "You’re not thinking straight—you’re cursed—"

"I am thinking straight," she insisted, lifting her head to meet your gaze. Her eyes shimmered, dark and feverish. "I’ve never thought clearer."

She leaned in, lips parting for a kiss—

You slapped both hands over your mouth, wild-eyed. Shadowheart froze, then blinked in stunned silence—and then laughed. A low, throaty sound that sent a fresh bolt of terror and heat straight through you.

"Oh, you sweet thing," she murmured, amused, a wicked glint lighting her gaze. "If you won’t let me kiss you..."

Her hands slipped lower, tracing down your chest, your stomach—

You tried to dodge, heart pounding, but she sank to her knees before you with unholy grace.

"...then I’ll just have to be more creative," she purred.

You tried to catch her wrists, tried to pull her back upright, but in doing so you moved your hands away from your mouth—

And Shadowheart seized the opportunity, surging up with the swiftness of a striking serpent to catch your lips in a deep, hungry kiss.

The curse hit you like a fist to the chest. You reeled, staggering back against the tree, gasping as molten heat roared through your veins, setting your nerves alight with agonizing, insistent want.

Shadowheart leaned into you, sighing happily against your lips, her whole body pressed tight against yours.

"There we go," she whispered, nuzzling your jaw, utterly delighted. "Now you understand."

Your muscles trembled with the force of it—the raw, gnawing need, the hunger. You clutched her, helpless to push her away now, both of you burning, breathless, utterly doomed together in the deep shade of the woods. And somewhere, far away, you cursed Gale’s trusting heart.

Lae'zel:

You found Lae'zel pacing back and forth in the clearing just outside camp, her whole body taut with restless, twitching energy, her usual ironclad composure cracking under the strain of something far greater than anger or frustration — something much more primal, much more dangerous.

The moment she caught sight of you, her golden eyes lit up with a hunger so naked and intense it stopped you dead in your tracks, the force of it nearly knocking the breath from your lungs — and not just because she looked devastating like that, all fury and longing wrapped into a single coiled body.

"You," she growled, stalking toward you like a predator, her boots kicking up little clouds of dust as she moved, "you will suffer with me."

You blinked, struggling not to laugh at the sheer affronted outrage burning off her in waves; Lae'zel was many things — proud, fierce, unrelenting — but this was something new, something almost petulant, and it was difficult to take her threats seriously when she looked one wrong word away from either tackling you to the ground or throwing a tantrum.

"Lae'zel," you said carefully, trying for calm even as amusement bubbled traitorously in your chest, "you're cursed. You know what will happen if I touch you. It'll spread."

Her snarl was immediate, low and impatient, and she crossed the space between you in three long strides, reaching for you — but the curse, while sharpening her need, had dulled her grace, and she stumbled slightly, catching herself with a furious hiss that made your grin slip out despite yourself.

She pointed an accusatory finger at you, chest heaving, armor glinting under the sun like she was some glorious, furious war goddess undone by something as stupid and human as desire.

"You!" she barked again, scandalized. "Always you wanting closeness. Always you demand soft touches. And now, when I offer, you deny me? Treachery!"

You couldn't help it — you barked a laugh, folding your arms and stepping just out of her immediate reach, savoring the way her scowl deepened to something almost childishly wounded. She was practically vibrating with indignation and unspent energy, her whole body trembling not with fear or anger, but with the unbearable, consuming need for touch she could not have.

"I’m trying to protect you," you said with a chuckle, dancing back another step as she lunged at you again — and this time she almost caught you, her fingers brushing your tunic before you twisted away, leaving her growling in frustrated defeat.

The next time she pounced, though, she was quicker — or maybe you had gotten cocky, letting your guard down, forgetting for a moment that Lae'zel was still, at her core, a creature of instinct and willpower so ferocious that even a cursed, sluggish haze couldn't slow her forever.

She tackled you bodily to the ground with a heavy thud, landing squarely atop you, her legs bracketing your hips, her hands braced on either side of your head, her face close enough that you could see the fine tremble in her jaw, the wild desperation in her gaze.

You opened your mouth to protest — to reason with her — but then she did something so shockingly tender it knocked every thought clean out of your head.

She nuzzled into you, slow and clumsy and soft, like a cat seeking warmth, rubbing her cheek against yours with little needy sounds, her body trembling with exhaustion and need and something perilously close to affection.

It was so adorable — so utterly unlike her — that for a moment you just froze, caught between horror and hilarity, unsure whether to push her off or simply melt into the moment.

"Lae'zel," you croaked, trying to push at her shoulders — but she was heavy and stubborn and clinging to you like her life depended on it, and gods, she was warm, too warm, and you could feel the heat of her skin even through the thin layers of your clothing.

She chuckled — a low, dangerous, amused sound — and before you could gather enough strength to shove her off properly, she shifted, catching your face in her hands with surprising gentleness, and leaned down to kiss you full on the mouth.

You struggled, you really did — hands scrabbling at her arms, trying to pull away — but her mouth was hot and insistent and hungry against yours, and before you even realized it, you were kissing her back, drinking in her desperation, her devotion, the way she seemed to pour every ounce of her frantic, cursed longing into you.

And just like that — the curse exploded through your veins, searing hot and overwhelming, dragging a gasp from your lips as it took hold.

Lae'zel pulled back just far enough to smirk down at you, victorious and radiant and unbearably smug.

"There," she said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable as she pinned you to the ground, her golden eyes gleaming with wicked glee. "Now you suffer too."

And gods help you — you didn’t even mind.

Not when it was her. Not when you could feel her heart hammering against yours, beating the same wild, desperate rhythm. Not when it was Lae'zel.

Jaheira:

You had been warned, of course — Gale, ever the scholar, had cornered you before you even approached the campfire, looking harried and flushed.

"It’s a lust curse," he said in a low, urgent whisper, as if speaking it aloud might make it worse. "Jaheira's been hit with it. She's lucid — for now — but you know how these things go. If you’re touched in... certain ways, it will spread to you immediately."

You had nodded solemnly, assuring him you would be careful — that you knew better than to tempt fate. But then you saw her.

Jaheira was sitting on the log near the fire, her head tilted back, the flames painting her golden-tan skin in a wild, living light. She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in a way that was utterly hypnotic, and when she caught sight of you, her lips parted slightly, her entire body almost reaching toward you without thought.

"Come here," she said, voice low, a velvet growl that made your stomach twist with longing.

You hesitated, heart hammering painfully in your chest. She was never like this — Jaheira, fierce and composed, always so in control, so sharp, was looking at you now like a starving creature denied its only salvation. It was a rare and almost reverent sight to behold her so undone, so needy, every inch of her screaming for you in a way she usually hid behind duty and pride.

It undid you.

Without thinking, you took a few steps forward, drawn in helplessly by the intensity of her gaze, the way she opened her arms in silent invitation, the promise of her touch more tempting than any spell or enchantment.

"Jaheira," you breathed, voice cracking slightly. "You're cursed—"

"I know," she said, almost laughing, a breathless, broken sound. "I know, and I do not care. Come to me."

You were close enough now to see the fine sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her fingers trembled where they gripped her knees, how every muscle in her taut, battle-hardened body was coiled and trembling with restraint. She looked utterly wrecked by want, and it was all for you.

You almost gave in right then and there, ready to throw caution and Gale’s warnings to the wind. What did it matter, when she was looking at you like that, like you were the only thing in the world that could save her?

But — somehow — reason clawed its way back through the haze.

"No," you said firmly, stepping back with an effort that felt like tearing yourself in half. "Jaheira, not like this. You're not yourself."

The look she gave you then was devastating — betrayed, furious, needy all at once, the kind of look that might have felled lesser mortals on the spot.

"You always want me," she said bitterly, pushing to her feet with a grace that was only slightly marred by the trembling of her limbs. "Always watching, always waiting for me to allow it, to put aside my duties— and now, when I offer myself to you, when I need you— you refuse me?"

Your mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but no words came. She was right — gods help you, she was right. And yet — you stood your ground, hands fisted at your sides to stop yourself from reaching for her.

Jaheira's eyes narrowed, that calculating sharpness returning to her gaze even through the haze of the curse.

"So," she murmured, stepping closer, slow and measured. "You would deny me. Even now."

She was in front of you before you could think to move, her scent — the warm, wild scent of earth and leaves after rain — overwhelming your senses. You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut like a child refusing medicine.

That was your mistake.

She moved swiftly — decades of battlefield experience turning even her cursed need into a strategic assault — catching your face between her hands and forcing you to meet her gaze.

"Look at me," she whispered, and gods help you, you did.

The kiss, when it came, was brutal — desperate, raw, full of a need that threatened to drown you both. Her mouth crushed against yours, and the moment her lips touched yours, it was like fire licked across your skin, the curse seeping into you with dizzying, searing heat.

You gasped into the kiss, hands flying to her waist to push her away — or maybe to pull her closer, you couldn't even tell anymore — as your body reacted instinctively, helplessly, to the magic flooding your veins. Jaheira groaned into your mouth, deep and triumphant, as she felt the curse take hold of you.

"There," she breathed against your lips, her hands sliding down to grip your hips, holding you tightly against her. "Now you understand."

And you did. You understood far, far too well — and you were utterly, gloriously doomed.

Gale:

When you returned to camp that evening, Shadowheart was waiting for you near the fire, her arms folded tight across her chest, her expression a strange blend of annoyance and reluctant amusement.

“He’s cursed,” she said flatly, the firelight catching on the silver of her hair.

You blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Gale,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “A lust curse. Some relic he was fiddling with while scouting. He’s managing it...for now. He’s warded himself as best he can, but—” Her sharp eyes pierced you. “If you see him, do not touch him. Do not kiss him, do not so much as hold his hand. If the curse spreads, it’ll only get worse. Understand?”

You nodded automatically, even as unease bloomed in your chest.

“He’s in his tent,” Shadowheart added, softer now. “Said he’s going to meditate. Maybe sleep it off.” She snorted faintly. “Wishful thinking, but... he’s stubborn.”

You promised you’d leave him be. You meant it. But curiosity gnawed at you, relentless. And when you approached Gale’s tent, you felt it—the heat, like walking into the heart of a furnace. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, thick with the scent of ozone and something sweeter, something more dangerous.

You hesitated at the flap. Maybe you should just...turn back. Give him space. But then you heard it. A broken, guttural noise, like a muffled plea.

Caution abandoned, you pulled the flap aside—and froze.

Gale was kneeled on his bedroll, stripped down to his briefs, the thin fabric doing little to hide the powerful, trembling tension of his body. Sweat clung to his skin, making him gleam in the dim light like some desperate, golden idol. His hands and ankles were bound with what looked like glowing, magical ropes, their light pulsing weakly as if struggling to contain him.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed cheeks. Chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. And when his eyes met yours—wide, dark, almost frantic—you saw it there, plain as day: fear.

“Stay—stay back!” he rasped, jerking against the bindings, which tightened and sparked in warning. “I haven’t—I haven’t finished the gag ward yet—please, you need to stay away, for your own good—”

His voice cracked, pleading. Your heart shattered. How could you just leave him like this? How could you not help?

Moving before you thought better of it, you knelt beside him, brushing sweat-slick hair from his forehead, murmuring soft reassurances you weren’t even sure he could hear. His skin was burning under your touch, fever-hot and thrumming with suppressed magic.

Gale whimpered—a pitiful, broken sound—and pressed into your hand like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, leaning closer. “I’ll help you. I promise.”

He shook his head weakly. “No... You have to...go...”

You hesitated. Only a moment. And that was all he needed.

The bindings vanished—mere illusion—and in a flash of desperate strength, Gale surged up, grabbing your wrists and rolling you down onto the bedding beneath him.

Your gasp barely made it out before his mouth crashed onto yours, searing and hungry. Magic ignited between your bodies. The curse bloomed through your veins, violent and overwhelming, drowning you in sudden, white-hot need.

You clutched at him instinctively, nails digging into his bare shoulders, overwhelmed by the fire roaring through you. When Gale finally broke the kiss, panting against your lips, there was a wicked gleam in his fevered eyes.

“You should have listened to Shadowheart,” he whispered, voice rough and ruined, but triumphant.

You barely registered the words. Every inch of your body was screaming for him, the curse turning every brush of skin into a shock of unbearable pleasure.

And Gale, damn him, knew it.

He dragged his hands down your sides, slow and deliberate, savoring every shudder, every desperate gasp. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, murmuring broken praises between kisses, and you melted beneath him, the last of your resistance crumbling to dust.

The thought maybe the others would hear flickered weakly at the back of your mind—but it was a fleeting, dying thing.

Right now, there was only Gale—smug, beautiful, dangerous Gale—pinning you beneath him with the weight of his body, the fire of the curse binding you together more completely than any magic ever could.

And gods help you... You didn’t want to be saved.

Astarion:

You found him in the woods, where the shadows thickened and the air grew heavy with the scent of moss and damp earth, and for a moment — just a moment — you thought he might be hurt, the way he was hunched against the base of an ancient, gnarled tree, his body shuddering like a taut bowstring ready to snap, his fingers digging furrows into the dirt as if physical grounding could somehow hold back whatever storm was raging inside him.

The moment his eyes lifted to meet yours — molten red clouded and glazed over with need so raw it almost looked like pain — you knew exactly what had happened.

A lust curse.

It clung to him like a second skin, thick and suffocating, and you could see it in the way he trembled, in the way his breath shuddered out of him in gasps, in the way his hands flexed uselessly at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn't quite trust himself to close the distance.

He rose unsteadily, every movement aching with the effort of holding himself back, and for a heartbeat you saw a flicker of the Astarion you knew — proud, beautiful, incorrigible — before it was swallowed whole by the gnawing, insatiable hunger twisting him apart.

"Ah, there you are," he said, his voice pitched somewhere between a laugh and a sob, silky and broken all at once, and though he tried to summon that familiar smirk you adored, it wilted on his lips before it could fully form, leaving him looking heartbreakingly young and lost.

You raised your hands instinctively, a futile barrier between you, trying to ignore the way your own heart thundered in your chest at the sight of him — disheveled, trembling, flushed with desperate, furious need — because you knew, more than anything, that you couldn’t allow yourself to touch him.

Not like this.

Not when you couldn’t be sure it was truly him wanting it.

"Astarion," you said softly, gently, as if soothing a wounded animal, "you’re cursed — you’re not thinking clearly — you have to fight it."

His laugh then was ragged, hollow, bitter — and something in it made your throat tighten painfully.

"Oh, darling," he whispered, dragging one shaking hand through his hair, "you think I don't know that? You think I don't know exactly what's happening to me?"

He swayed where he stood, and for a horrifying second you thought he might collapse, but he caught himself against the tree, nails raking down the bark with a horrible screech that set your teeth on edge.

"I know I’m cursed," he ground out, voice rough and low and trembling with the effort it took to speak, "but that doesn’t change what I want. It’s still you. It’s always you."

And gods, you wanted to believe him — you did believe him — but still, you couldn’t move, couldn’t cross that impossible distance, because the thought of ever, ever taking from him, using him while he was vulnerable like this, was something you couldn’t stomach.

He must have seen the resolve settle in your features, because something dark and wild sparked behind his eyes, and suddenly he was pulling out every weapon he knew how to wield — every devastating smile, every coy tilt of his head, every sinful, decadent roll of his hips as he let his hands trail suggestively down his own body in a display so shameless you would have laughed if it hadn’t been so utterly, gut-wrenchingly tragic.

He purred filthy promises, he whined with needy, broken little noises that clawed at your sanity, he even — gods help you — dropped to his knees and looked up at you through his lashes, looking so heartbreakingly vulnerable, so wrecked, that you almost — almost — faltered.

But you didn’t.

You stayed rooted to the spot, hands fisted at your sides, muscles aching with the strain of not reaching for him.

Minutes dragged by in agonizing silence, broken only by his ragged breathing, until finally, finally, something inside him seemed to shatter completely.

He slumped forward, head bowed, shoulders trembling so violently it looked painful, and when he lifted his gaze to you again, there was no seduction left — only raw, desperate pleading.

"Please," he rasped, the word tearing itself from his throat like it hurt to speak it, "please, just one kiss. That’s all I’m asking. Just — just let me have that."

You felt something deep inside you break at the sound of it — at the way he knelt there in the dirt like a man undone, stripped of all his armor and artifice, reduced to nothing but need and the desperate, terrified hope that you might still want him even like this.

You crossed the distance between you before you could think better of it, falling to your knees and cradling his face in your hands, feeling the way he leaned into your touch like a starving man would lean into the scent of bread.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, because you needed — needed — to hear him say it. You just needed him to be okay. He nodded, a tiny, broken thing, his smile trembling and radiant all at once.

"I’m sure," he whispered back, and there was something so painfully real in his voice that you knew, in that instant, that whatever the curse had done to him, whatever false hunger it had stoked, it hadn’t — couldn’t — touch the way he felt about you.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his in the softest, most cautious kiss imaginable, your lips barely brushing his, trembling with the force of all the things you couldn’t say.

For a single, precious heartbeat, it was gentle — tender — achingly, impossibly sweet.

And then Astarion made a soft, broken sound deep in his throat, and the dam broke completely.

He surged forward, grabbing you with a strength born of desperation, deepening the kiss until it was wild and messy and frantic, his hands clawing at your back like he could somehow pull you inside him, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, surrendering to the tidal wave of need that crashed through you.

It wasn’t until a sudden, electric jolt of heat tore through your body — searing and sharp and utterly overwhelming — that you remembered the curse.

You pulled back with a gasp, eyes wide, body trembling with the force of it, and Astarion — beautiful, ruined Astarion — just smiled that wicked, triumphant smile you knew so well and dragged his thumb along your lower lip, savoring the shudder that wracked your body at his touch.

"Looks like we’re both damned now, darling," he purred, his voice low and hoarse with victory and unbearable, breathtaking affection.

And gods help you — you couldn't even bring yourself to mind.

Wyll:

It all started simply enough — or so Shadowheart had assured you, half-smirking as she delivered the news.

"He's fine," she'd said casually, though there was a wicked glint in her eye that made you instantly wary. "A little... affectionate, perhaps. Nothing you can't handle. Just — whatever you do, don't let him kiss you. Or, you know. Anything worse. It'll spread otherwise."

You had rolled your eyes at the warning, already heading toward Wyll’s tent with the confident belief that you — of all people — could resist the man, no matter how charming he got.

That was before you saw him.

He was sprawled messily across his bedroll, stripped down to only his briefs, sweat gleaming across the broad plane of his chest, his dark hair damp, a sheen on his horns. His chest heaved with every breath, and his whole body seemed to hum with some deep, restless energy.

"Ah — my love," he said the moment he caught sight of you, his voice ragged, rougher than you’d ever heard it, like every word physically cost him to say. He pushed himself up to his knees in a clumsy, desperate movement, offering you the most pitifully hopeful look you had ever seen on him. "You’ve come to rescue me at last."

You froze, mouth dry, already feeling the heat coming off him like a furnace.

"Wyll," you warned carefully, hands raised like you were approaching a wild animal. "*Shadowheart said you need to rest. I'm just here to—"

"Rest?" he repeated, incredulous, dragging his hands through his hair with a laugh that was far too close to a groan. "Darling, I am dying here. Look at me." He gestured down at himself dramatically, chest still heaving, his flushed face full of pitiful earnestness. "Is this a man who needs rest?"

You couldn't help but chuckle, even as you took a cautious step back. "You're cursed, Wyll. You need to sleep it off. No kisses, no cuddles, no — whatever else you're planning."

"But my sweet heart," Wyll drawled, struggling to his feet, staggering slightly as if even gravity was conspiring to torture him, "you are all I dream of. If I sleep now, I will dream of you — and then wake even worse than I am now. Is that what you want? To leave me here, suffering?"

He swayed toward you, his voice dropping into that deep, coaxing tone he knew you were weak to, the one that wrapped around you like velvet.

"Don't you miss me?" he murmured, dark eyes hooded, voice almost a purr. "Don't you want to hold me?"

You gritted your teeth, heart pounding. "You want to hold me," you said, voice wobbling with the effort to stay firm. "There's a difference."

Wyll's grin was utterly wicked — the curse had loosened something in him, made him shameless, unrestrained in a way that was dangerously tempting.

"Semantics," he said, before lunging forward like he might actually tackle you.

You squeaked — a very dignified squeak — and dodged, making him stumble and curse under his breath. He threw his head back in pure frustration, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Gods above," he groaned, voice cracking. "You are merciless!”

"You'll thank me later!" you called over your shoulder, trying to put distance between you.

Wyll let out a sound that was half growl, half whine, and — to your horror and amusement — he just dropped like a felled tree onto his bedroll, arms splayed out dramatically. He lay there perfectly still, utterly defeated.

You frowned. "Wyll?"

No response.

You crept closer, suspicious. "Wyll," you repeated firmly, reaching out a hand to prod his shoulder. "This isn't funny—"

The moment your fingers brushed his skin, he sprang to life, faster than you could react.

"Got you," Wyll breathed triumphantly, grabbing you and hauling you bodily onto the bedroll with him.

"Wyll, no—!" you gasped, struggling against him, but he was already shifting over you, pinning you down with shocking ease, his whole body pressed against yours in a way that made your resolve crumble in an instant.

"You should've known better, my heart," Wyll murmured against your ear, voice low and filled with wicked delight. "You can't resist me forever."

You opened your mouth to retort — and he kissed you, full and deep and utterly devastating, pouring every bit of his cursed, desperate longing into it.

The moment your lips met, it was like a spark ignited between you, a magic you couldn't hope to fight — the curse latching onto you like a brand, heat flooding your veins so fast and sweet it almost made you dizzy.

Wyll groaned into the kiss, cradling your face in both hands like you were something precious and sacred, finally his to hold without restraint.

"See?" he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse with hunger and affection all tangled together. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

And you, utterly lost to him now, could only shake your head, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him closer, surrendering to the pull that had always existed between you — curse or no curse.

Because this was Wyll — your Wyll — and gods help you, you wanted him just as badly.

Halsin:

You had seen it happen — had watched from across the clearing as the old magic, wild and half-forgotten, tangled around Halsin like a web spun of sunlight and smoke, seeping into his skin with a shimmer you could almost hear, a low, hungry hum that set your own heartbeat skittering in warning.

It took mere moments before you saw the change in him: that slight, telling hitch in his breath, the way his massive frame tensed and shuddered under some invisible pressure, the normally grounded calm in his golden eyes swallowed up by a dark, glassy haze of want that struck you like a blow.

And gods, it was almost comical — almost — the way he immediately turned toward you like a moth spotting a flame, shoulders rolling, muscles flexing under his tunic as he swayed where he stood, blinking dumbly at you as if trying to process why he wasn’t already touching you.

You cursed under your breath, already stepping backward, palms raised, trying to inject some lightness into your voice despite the way your pulse roared in your ears.

"Stay where you are, my heart," you teased, summoning a quick barrier spell between you with a flick of your fingers. "You're not thinking straight — and I, for one, would prefer not to get cursed today."

Halsin made a noise in his throat — something low and almost hurt — before lurching forward, walking straight through your ward like it was smoke on the breeze. His size alone was intimidating enough, but the naked, unfiltered need rolling off him in waves made your whole body tighten in pure, instinctive anticipation.

You scrambled, grabbing the closest weapon you could find — a dull training sword, laughably useless against him — and brandished it in warning. "I mean it! Stay back! Don’t make me poke you with this thing!"

He smiled — smiled — that slow, lazy grin he usually wore only after long nights tangled together, and your breath hitched because there was nothing careful about it now, nothing restrained. This was the bear beneath the druid, the wild, relentless force that had always lurked just under his skin — and you had never been more gloriously doomed.

Still, you tried. You darted to the side, weaving illusions and sending harmless blasts of force to try and trip him up, laughing breathlessly as you ducked and rolled, tossing dirt at his feet, all the while your heart pounding wildly against your ribs.

But it was futile.

Halsin was a predator born, built for the chase, and he indulged it now with a rumbling, pleased growl, following you unhurriedly, utterly certain of the outcome, until you backed yourself right into a tree — and before you could blink, his massive hands were on you, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing at all.

"Got you," he rumbled against your ear, voice thick and syrupy with satisfaction, and you squeaked — squeaked — in protest, struggling half-heartedly against his iron grip, but it was like trying to fight a landslide.

"Halsin," you gasped, laughing helplessly as he pinned you with nothing but the breadth of his body, one big hand cupping the back of your head like you were something fragile and precious even as his hips pressed you shamelessly against the tree. "You’re cursed! You’re not thinking clearly!"

"I am," he countered, voice impossibly deep, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. "I am thinking perfectly clearly. I want you. I always want you."

You opened your mouth to argue — to remind him of the magic seething under his skin, twisting his desires into something dangerous — but it was too late. His lips found yours, hot and desperate and softer than you expected, like even now, even drowning in lust, he still couldn't bear to treat you with anything but reverence.

The curse slammed into you like a tidal wave the moment your mouths met, white-hot and dizzying, and you moaned into the kiss despite yourself, your whole body arching instinctively into his.

Halsin groaned low in his chest, as if feeling the change in you, recognizing it — and then there was no more hesitation, no more control. His hands roamed greedily, possessively, up your sides and down your back, finding every inch of you like he was memorizing it all over again, and you clung to him with equally frantic need, your own resistance dissolving into ash.

You barely registered the leaves and twigs digging into your back as he lifted you higher, cradling you with ridiculous ease, murmuring filthy, reverent things against your mouth, your neck, your shoulders — words that blurred together into a haze of heat and hunger until you weren't sure who was devouring who.

And maybe that was the curse speaking. Maybe it wasn’t fair.

But as Halsin whispered your name like a prayer and held you like a treasure he refused to let go of, you realized — curse or not — you wanted this.

You wanted him.

Always had. Always would.

There may or may not be a smut version of this in the drafts if people want it..... Hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[sky-scribbles]

Thinking about Gale's spellbook.

Not the old one, the one he carried when he was Gale, the Wizard of Waterdeep - a gorgeous, leather-and-silver bound thing that bulged with a lifetime's worth of accumulated knowledge. There were spells in there penned over wine and cheese with Elminster; in a flow state that bordered on the spiritual after a night with Mystra, remembering her instruction, the feel of her soul against his. That spellbook was the testament to his success, the proof that he had excelled beyond the excellent -

And then Mystra cut him off from the Weave, and it all become meaningless.

His own runes, rendered incomprehensible; beautiful spell-glyphs that turned from condensed power and knowledge to worthless pieces of art. He has to start anew, from the ground up - reforging his connection to the Weave without Mystra's guidance (without her, without), relearning schoolboy spells. Humiliatingly easy magic, the kind he used to do like it was breathing, except this time he has to study and work and try and try, Tara urging him on with firm but gentle words.

He learns different spells, now. Mage Armour, Shield, Magic Missile. Not the kind of spells that he'll ever need on a day-to-day basis; spells that'll keep him alive long enough when he makes an exodus to the depths of the Underdark, or the centre of some desert wastes, and goes supernova.

The new spellbook is a plainer thing, small enough to fit in a robe pocket (because extradimensional storage spaces are no longer things he can make with a thought). And then he's snatched by a Nautiloid, and... honestly, he'd swear that the spine just wants to hold onto blood-spatters, no matter how many times he cleans them out. The pages get spotted from all the times he's had to flick them open in driving rain; the corners get creased from being shoved in and out of his robes.

And absolutely nothing can protect it from the unstoppable force of his friends.

Karlach nearly sends the whole thing up in flames one night by gesticulating a bit too wildly. Wyll laughs too hard one night and sprays wine all over Gale's new notes on Abjuration. Scratch picks up the entire thing and runs off with it when Gale's back is foolishly turned, and it's only a stern talking-to from Halsin that saves the whole thing from becoming a chew toy.

Smiley cat faces, doodled on the pages in Yenna's untidy hand. A helpful comment from Karlach on the Fireball page: 'AKA FUCK YEAH LET'S GO!!!!' A few lines of Wyll's perfect handwriting, a memento from a long discussion about how infernal energies could enhance fire magic; a few observations from Shadowheart on warding enchantments. Some terse comments on psionic magic from Lae'zel that Gale finds himself weaving into his Shields, and they do seem to hold up a little better now. (Other hands on his spellbook! Touching the pages he carries close to his heart! The man he was would never have believed it.)

He thinks of them all, as he writes new spells. Counterspell, because nothing will touch them. Spells that will carry his people from danger and shield them from harm. He watches Astarion pace before the fire one night and inscribes Sunbeam with a cold smile of promise to Cazador; he glowers at Mizora over the edge of the pages as he ponders what spells would be best suited to killing a devil.

A wizard's spellbook, Elminster told him once, is a reflection of their soul. Gale of Waterdeep's spellbook was a marvel; perfect and polished and resplendant. Untouched by any hands but his own.

Gale Dekarios's spellbook is battered and beloved, covered on every page with the fingerprints of his friends.

[candy69gurl]

hiii 🤗🤗 im new to your blog, i know you write dark fiction i was wondering if youd be open to some fluff? Like soft sex with sukuna?

Infernal Passion

Heian Era Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

Warnings- 18+, slight non-con, loss of innocence, size kink (Sukuna in true form with 2 dicks, 4 arms and abdomen mouth), mentions of violence (Sukuna eats humans but gentle only with you), use of nicknames, belly buldge, pussy eating, fingering (Sukuna has nails), nipple playing, raw sex (cumming inside), breeding kink, mentions of lactation

wc - 2.4K

ART NOT MINE !

"—Oh, Uraume, bring the new offering to me." Sukuna grumbles, his voice low and menacing. "Tie her up securely and make sure she knows her place. I won't tolerate any resistance from her." He smirks cruelly, savouring the thought of what's to come.

Uraume enters the room, dragging you by the arm, your eyes wide with fear.

Uraume ties you to a wooden post, leaving you bound and vulnerable. Your eyes are filled with tears, and your breathing has turned shallow, each gasp echoing softly in the dimly lit room. The scent of blood and death hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the many who faced the same fate as you.

"Ah, such a delicate little thing." Sukuna's eyes rake over you, taking in every detail of your body. "I can already taste the fear in your blood. It's going to be a delightful meal." He reaches out, gently running a finger down your cheek, his touch cold and calculating. "Such a sweet dessert after a huge feast."

"P-please d-dont eat me.. I-I don't want to die.. I beg of you", you plead, your body already limb under his gaze.

Sukuna's eyes narrow, studying your pleading expression. "Very well, I shall spare you this time." He leans in closer, his breath warming against your skin. "But you have to give me something in return.

"What do you have to offer me?" Sukuna asks, his gaze intense. "You must give me something truly valuable to earn my mercy today." He steps back, crossing his arms, and waits for your response.

You are trembling against his piercing gaze, words stuck in your throat.

"Yes, yes, I can tell you're frightened," Sukuna says mockingly, "but I assure you, I am quite patient. What do you think would please me enough to forget your insignificant life?" He watches you closely, examining your trembling form and the fear etched upon your face. "Perhaps your body could provide some sort of entertainment... Tell me, have you ever served a man before? Or perhaps multiple men?"

Tears stream down your face as you desperately search for words. "N-no." You whisper, feeling the blush rise to your cheeks, "I am... pure, untouched." Your voice wavers, and you bite your lip nervously, hoping that your submission will be enough.

Sukuna's eyes gleam with interest as he studies your reaction. "Pure, are you? That could be intriguing." He takes a step closer, towering over you, his massive form looming over your tiny frame. "But I require more than just words, little one. Show me how much you value your life, and maybe I'll decide if it's worth keeping." He gestures Uraume towards his chamber, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Inside, you will find what I need. Fail me, and I will eat your heart and make you suffer until your last breath."

Uraume approaches you, their expression softening slightly as they untie the bonds restraining you. "Fear not, dear one. Lord Sukuna requires your purity intact." They whisper gently, helping you stand and guiding you towards the chamber, "We shall prepare you for his pleasure."

Within the chamber, a warm bath steams gently, and a pristine robe is laid out on a nearby stool. Uraume helps you undress and step into the water, washing away the dirt and fear clinging to your body. Their gentle hands work over your tense muscles, and their movements are confident and practiced.

As you relax in the warm water, Uraume carefully dries you off and helps you into the robe, adjusting the fabric to fall just right over your slender form. "You are ready now, dear one." Uraume's voice is calm and soothing, and their eyes never leave you. "Remember, you must please Lord Sukuna if you wish to live." They lead you back to the main room, where Sukuna awaits, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Well, well," Sukuna drawls, his gaze raking over your body. "Look at you, all cleaned up and ready for my pleasure." He runs a hand through his hair, amusement flickering in his eyes.

Sukuna motions for you to approach the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as you move cautiously towards him. With a single swift motion, he removes your robe, revealing your innocence and vulnerability to him. "Ah, so tempting."

"You are merely a morsel in comparison to my size and strength, yet your innocence and fragility only add to your allure." Sukuna growls, his massive hands tracing gently down your slender frame. "And here I thought your kind were all tough and unyielding, but you are anything but. You're soft, delicate, and, oh, so delectable." As he speaks, he pulls you closer, your bodies pressing intimately together.

His grip tightens, pulling you even closer, his erection pressing against your belly. "Your innocence is intoxicating, little one." He bends down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss. You taste fear and surrender, which only fuels his desire further. His fingers trail down to where your legs meet, hesitating for a moment before pushing on your legs.

Your eyes fail to meet his, a tender blush filling your cheeks.

"Such shyness is adorable." But you'll learn quickly that there is no escape from my desires." His red eyes devouring your innocence.

With that, he sinks to his knees, his tongue flicking out to taste your essence.

The great Ryomen Sukuna on his knees for a mere human like you, you think.

Your thighs shake, his tongue is huge, one slide is enough to cover your whole womanhood. He savours your shock and fear, letting them mingle with the sweet flavour of your arousal. "So good; you taste better than raw blood." He murmurs, licking and sucking at your tender flesh, driving you wild with both pleasure and terror.

You squirm and whimper against his tongue. "Ah, so sensitive." Sukuna growls, his tongue darting out to catch the droplets of your arousal. "You're going to make me lose control, little one."

Sukuna's eyes widen in surprise at your sensitivity, his tongue lapping up the flood of wetness that cascaded onto his face. This is unlike any human he has encountered before. He cannot remember experiencing such sensitivity from others. It makes him thirsty for more, for your submission and pleasure.

Your mewls and whimpers turn him on further. "Such sweet sounds. You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sukuna's voice is thick with lust, and his tongue never ceases its relentless assault on your sensitive core. He thrusts two thick fingers inside you, stretching your tight walls as you squirm beneath him, his nails brushing your walls drawing out moans from you, his cock throbbing in anticipation.

"A-ah, too much, Lord."

Sukuna groans low in his throat, fighting the urge to claim you right then and there. "If you can't handle that, how will you take my full length inside you?" He asks rhetorically, his fingers working in and out of you, stretching your wet heat in preparation.

Slowly, he eases himself free from his robes, his two massive members standing proud and eager. He positions himself at your entrance, taking a moment to let you feel the weight of his manhood pressing against your delicate folds. "Ready to accept what you owe me, little one?" A cruel smirk curves his lips, knowing you have no choice but to submit.

"Are you going to put both of them inside me?" You are terrified at the thought of his two lengths invading you.

"Don't worry, I won't," Sukuna responds, even though he wanted to push both his dicks inside you, the thought of your tender body feeling pain from it made him rebuff his thoughts. He gently guides his upper dick to your entrance.

Your thoughts are a mix of terror and confusion. You never imagined yourself in such a position—being taken by a powerful demon who holds your life in his hands. Yet, as he slowly pushes into you, the unfamiliar sensation overwhelms you. You cannot help but wonder if this is how your end comes, consumed by this beast. But strangely, your body responds to him, arching into his touch, craving more even

You couldn't believe it. A creature of such immense power and cruelty is gentle with you. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, almost tender. It's a stark contrast to the fear and violence that defined your encounter thus far. As he moves within you, you feel a strange mix of emotions—fear, yes, but also a strange sense of safety. It's an odd sensation to be at the mercy of a monster yet feel protected.

As he continues his slow, gentle thrusts, you can't help but wonder,

Was he capable of more than just cruelty and violence? Or was this just another part of his twisted game, designed to confuse and disorient you before claiming you completely?

"Feeling good, little bird?", he coos.

"Y-yes lord."

"Just for you, little bird. I'll be as gentle as silk." Sukuna whispers, his pace slowing down even further. His two hands hold your legs, and the third one strokes his ignored dick, a strange tongue formed from his hand slides against it. His fourth hand slides down to stroke your clit. The sudden burst of pleasure elicits a gasp from you.

"It feels so good, Lord Sukuna."

"Good. Enjoy it while you can." His thumb circles your clit, tongue formed from his hand occasionally lapping at it making your body flinch, taunting you with orgasm and drawing it out until your core is begging for release.

"Please, I am going to release, my lord", you eyes pleading him to let you release.

"I know.." Sukuna's breath hitches,"I've never been so careful with anyone, especially a mere mortal." His voice dripped with arrogance.

His two shafts pulsated, straining for release.

He hisses at your tightness as you squeeze his dick, creaming it white. Your moans echo through the room.

"Ah, so sweet, hmph,"  he purrs.

Without missing a beat, Sukuna switches the shaft currently inside you with the one he was stroking. He leans down and takes the newly freed member into his abdominal mouth. The sight of his shaft being devoured by his cursed abdomen sends shivers down your spine.

Sukuna seems to notice the direction of your gaze."They both want to be in you, sweetheart. Perhaps not today... I shall claim you with one of my dicks only."

"Love you..," your tone barely audible.

"Love me?" Sukuna's eyes narrow, his brow furrowing. This affection was unexpected, especially from someone he was about to devour a while ago. Yet, there is something intriguing about it. "Love? What do you know of love, little bird?"

He continues to move inside you, his pace increasing ever so slightly. Each thrust is deeper and harder than the last.

"I just know you are never going to hurt me. That's enough for me to love you."

Sukuna laughs cruelly, his hips moving faster now. His laughter echoes in the room, filled with both scorn and amusement. "Oh, how naïve you are. Perhaps I will love you back on one condition."

Your stomach bulges with each thrust, revealing a glimpse of his massive member. It moves in and out of you, leaving behind a trail of pleasure and pain.

With every thrust, your cheeks redden, and your eyes lock onto his.

"Will you be able to bear my child?"

You bite your already swollen lips, thinking your future with the curse king.

"Answer me!" Sukuna roars, slamming into you harder; his need for confirmation is overwhelming.

You swallow hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Yes! Yes, Lord Sukuna! I'll bear your child!"

"Good. You deserve my love then." Sukuna kisses your neck, then his tongue slides down your sternum to your breasts, his shaft disappearing entirely before re-emerging from between your legs.

"You'll bear my child, and you'll remember me every time you look at them. You'll remember your lord." Each word carries the weight of ownership, sealing your fate.

His eyes gleam with anticipation, imagining the sight of your breasts swelling with milk. The thought sends a shiver down his spine.

"Imagine it, your nipples engorged, milk from them flowing freely. Yes, that would be lovely." His grip tightens on her hip, his thrusts becoming deeper and more possessive. His mouth sucks on your nipples while one of his hands pinches your nipples, thinking about how they would look, swollen and ready to feed his future kids. With each squeeze and suckle, you whimper, your body writhing beneath him. This is a future you never expected, but somehow, it excites you more than terrifies you.

His thrusts grow longer and slower, each one filled with possession and dominance. His mouth moves from one breast to the next, licking and sucking while his hand plays with the other.

"So close, are we?" His voice was low and seductive, promising pleasure and pain.

"Please, Lord, fill me. Fill me with your seed," you speak out the words you never imagined, you will say.

"So desperate, already? You beg well, sweetheart." Sukuna chuckles, his hips pumping faster. His breathing's ragged, and his gaze fixed on your face. "Are you sure you want this?"

Your lips swollen and red from biting as you let go of your moans while you orgasm again.

He does not wait for an answer, instead driving deep into you and filling you completely. His hot seed spills into your womb, marking you forever. His other dick squirts, landing on your chest and tummy. His eyes darken, and his entire body becomes tense.

"Now, you carry a piece of me. Forever bound to me."

Once spent, he collapses onto her, his breath ragged. His mouth found the curve of her neck, licking gently. "We have a deal, little bird. You bear my children, and I'll protect you. Our bond is sealed now."

"Look at you," Sukuna murmurs, pushing himself off your body. Standing up, he steps back to survey his art.

The mess is undeniable—your chest and belly covered in his seed, your thighs wet with evidence of their coupling.

His finger circles around your nipple, sending shockwaves through your body.

"How messy and used you look right now. Covered head to toe in my filth. I've claimed you and marked my territory for you. No one will dare touch you again. I'll leave you here to rest, my queen. When morning comes, Uraume will take care of you."

"I love you, my queen,"  he says, kissing your temple, letting you drift into the kingdom of dreams, where you are taking care of lord sukuna's kids.

[pomefioredove]

Can I have a chocolate cookie, #1, with frosting and chestnuts? :3

HEHE ofc! actually the first thing I've written in ages that I actually really like :3

order #1, chocolate with frosting, chestnuts

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in sickness and in health

summary: just a little cold tropes: only one bed, sic fic characters: rollo additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu, cuddling

Infernal cold.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Rollo coughs into the sleeve of his student council robes, snot and spit darkening the fabric.

He can't remember the last time he's been such a mess.

It must have been one of those Night Raven College devils. He hasn't been this sick since-

"President, you look unwell," his vice president says, hand on his hip. "Are you ill?"

"Absolutely not. I'm perfectly well,"

His voice is hoarse and scratchy. Each breath of cold air stings the back of his throat, and yet he can't breathe through his nose...

"You were up all night clearing the school of fire lotuses. You're exhausted," says his aide.

"I'm fine,"

"President,"

It's a losing battle (he just cannot win any, lately), and his defeat is spelled in the embers of the dying fire in his room.

The door is locked from the outside, a chair placed under its handle. To keep him in, as if he were an animal... though, it wasn't without reason. Rollo would work himself to death if he were allowed. Temperance has never been kind to him.

"Rollo?"

He jolts at the sound. Surprise is an odd look on the council president, but he's had a lot of it, lately.

Especially from you.

"What are you- who let you in here?" he asks. You look just miserable- tired and dull, sniffling and coughing just like...

...Well, him.

But, (and this is what Rollo was truly fixated on), you are miserable in his room. In his bed.

"Your, um... vice president put me in here. Quarantine. It's the only dorm room with a fireplace, for warmth, he said..."

Damn it.

"I see," Rollo sniffles, and dabs his handkerchief under his nose. "I'm sorry to hear that you're feeling unwell."

"You don't sound too good, either,"

True enough. Rollo allows himself the indulgence of sitting close to you, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

"I seem to have come down with a cold, yes. Do your... friends know you're here?"

"I don't know,"

Good, he thinks. The last thing he needs is to be accused of holding their beloved pet prisoner in-

Rollo stiffens. He feels you tug at his sleeve again, thrice more, like a small child, or a petulant goat...

"What is it?" he asks, voice almost trembling, "Can I get you something?"

Another tug. You pull his hand out of his lap. You're asking him to come closer.

Rollo feels his body still.

If he weren't already so pale from sickness, he certainly would have gone white.

"...Is that truly what you want?"

You nod.

"What would your friends think?"

"They aren't here,"

Rollo's heart thrums in his chest. There's something so... satisfying about that. He wants to hear you say it again...

"Are you certain?"

"They won't know," you insist. "I think you need it, too."

Rollo would, in health and the right state of mind, dislike having such assumptions made about him. Even if they're entirely correct.

Luckily, he's not exactly lucid, and your offer is almost as tempting as the sight of the blankets over your body.

"Very well," he concedes, as if it were a chore, and he removes his shoes and hat and lies beside you.

It's as if you were never strangers. Or, perhaps, as if you were- as if you had just forgotten about all that he'd done and said in the past two days. Your arms come around his waist, holding him to you, your head on his shoulder.

His head on yours.

You're warm. So is he. It's the sickness, he tells himself, but he does allow himself this one fantasy, that your warmth is from each other.

"Comfortable?" he mutters. You nod against him.

"Hm. Then I'm pleased. I did say that I would make sure you enjoyed your time here, after all- in sickness and in health."

[bradleysass]

Fever - @into-the-jeggyverse - wc: 559 - Starchaser

The morning light streamed through the curtains, illuminating the Slytherin-green quilt tangled around Regulus Black’s legs. He groaned softly, his head pounding and his throat dry as parchment. Still, there was no way he was giving in to this infernal sickness.

Dragging himself out of bed, Regulus splashed cold water on his face and glanced at the mirror. His pale complexion was unusually sallow, dark circles haunting his eyes. He ignored it, tying his hair back and donning his crisp shirt and tie.

James Potter’s voice rang in his mind. “You’re allowed to rest, you know. Even perfect little pure-blood princes need a day off.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “I’m not some fragile little flower,” he muttered to himself, brushing lint off his robes and ignoring the wave of dizziness that followed.

By the time he reached the Great Hall for breakfast, James was already waiting, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. His unruly hair stuck up in all directions as usual, and his Gryffindor tie was loosened in a way that made Regulus’s inner perfectionist twitch.

“Morning, darling,” James greeted, standing to peck him on the cheek. He paused, squinting. “You look a bit off. Feeling alright?”

“I’m fine,” Regulus replied curtly, brushing past him to take a seat. He grabbed a piece of toast, but even the thought of eating made his stomach churn.

James sat down beside him, studying him with a frown. “You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m not discussing this,” Regulus snapped, biting into the toast despite the nausea swirling in his gut. His hand trembled slightly as he held it.

James sighed but didn’t push further, though he kept sneaking concerned glances at his boyfriend throughout breakfast.

As the day wore on, Regulus became increasingly sluggish. His head felt stuffed with cotton, and his limbs ached as if he’d been hit with a Bludger. Still, he refused to admit defeat.

He breezed through Potions class, though his hands shook as he diced ingredients. James hovered nearby, pretending to review his notes but clearly watching Regulus like a hawk.

“Reg,” James whispered as Professor Slughorn droned on. “You’re swaying on your feet.”

“I’m fine,” Regulus hissed, his voice hoarse.

But he wasn’t fine. By the time they reached the corridor outside Charms, Regulus’s vision was swimming. He gripped the wall for support, blinking rapidly to dispel the black spots clouding his sight.

“Regulus—” James began, but Regulus cut him off.

“Stop fussing!” he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He stepped forward, intending to prove he was perfectly capable of walking unaided, but his knees buckled.

James was there in an instant, catching him before he hit the ground.

“Bloody hell, Regulus,” James muttered, his tone a mix of worry and exasperation. He hoisted Regulus into his arms as if he weighed nothing.

“Put me down,” Regulus protested weakly, his head lolling against James’s chest.

“Not a chance,” James said firmly. “You’re burning up, and I’m taking you to the Hospital Wing.”

Regulus sighed, too exhausted to argue. He let his head rest against James’s shoulder, his fever-addled mind focusing on the steady thud of James’s heartbeat.

As they reached the Hospital Wing, Regulus mumbled, “You’re insufferable.”

James chuckled, pressing a kiss to Regulus’s sweat-dampened hair. “And you’re stubborn. But I love you anyway.”

Regulus didn’t respond, already half-asleep in James’s arms.

[fairyringsandwings]

A Demon's Offer

Summary: Unbeknownst to Zoey and Mira, Rumi has crossed paths with the leader of the demon boy band before.

Rumi x Jinu!

Ao3 Link

Rated: T

(A/N) This is based purely on the trailer, as the movie obviously isn't out yet. But I got too excited about the idea of Rumi x Jinu, so I decided to attempt a fic for them, even though we know next to nothing about them. So when the movie comes out... this will probably be pretty oc and just... not make sense, but until then, ta da~*

____

The moment Rumi sees him, a shadow falls over her world.

For a single eternal moment, everything fades into dimness and quiet. There is no infatuated crowds squealing and clamouring for attention, no blast of upbeat music with catchy lyrics designed to enthral, no roar of car engines or the bustle and chatter of the street. 

All there is him and her. 

And silence.

When he finally looks at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, she knows without doubt that it's him. His traditional charcoal robes and gat are gone, replaced with modern attire—a partially unbuttoned white shirt revealing a pink top beneath, skinny jeans, and converse shoes. His grey skin is now pale, and the purple markings that once adorned him are gone. He looks like any other human. No claws, no fangs, no glowing eyes that warned of the frightful power thrumming below his flesh. If he had been anyone else, she could have easily waltzed by him and not realised what he was, so meticulously crafted was his disguise. 

It was almost perfect.

Almost.

But Rumi knows what he is at first sight. A demon. A malevolent spirit here to harvest the souls of the innocent, so he may grow in power and influence. But it wasn't the infernal aura burning beneath his guise that gave him away. No, she knew him. He was the dark spectre that had haunted her dreams for years. A constant knock on her mental shields, pleading to be answered. 

It had been a decade since she had last seen him, in a time when she had thought her mother had been wrong about demons, when she had dared to think there was good in some of them. She had been a fool. All that trust and hope had earned her was a knife in the back.

Rumi stares at the demon she had once called a friend. The boy she had sworn that if she ever saw again, she would vanquish without a second thought.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"A demon boy band!" Zoey gasps once they arrive back at their apartment. "That's diabolical! We're doomed! Looking like that, the fans will be lining up to hand over their souls!"

"Not if we stop them first," Mira assures Zoey. "Hey, Rumi, are you alright? You've been kinda quiet since we saw those demons earlier."

"I'm fine," Rumi replies a little too quickly. "Just... thinking of how we're going to deal with this."

Rumi ignores the worried glances thrown her way and retreats to her room, locking the door behind her. She closes her eyes and sighs, one hand resting over her heart.

Already, she can feel him lurking at the recesses of her mind, his fingers trailing against the mental barriers she had painstakingly built over the years to keep demons like him out. It is a gentle touch, like the brushing of a hand against her arm, letting her know that he was there, that he was waiting—as he always was. 

Now that he had shown his hand and made it clear he intended to stay in her world, it was only a matter of time before their paths crossed again. Since a confrontation was inevitable, she might as well do it privately and on her terms. 

Rumi takes the spare dagger from her bedside drawer and then sits down on her bed, legs crossed. She twirls the blade skilfully between her fingers, closes her eyes and focuses on her barriers.

She has always imagined her mental barriers as a forcefield that glimmers and gleams like a purple nebula in the darkness, an impenetrable wall that she controlled. Now, she envisions a single sliding door, just big enough for a human-sized creature to enter. 

There is the sliding of wood. The thud of footsteps. The fizzle of electricity as the lights and electrical appliances in her room switch off one by one. A chill runs down her body, her breath leaving her in a puff of cold air. She knows before she opens her eyes that he is already here in her room, standing close by, watching her.

"Jinu," Rumi announces, opening her eyes.

Fiery, purple wisps hover around the room, casting strange shadows upon the walls. Standing before her, almost blending in with the darkness, is the demon who had plagued her. Gone is his human disguise, for there is no need for it before her. He smiles softly at her, as if they were two old friends reunited, and not mortal enemies preparing for another showdown.

"You left me waiting a long time, Rumi," Jinu chides. "The lengths a guy has to go to get a girl's attention."

"Well, you certainly have my undivided attention now," Rumi retorts dryly. "What do you want?

"I think it should be obvious. What else would a demon want with a famous demon huntress?" Jinu drawls. "I want you and your sisters' reign of terror on the demons to end."

"Well, we both know that's not happening."

"It's in your best interest to hear me out, Rumi. You have no idea the storm that's heading your way. You and your sisters have caused quite the stir among the demons, and their tolerance of you has worn thin," Jinu warns darkly. "I've come to make you a deal."

"I don't make deals with demons," Rumi snarls. 

Jinu glides forward and kneels before the bed, his movements slow and cautious, knowing full well that at the first sign of aggression, she wouldn't hesitate to plunge her dagger into his throat. He tilts his head, golden eyes meeting hers. 

"If you love your sisters and want them to live, you will listen to me Rumi. I will offer you this once and never again. And I can assure you, no one else will give you such a generous offer. Take your sisters and vanish. Swear on their souls that you will give up your demon-slaying ways. Do this, and I swear I'll ensure no demons will ever go after you and your family again," Jinu offers, his voice eerily soft. "You can live a peaceful, normal life. No more looking over your shoulder, no more coming home aching and bruised, no more no more nearly dying on a daily basis."

"If you knew me at all, then you already know what my answer will be," Rumi says quietly. 

Jinu's eyes darken. "Still as stubborn and bull-headed as always."

"Keep insulting me, and see how well this ends for you," Rumi warns, pointedly twirling the dagger between her fingers. 

Jinu looks at the blade and clicks his tongue in disapproval. "There was a time when the thought of raising a blade against me was unthinkable to you."

"There was a time I called you friend too... and look how well that turned out for me," Rumi whispers bitterly. Within one blink and the next, she brings the dagger forward, pressing the length of the blade against Jinu's neck. "I will never be so foolish again."

"I was never going to hurt you back then," Jinu says quietly, his hand slowly wrapping around her wrist. "I cared for you too much. If you put your anger aside and trust your instincts, you'll know I'm telling you the truth about that."

Rumi wants to snap at him, to call him a lair. But even till this day she knows he hadn't lied about caring for her. Back when they were children, he truly had considered her a friend, despite everything that should have prevented such feelings from ever developing. All those days spent playing games in the forests had been genuine; all the laughter, all the teasing, all the whispered secrets had been sincere and not a clever ruse. 

But his affections for her had not been enough for him to spare her classmates. 

It had been Rumi who had introduced Jinu to the other children at her school at his request; he had claimed he had wanted to make more friends, as that would let him learn more about mortals and have companionship when she was busy with her demon-hunting training back home. Rumi had been more than happy to do so, eager to show off her friend and help him in anyway that she could.

But it had all been a lie.

Jinu had wanted to get closer to the other children, to make it easier to steal their souls, allowing him to grow in strength. On that day, Rumi had been forced to draw her blade against him. Severing their friendship.

"I believe you," Rumi grits out. "And it changes nothing."

"This isn't like back then, Rumi," Jinu warns. "Once I leave, you won't get this offer again. We'll be enemies. I won't hold back."

"Neither will I," Rumi swears. 

Jinu closes his eyes, a look of pain crossing his face. He draws her wrist away, removing the dagger from his throat. She allows him, sensing that he doesn't plan to strike her, not yet anyway. The next time they met, all bets were off.

"So be it, Hunter," Jinu says, opening his eyes.

He darts forward with frightul speed and places a chaste kiss on her cheek. it leaves a frosty impression of lips upon her flesh. Before Rumi can lash out with her dagger, the wisps extinguish, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later, the lights flicker back on.

When Rumi gathers her wits, she finds Jinu gone. 

For the first time in years, he does not haunt her dreams.

[redvexillum]

A/N: Get it? Grace-fall? It's Graceful. Lol! This brilliance can only come from licking the most expensive and luxurious of doorknobs made of diamonds. Just saying.

SUMMARY: Once a devoted nun, your mortal life ended steeped in sin, condemning you to Hell. You pray relentlessly for redemption, though salvation seems far out of reach. The claws of lust have sunk deep into your soul, your very being dripping with unholy desire. Fallen from grace, you find yourself ensnared by two devils who revel in your surrender, indulging in your flesh and your corruption with wicked delight.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, p in a, double penetration, underlying sexual tension between Alastor and Lucifer, corruption kink, Lucifer has it bad for religious kink, nun!reader, threesome

Hell was not supposed to feel this... warm. 

You had been devoted to the Lord, a devout Sister draped in virtue, but even devotion hadn't saved you. Somehow, someway, you’d landed yourself in the depths of Hell. Each morning and every night, you knelt on blistered, infernal ground, your trembling hands clasped in prayer for forgiveness that never came. This place—a supposed refuge for sinners seeking redemption—mocked you. Perhaps your soul was too stained, your sins too vile, to ever dream of Heaven. 

Because you carried a shameful secret. 

By day, you were the perfect image of piety, wrapped in robes and righteous words, sharing scripture with a voice that trembled with supposed faith. But when the moon rose, so did your desires. Behind closed doors, in the hushed, hidden dark, you cast away chastity like trash. You indulged, flesh against flesh, sin layered upon sin, until your moans sounded like prayers to something other. 

And here, in Hell, it seemed you hadn’t changed. 

“A-ah, A-Alastor—!” your voice broke as his hands guided your trembling body back against his chest. His claws traced a teasing path up your bare thigh, the sharp tips leaving tingling trails of heat on your sensitive skin. 

Once he learned about your past, Alastor couldn’t resist. He delighted in theatrics, and what better costume for his new obsession than the very one that had shielded you in life? He’d conjured a habit reminiscent of your old one—but he’d tailored it. 

Or, more accurately, ruined it. 

The fabric was thinner, so sheer you could see every contour of your body beneath the strained, clinging cloth. It was tighter, accentuating every curve you once tried to hide. Worst of all, a scandalous slit cut up the side of the tunic, revealing the sinful truth that you wore nothing beneath. Every step threatened to bare your soul—along with everything else. 

“T-this isn’t w-what we wore,” you stammered, your voice soft, trembling with both shame and something far more dangerous. You prayed he wouldn’t notice how your body betrayed you, prayed his hand wouldn’t slip lower. But you knew if he did, he’d find the damning evidence of your arousal soaking your thighs. 

“Nonsense, dear,” he purred, his voice rolling over you like warm molasses. His breath curled against your ear as his hips pressed insistently into you. "We’re even matching. Look.” 

Despite your better judgment, you dared to glance. Alastor stood behind you, garbed in his own blasphemous rendition of a nun's attire. His coif bore an upside-down cross embroidered in crimson, the stitching precise yet sacrilegious. 

It was wrong. It was so wrong. 

Yet, it set your skin aflame. 

“D-does it please you to torment me?” you whimpered, trembling as his palm ghosted over your breast. His thumb brushed the hardened peak of your nipple through the taut fabric, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, desperate to muffle the sinful sound that escaped. 

“Torment you?” Alastor chuckled, low and rich, like a velvet sin. His hand slid down, grazing your quivering stomach. “Why, my dear, I would never! I’m simply guiding you on your new path—one of passion, indulgence, and…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that danced over your skin. “…pleasure.” 

You didn’t stop him. 

You couldn’t stop him. 

Shame pooled like molten lead in your chest, mixing with the treacherous pleasure that dripped from your core. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you croaked, “P-please, Alastor, d-don’t tease me.” 

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, his tone mocking yet tender, “I don’t tease. I teach.” His fingers edged lower, tracing lower, lower still—almost slipping beneath the slit of your tunic. 

Then— 

The door creaked open. 

Your entire body froze, your muscles locking in mortified panic. The air felt thick, suffocating, as you whipped your head toward the sound. 

“Hey, Alastor, why’d your shadow—” 

The voice halted, the words hanging in the heavy silence. Time seemed to stop as the intruder took in the sight of you—trembling, dishevelled, pressed against Alastor’s chest in your barely there nun’s habit. 

Your breath hitched. 

It was Lucifer standing before you. 

The Morning Star, the fallen angel whose name was both a cautionary tale and a forbidden promise, stood before you in the flesh. His aura radiated power, a blend of overwhelming authority and unearthly beauty that stole your breath. You should hate him. Every scripture had told you to loathe his existence, to see him as the ultimate deceiver, the tempter of mankind. 

But as his crimson, molten eyes softened when they rested on you, it was impossible to feel only hate. 

Your feelings for him were complicated—a tangled web of reverence, fear, and an unwilling fascination. The longer you were in his presence, the harder it became to deny that he was not merely a villain. He was something far more nuanced, far more intoxicating. 

But all thoughts scattered as you felt Alastor’s hardened length press against your backside. His arousal grew unmistakable, and the firm weight of it sent a jolt of heat through your already trembling frame. 

“Ah, did my pesky shadow cause this little interruption?” Alastor mused, his tone smooth yet dripping with mockery. “Hmm, no matter. You can run along now, King,” he added with a laugh that was as sharp as broken glass. “I’m spending time with my dear, after all.” 

You flinched as Alastor’s hand slid down, lifting your leg with practised ease. The slit of your habit widened, the cool air licking against your exposed, soaked core. Every inch of you screamed in humiliation as Lucifer’s gaze dropped, his eyes roving over your quivering body until they landed on the most intimate part of you. 

His crimson eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as if in disbelief. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Lucifer finally growled, his composure cracking as his brows furrowed in exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to bastardize this?” He jabbed the apple-shaped head of his cane toward your altered nun’s habit, his disdain palpable. 

But Alastor only chuckled, his amusement unfazed. “Oh, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we, dear?” His voice dipped with a teasing lilt as he pressed his cheek to the crown of your head, the motion emphasizing the sharp grin you knew was stretched across his face. 

His hips moved subtly, his hardness grinding against the cleft of your ass with an agonizingly slow rhythm. The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and despite your better judgment, a soft, breathless moan slipped from your lips. 

“A-ah—” You couldn’t stop the sound, and shame burned hot in your chest. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your flushed cheeks as you whispered, “I-I’m sorry… p-please, forgive me.” Your words were breathy, punctuated by quiet cries as your hips began to move on their own, seeking more of the sinful pleasure Alastor offered. 

Lucifer let out a low, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.” His voice was a mix of anger and something darker—something that made your stomach flip. 

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning with a finality that sent a thrill of both fear and anticipation racing through you. 

“You did this on purpose,” Lucifer accused, his voice low as he stalked toward you. His serpentine tongue flicked out briefly, a glint of heat in his crimson eyes as they roamed your trembling form. 

“Hmm, perhaps,” Alastor hummed, his tone light but his actions deliberate. You gasped as you heard the fabric tearing—not yours, but his. You felt the unmistakable heat of his cock sliding against your soaked folds. He moved slowly, deliberately, coating himself in your slickness as if savouring every second. 

“I’d be lying,” Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl, “if I said your little stares every time she prayed didn’t irritate me, Lucifer.” 

Lucifer’s cheeks flushed with golden light, his composure cracking under the weight of Alastor’s accusation. “I-I—!” 

“Oh, you didn’t think I noticed?” Alastor’s grin was audible in his voice, wicked and triumphant. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with shallow movements that had you sobbing with need. Your chest heaved as desperate pleas spilled from your lips, the heat inside you unbearable. 

“P-please,” you cried, your voice trembling with the weight of shame and lust that burned away all restraint. “I c-can’t—” 

Lucifer’s gaze darkened, his conflicted expression twisting into something more primal. 

Alastor chuckled darkly, his voice a slow ripple of sinister delight as he teased you with the head of his cock. The stretch was exquisite, a sweet, aching burn that had you trembling against him. Every inch he pushed into you was a battle between agony and ecstasy, your body straining to take him deeper. You craved it—wanted it to hurt, to feel the sharp edge of your desires as penance for the sin of yearning for something so profane. 

Yet, Alastor moved with an almost mocking grace, his control absolute as he bared you to him. His slender hands slid the front of your tunic aside, completely exposing the glistening heat of your cunt to the cool air. Without effort, he lifted your other leg, thighs splayed wide in his grip, and fully sheathed himself inside you. 

The sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and you cried out—a broken, helpless apology spilling from your lips. “Forgive me,” you sobbed to a silent heaven, your tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “Forgive me, Lord, for indulging in this sin with a devil.” 

Alastor groaned deeply, the sound reverberating through you as his cock throbbed against your quivering walls. “Do you know, dear?” His voice was a sinful melody, tainted with amusement and heat. “You’ve driven the king of Hell to fuckhimself with his hand while watching you pray so sweetly to your Lord.” 

Your tear-filled gaze lifted, meeting Lucifer’s smouldering, fiery eyes. His sharp features were shadowed with hunger, and there—pressing against the fabric of his tailored pants—was the undeniable proof of his desire. 

Alastor’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that, my dear king,” he crooned, his hips moving with agonizing slowness as he withdrew, only to thrust back into you. The slick sound of your arousal filled the air, making you burn with humiliation and desire. “If anything, you should be thanking me for giving you this chance. Go on, my dear,” he growled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Beg him. Revere the king of Hell. Pretend it’s just you, alone in your bed, consumed by your wicked little fantasies.” 

Heat flooded your cheeks as the memory clawed its way back into your mind. Last night—your knees sinking into your mattress, your cries muffled by your pillow as your fingers worked frantically to fill the ache inside you. You had moaned for it, begged for it, your body trembling with the desperate need for a cock to stretch you open and take you to pieces. 

Alastor had seen it all. 

A sob broke from your throat, your lips trembling as the weight of his gaze bore down on you. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you moaned, “Please…” 

The word lingered in the charged air, and it was all Lucifer needed. The devil sank to his knees, his movements predatory as his hands gripped your hips. His tongue found you—hot, rough, and unrelenting as he licked a path from your swollen clit down to the dripping heat of your folds. 

Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch, and Alastor groaned above you, his breath ragged. The devil king’s tongue swirled and slithered, exploring you with a reverence that bordered on worship. You felt his expert hands move to cradle Alastor’s heavy balls, fondling them with a precision that had the radio demon’s voice breaking into a strained moan. 

And then, in one smooth motion, Alastor withdrew from you. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but your eyes widened when you looked down to see Lucifer take him into his mouth. 

The sight was devastatingly sinful: Lucifer’s plush lips wrapped around Alastor’s cock, his throat working as he took him in deeply, while his thumb slipped back to brush over your clit in teasing strokes. Your hips bucked against his hand, your body caught in a storm of sensations as pleasure spiralled higher with every touch. 

Alastor’s hips began to move, thrusting into Lucifer’s eager mouth with low, guttural groans. The sensation of his movements sent shockwaves through you, the mingling sounds of slick arousal filling the air. But Lucifer wasn’t done with you. With a loud, wet pop, he released Alastor’s cock, his hands stroking the length with practised ease, before his mouth returned to you. 

You cried out as his tongue plunged into you, curling and twisting inside your heat. His lips latched onto your swollen clit, sucking with a hunger that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Alastor’s laughter—low and strained—filled the room as he watched Lucifer lose himself in you. 

And you? 

You were drowning in it, consumed by the sheer decadence of being ravaged by two devils who seemed determined to ruin you, body and soul. 

A strangled cry tore from your lips, your tears streaking down in hot, salty trails as you trembled under Alastor's punishing grip. His claws dug into your thighs, leaving faint crescents in your tender flesh, a stark reminder of his control. 

“More… more,” you begged, your voice raw and breathless. Your body ached, caught between the sharp edge of need and the shame of your surrender. 

Alastor’s dark chuckle filled the room, rich with cruel amusement. “Oh, you naughty, naughty girl,” he chided, his voice a silken blade. “This isn’t enough for you, is it? Always craving more, no matter how much you’ve taken.” His words cut deep, each one a taunting echo of your fractured piety, your countless nights spent giving in to your base desires. 

Behind you, the wet sounds of Lucifer’s mouth stilled. His fiery gaze raked over your trembling form, lips glistening from the evidence of his ministrations. Without a word, he snapped his fingers, a crackle of hellfire igniting around you. The fabric of your outfit dissolved into nothingness, replaced by a fleeting, fiery heat that licked over your skin. 

Now bare, you shivered—not from cold, but from the vulnerable intensity of their attention. 

Lucifer’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed—not at you, but at the smug demon holding you open like a feast laid bare. “You…” The words rumbled low in his throat, his fury palpable as Alastor’s grin widened. 

With a growl, Lucifer’s composure snapped. He tore at the front of his pants, shoving them aside with deliberate impatience until his cock stood proud—thick, long, and demanding your attention. 

Your breath hitched, your mouth watering as heat coiled low in your belly. The sheer size of him sent your mind spinning, imagining how it would feel, how he would stretch and fill you. 

Alastor’s voice broke through your haze, a taunting melody dripping with mockery and delight. “Will you pray for forgiveness tonight, my dear?” His words were a cruel caress against your soul. “Perhaps you can taste the king while begging for the Lord’s mercy.” 

Lucifer’s muscles tensed, his eyes widening in shocked restraint as his hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. The tension in his body betrayed the effect of Alastor’s words as his knuckles whitened, trembling. 

“Go on,” Alastor purred, his lips curling into a devilish grin. “Say your prayers now, while your purity is torn asunder by two devils who know no mercy.” 

A broken sob escaped you, a sound dripping with desperation and forbidden lust. Your body quivered as Alastor shifted behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against the tight ring of your ass. 

Lucifer growled low in his throat, his cock brushing against your soaked, trembling folds. He lingered, waiting—demanding your surrender not just of body, but of soul. 

“F-forgive me, Father—ah!” The words barely left your lips before Alastor surged forward, breaching you in one merciless thrust. Pain and pleasure collided as your body strained to accommodate him, your cries loud and uninhibited. 

Lucifer didn’t wait. His cock drove into your slick cunt with equal ferocity, stretching and filling you until there was no room for anything but them. 

Your body burned, every nerve alive with the overwhelming sensation of being taken, utterly consumed by them. Tears streaked your face anew as your fingers scrabbled for purchase, finally clutching at Lucifer’s shoulders for support. 

Their groans filled the room, deep and primal, vibrating through you as they moved in tandem. Alastor’s breath ghosted against your ear, his voice a sinful whisper. “Don’t stop, darling. Continue your prayers.” 

The command was both a taunt and a promise, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he thrust into you, sharp and precise. Lucifer’s hands gripped your waist, his movements relentless, dragging cries from your throat that echoed like hymns to your undoing. 

The world blurred, every sensation heightening as their bodies claimed you, leaving you gasping and trembling between them. Your prayers turned to pleas, the words dissolving into moans as you surrendered completely, letting them unravel you piece by sinful piece. 

“F-forgive me—ah—” The words faltered on your lips, swallowed by the sinful symphony of their bodies entwined with yours. Alastor’s hips rolled with an exquisite precision, sending shivers cascading down your spine. Lucifer groaned deeply as the thin wall separating your cunt and ass flexed with every thrust, their cocks filling you beyond what you thought possible. 

“F-Father, f-for I have s-sinned—hah—” Your head fell back against Alastor’s shoulder, your body arching as though in prayer. But this wasn’t piety—this was surrender. Held aloft by their unrelenting grip and their thick, pulsing cocks, you were trapped in a sinful rhythm, their thrusts alternating to keep you on the edge of madness. Sometimes they moved in tandem, stretching you impossibly full, and other times their rhythm broke, their erratic movements overwhelming your senses. 

It was too much—your body couldn’t take it—but never in life had you felt such raw, unbridled pleasure. 

“K-keep praying,” Lucifer growled, his voice husky with need. His lips descended on your breast, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucked it into his mouth. The sharp sensation of his teeth grazing your nipple made you cry out, your back arching further into his touch. He bit down lightly, tugging before resuming his fervent suckling, each sensation sharpening the ache coiling in your core. 

The intensity of it all made your body clench instinctively, gripping the two cocks inside you. Both devils moaned, their pleasure vibrating through you. 

“M-my l-last c-confession—hah—please, ah—” Your voice broke as your body gave itself over to the debauchery, your cries mingling with the wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts. The squelching echoed in the room, each sound a testament to your sinful surrender. Your slick dripped down their lengths, leaving trails of debauchery on their thighs. 

Lucifer groaned, his teeth grazing your nipple again before tugging it firmly. His hips rolled with increasing fervour, his cock stroking every sensitive nerve inside you. Behind you, Alastor’s pace quickened, each thrust a deliberate claim as he ensured you would feel his presence long after this moment ended. 

“M-my last confession w-was yesterday,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you turned your head to the side. The vulnerable expanse of your neck was laid bare, and Alastor wasted no time. His teeth sank into your skin, sharp enough to draw blood, the sting mingling with the pleasure coursing through you. The heat of his bite spread through your body, making your thighs tremble as he pulled you open even wider. 

Lucifer took advantage of your vulnerability, slamming his hips into you with reckless abandon. The head of his cock hit your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of ecstasy radiating through you. The sensation tore cries from your lips, your voice cracking under the weight of your pleasure. 

Your body began to quake, every muscle tightening as you climbed toward the precipice. “Th-these are my s-sins,” you whimpered, your voice choked with desperation. 

And then it hit you—a tidal wave of release that crashed through your body with devastating force. Your eyes flew open, unseeing, as your orgasm seized you. Your inner walls convulsed wildly, clutching at their cocks in a desperate rhythm as your juices spilled over, drenching them in your shameful surrender. 

A broken, anguished cry tore from your throat, echoing off the walls. 

Lucifer groaned, his glowing red eyes narrowing as his restraint snapped. His fangs elongated, glinting in the dim light as he growled. He gripped your hips tighter, slamming into you with renewed vigor, his movements fuelled by the sight and feel of your release. 

Behind you, Alastor moaned deeply, his hips rolling as he chased his own pleasure. The rhythm of his cock driving into your ass became erratic, his voice trembling with wicked delight. 

Together, they claimed you completely, leaving no part of you untouched or unmarked, their sinful union branding your body and soul in ways you would never recover from. 

Your body quaked, overwhelmed by the sensations tearing through you. The remnants of your first orgasm still pulsed faintly when a second wave began to crest, building swiftly and mercilessly. Your muscles clenched again, pulling tight around them both, every nerve alight with searing pleasure. 

Your cry was raw, piercing the room as your release overtook you once more. Every inch of you spasmed, your inner walls fluttering as the force of your climax rippled through you. Lucifer groaned deeply, the sound guttural and primal as his own restraint snapped. His cock throbbed inside you, releasing hot spurts of his seed into your womb, filling you to the brim. 

Behind you, Alastor followed swiftly, his thrusts faltering as his hips slammed forward one final time. He shuddered, a strangled moan escaping his lips as his warmth flooded your ass, mingling with the sinful heat of Lucifer's release. 

The room stilled, save for the sound of ragged breaths interwoven with the heady scent of sweat and sex. You felt their combined arousal spilling from you, dripping down your quivering holes and pooling onto the floor. The sensation sent another shiver through your body, shame and satisfaction coiling together in an intoxicating mix. 

When Alastor released his grip, you collapsed onto trembling knees. Your hands reached instinctively for Lucifer, your lips finding his softening, spent cock. Pressing reverent kisses along his length, you tasted the salty mixture of his essence and your own arousal on his heated skin. 

“P-please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desperation. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You were insatiable, a vessel of endless need, the embodiment of Lust itself. Your lips trailed down his shaft, leaving a wet path of kisses before you flicked your tongue over the sensitive head. 

“Please… more,” you murmured, kitten-like licks teasing the tip as a small bead of seed lingered there. 

Lucifer hissed softly, his cock twitching faintly at your touch. His crimson eyes softened, a dark smile gracing his lips as his hand lowered to cradle your head. His fingers combed through your sweat-dampened hair with surprising tenderness, an almost possessive gesture that made your heart race. 

Alastor chuckled from behind, the sound low and indulgent. “Oh, my dear, you are truly something sinful,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. “But isn’t that why we adore you?” 

You should have felt shame—a deep, bone-chilling regret for your weakness, your inability to resist this sinful allure. But as Lucifer’s hand guided you back to his cock and Alastor’s fingers traced possessively down your spine, the warmth of their attention ignited something darker inside you. 

Perhaps this was your punishment, a divine reckoning. To know this insatiable hunger, this endless need, and to revel in it despite the crushing weight of shame. 

You opened your lips, ready to receive more, your body trembling with anticipation. If this were to be your punishment, you would take it with open arms, submitting fully to the sinful ecstasy they offered. 

Forever bound by pleasure and despair, you realized one undeniable truth: you would never escape this, nor did you truly want to. 

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[ghostchems]

infernal - terzo x f!reader - part seven

and now... a flashback chapter

art by the always amazing @piaart

author’s note: i feel like shit but it helped me finish this up. plenty of terzo pain here meanwhile reader is home, blissfully unaware. i also have no idea if my writing is good at this point but here ya go! part one/two/three/four/five/six. ao3 link.

If you could see the wreck I am these days, you’d have new reasons to stay away. Just hold my hand for a little while —

Misery never goes out of style.

Terzo traces a delicate finger along one of the bags under his eyes, no longer concealed by the dark eye paint he once wore. His brows furrow at the sight of himself in the mirror. The wrinkles have deepened since he left the stage. His hair, now less lustrous, betrays gray strands emerging from his roots and sideburns. All those years spent cultivating his image, trying to become the perfect imperfection that Lucifer himself boasted—only to unravel after one fateful show. He grits his teeth, his mismatched eyes sharpening in his reflection.

With all the glitz stripped away, he loathes how much he now resembles his father…

Terzo forces the thought out of his head. His days are spent analyzing his time as Papa and what went wrong. He wouldn’t do anything differently but it still stung, especially after the new heights and exposure he had achieved for the Ministry. Somehow, it was not enough. His father was never proud of him, a theme that stretched throughout his entire life. Terzo was only ever the Third to him, the third son that would serve his purpose and then be pushed aside for whoever was next. While this had been the typical progression, Terzo was the fool who thought he would be different — even after being warned by Secondo.

Secondo.

“Cazzo.”

He’s late for Uno Night.

The once-revered Emeritus brothers now find themselves relegated to a desolate corner of the abbey with their only entertainment being a silly card game. Their influence wanes with each passing day. Terzo can't help but sneer at the irony of their situation - former leaders now barely more than forgotten relics, with only each other’s company. There was a time when the Emeritus brothers were revered as gods among men. Crowds would surge forward at their concerts, desperate to touch the hem of their robes or catch a glimpse of their painted faces. Devotees would line up for hours, sometimes days, just for the chance to receive a blessing or a fleeting moment of attention. Their every word was treated as gospel, their gestures analyzed and imitated by legions of faithful followers.

In the halls of the Ministry, their presence commanded instant respect and adoration. Ghouls and Siblings of Sin alike would bow their heads in reverence as they passed. Their chambers were filled with lavish gifts from admirers - exotic incense, priceless artifacts, and fervent love letters. The very air seemed to crackle with power and dark allure whenever they entered a room. Now, that electric atmosphere has faded to a dull static. The gifts have stopped coming, the adoring crowds have moved on to newer, shinier idols. The once-mighty Emeritus brothers find themselves grasping at the fading light of their former glory, clinging to memories of a time when they were worshipped as the embodiments of their infernal master.

He used to delicately paint his face for each meeting, a ritual of devotion to himself and his roll as Papa. But now, as he stares at his bare face, he feels a bitter resentment towards the being he once revered. The paint feels like a mask of lies, concealing the growing doubts and anger festering within him. Lucifer's promises of power and glory now ring hollow in his ears, leaving only the taste of ash and disappointment. Terzo exhales through his nose and tears himself away from the mirror, satisfied with his appearance but frustrated with the progression of his thoughts. He had grown more disillusioned by the day with the cause he so passionately promoted, the being he worshipped. Lucifer, once his guiding light, now seemed like a cruel puppeteer, manipulating him for some cosmic joke.

Omega did not like these thoughts. In fact, Terzo has begun avoiding him and instead has been seeking the company of his brothers. Perhaps the one silver lining in all of this is that he is closer than he ever has been with his true family, minus daddy dearest, of course. They had grown up together, with Primo practically raising him and Secondo after they had come to the ministry. Back then he was a true zealot - a satanic lunatic whose fervor for the dark arts knew no bounds. It was from him that Terzo learned the intricacies of their infernal faith, absorbing every ritual and incantation with wide-eyed fascination. Yet, somehow, both Terzo and Secondo emerged less fanatical than their older brother.

But still competitors, nonetheless. Secondo and Terzo had been born to different mothers three months apart so it came naturally. The more time spent together now, the more they realize how similar they can be and deep down, Terzo wishes they had not been so combative. It was encouraged, though, fed and grown by the higher ups in the ministry and their father. Maybe they feared they would be too powerful if they were close.

Now all they care about is Uno.

"Fuck!" Terzo exclaims again, his voice tinged with frustration as he runs a hand tiredly over his face. The weight of his thoughts bears down on him, but he knows he can't afford to dwell any longer. With a deep sigh, he forces himself into action, slipping his feet into his shoes - the familiar spats clicking as he gets them on. Just as he reaches for the door handle, a sharp knock echoes through the room. Terzo pauses, his hand hovering in mid-air. Irritation flashes across his face.

"Enter," he calls out, his voice tinged with impatience.

The door creaks open, revealing a young Sibling of Sin. Their face is pale, eyes wide with fear and urgency. Terzo's irritation gives way to curiosity as he takes in their disheveled appearance.

"What is it?" he asks, his tone softening slightly.

The Sibling swallows hard before speaking, their voice trembling. "Papa, I... I have news. It's about Omega."

Terzo's eyebrows furrow. "Omega? What about him?" He nonchalantly goes back to adjusting his outfit, wondering if this is another plot from the ghoul to try and make him listen to “reason”. He certainly has stooped rather low, almost as low as Terzo.

The Sibling takes a deep breath, as if steeling themselves for what they're about to say. "He's been banished, Papa. Omega has been cast out of the Ministry."

The words hit Terzo like a physical blow. He stumbles back a step, his mind reeling. "Banished?" he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. "But... how? Why?" Pain is etched across his face.

The Sibling shakes their head, clearly as confused and shaken as Terzo. "I don't know the details, Papa. It happened so suddenly. They're saying it came from the highest levels of the Ministry."

Terzo's mind races, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Shock, confusion, and a sudden, unexpected pang of loss all vie for dominance. Despite their recent disagreements, Omega had been a constant in his life for so long. The thought of him being gone, cast out... it's almost inconceivable.

Terzo's composure shatters as the weight of the news crashes over him. His eyes flash with unbridled fury, causing the Sibling to take an involuntary step back. "Get out!" he roars, his voice reverberating off the walls. "Leave me! Now!" The Sibling, wide-eyed with fear, scrambles to obey, nearly tripping over their own feet in their haste to escape. Terzo slams the door with such force that the entire room seems to shake, the sound echoing through the corridors like a thunderclap.

As soon as the barrier between him and the outside world is secure, everything crumbles. A primal roar of anguish and frustration tears from his throat, echoing off the walls of his private chambers. In a whirlwind of unbridled emotion, he lashes out at his surroundings. His fist connects with the ornate mirror adorning his vanity, the impact sending a spider web of cracks across its surface before it shatters completely. Shards of glass rain down, glittering in the dim light like fallen stars.

But Terzo's rage demands more destruction. He overturns his meticulously organized desk, unleashing an avalanche of papers, pens, and trinkets onto the floor. Books, once neatly arranged on shelves, are torn free and flung across the room, their pages fluttering like disoriented birds. His wardrobe—a carefully curated collection of robes and suits that once symbolized his power and prestige—falls victim to his fury next. Garments are ripped from hangers and strewn about haphazardly, silk and velvet mingling with the debris below. Spotting one of his Papal robes, an early prototype, he seizes it and tears, splitting seams and fabric into pieces with savage force.

He could kill them. End the reign of his father and Sister Imperator with a knife to their throats, a hammer to their heads. He’s capable and he’s angry.

But that’s not who Terzo is.

His appetite for destruction is as swift as it is thorough. When the storm of his anger finally subsides, Terzo finds himself standing amidst the wreckage of his once-immaculate quarters. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, his knuckles having bloodied his gloves from his outburst. The room, previously a testament to his refined tastes and exalted position, now lies in utter ruin around him. He closes his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as the full weight of what has transpired begins to settle upon him.

The dust settles around him, both literally and figuratively, as his mind wanders to Omega. Their relationship, once the core of his existence within the Ministry, had deteriorated over the past several months, transforming into a strained and tenuous connection. The rift between them had widened, growing into a seemingly unbridgeable gap that threatened to swallow everything they shared whole. Omega, ever faithful of their infernal master, had persistently begged Terzo to embrace what he perceived as a well-deserved retirement—a supposed reward bestowed upon them by Lucifer himself for their years of unwavering service and dedication.

"Papa, you've more than earned this rest," Omega would implore, his eyes blazing with sheer intensity behind his cool mask that Terzo found increasingly difficult to look at. "Our Dark Lord Lucifer, in his infinite wisdom, has granted you this period of rest and reflection. Why do you persist in resisting? Can you not see the honor in this gift he has bestowed upon you?"

But for Terzo, the notion of settling into a life of idle luxury felt suffocating—a gilded cage that threatened to strip away everything he had fought so hard to achieve. The very thought of turning his back on the empire he had painstakingly built, nurtured, and expanded over the years felt like a betrayal of who he is and what defines him. As time wore on, his arguments with Omega grew increasingly heated and frequent, his frustration mounting with each tense exchange, threatening to boil over into hostility.

"You call this rest, Omega?" Terzo would retort, his voice rising with each impassioned word, hands gesticulating wildly to emphasize his point. "This isn't rest—it's nothing short of exile, a banishment from everything I've ever known and loved! How can you, of all people, expect me to sit idly by, content to watch as everything I've dedicated my life to—my very existence—crumbles around me like dust?" The air between them would crackle with tension during these confrontations, an electric charge that made it increasingly difficult for them to occupy the same space without the risk of conflict erupting at any moment.

Now, with the shocking news of Omega's sudden and unexpected banishment reverberating through the chambers of his mind, Terzo finds himself consumed with emotion. Relief, guilt, anger, and a profound sense of loss intertwine in a dizzying dance, each vying for dominance in the turbulent landscape of his mind. Despite their recent differences and the ever-widening divide between them, Omega had been a constant, unwavering presence in Terzo's life for longer than he cared to remember—a touchstone of familiarity. His abrupt absence leaves a gaping void in the fabric of Terzo's existence, a wound so deep and raw that he isn't certain he possesses the means to heal it.

Even with the turmoil raging inside him, Terzo finds himself drawn to the familiar comfort of his brothers' company. With a heavy sigh, he straightens his posture and smooths down his attire, a reflexive gesture from years of public appearances. He may be struggling, but he'll be damned if he lets it show—at least not to them. They have all had their hardships. If anyone knows and understands what he is feeling right now, it is his brothers. Terzo’s steps are heavy, using his feet to clear a path forward amidst everything now on the floor. He reaches the door, hesitating for just a moment. There’s a weight pressing down on him that threatens to crush him, to break him down until there’s nothing left.

He won’t let it.

Terzo opens the door and leaves his room. As he makes his way towards the small room where their Uno nights are held, his mind goes blank, going numb to the intense feelings that are simmering beneath the surface. He trudges down the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stone walls, focusing on that sound to keep him grounded. As he rounds a corner, lost in the maelstrom of his thoughts, a familiar voice catches his attention, causing him to halt abruptly.

Turning, he sees Cardinal Copia emerging from his office, a stack of papers tucked under one arm and an Uno card inexplicably held between two fingers of his free hand. The Cardinal's painted face breaks into a warm smile as he spots Terzo, oblivious to the storm brewing within the former Papa.

"Ah, Papa, on your way to Uno Night, yes?” The cheerful greeting hangs in the air, a stark contrast to the darkness swirling within Terzo.

Terzo's entire body tenses, his jaw clenching so tightly he can hear his teeth grind. The sight of him, so content and oblivious to the turmoil raging through the Ministry, ignites a fire in Terzo's chest—one that he had hoped was extinguished following his outburst in his room. His eyes narrow as he regards Copia with barely contained irritation. "Uno Night," he repeats, his voice low and controlled, though tension radiates from every syllable. "Mmm… yes." He takes a step closer to Copia, his presence suddenly looming and intimidating.

Copia's smile falters slightly, but he presses on, still oblivious and sweet. "It's become quite the tradition with your brothers, hasn't it?" He hesitates for a moment, then reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a blue reverse card. He holds it out to Terzo, a tentative peace offering. "Here, Papa. I always keep this one for luck. Perhaps... perhaps you'd like to have it for tonight's game?"

Terzo's gaze sharpens dangerously as he struggles to maintain his composure. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. The sight of that blue card in Copia's hand—a symbol of the carefree life he now leads—causes the fire to spread inside him, consuming him yet again. Terzo’s voice, when he finally speaks, is low and menacing, barely above a whisper.

"Tradition?" His voice is guttural and rough. "You dare speak to me of tradition when everything is crumbling around us? When the very foundations of our world are ripped away from us?" His words are full of anguish and rage, each one striking Copia like a physical blow.

The Cardinal stumbles back, his expression morphing from confusion to outright fear. "P-Papa, I... I don't understand-" he stammers, his voice trembling.

"Of course you don't understand!" Terzo cuts him off, his composure shattering completely. "You're nothing but a pawn, a naive fool dancing to their twisted tune!" He gestures wildly, his movements sharp and erratic. "Do you have any idea what's happening beyond your little bubble of blissful ignorance? Omega is gone! Banished! Cast out like yesterday's trash! And here you stand, grinning like a fool, oblivious to the chaos swirling around you!"

Copia's eyes widen in shock, the full weight of Terzo's words finally sinking in. "Omega? But how- Why-" he begins, but Terzo is far from finished.

Terzo snatches the blue Uno card from Copia's hand, gripping it so hard it begins to crumble in his grip. "And this?" he spits, brandishing it like damning evidence. "You think this changes anything? You think a game can fix what's broken? This card, this... this mockery of what we once were!" His voice rises to a near-scream. "Do you have any idea what this represents? It's not just a game, you fool! It's everything we've lost, everything that's been taken from us!"

With a primal yell that seems to shake the very stones of the corridor, Terzo tears the card to shreds. The pieces flutter between them like confetti, a mockery of celebration in this moment of utter despair. Copia flinches, raising his hands as if to shield himself from the physical manifestation of Terzo's rage.

"P-Papa, please," Copia stammers, his voice barely above a whisper, a plea for understanding, for mercy. "I didn't mean to-"

But Terzo is beyond reason, beyond mercy. His voice drops to a low, dangerous hiss, each word dripping with venom. "Get out of my sight," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. "You don't belong here. You never will. You're nothing but a pale imitation, a cheap replacement for something you could never hope to understand. And take your pathetic games with you!"

As Copia retreats, practically running down the corridor, Terzo stands amidst the scattered remains of the card. His chest heaves with each ragged breath, anger and grief warring within him. In the sudden silence, the weight of his actions begins to settle upon him. He knows, in some distant corner of his mind, that he's overreacted, that Copia isn't truly to blame for the chaos engulfing their world. But in this moment, all he can feel is the crushing weight of loss - of his position, of Omega, of everything he once held dear. And that damned Uno card, now in pieces at his feet, seems to mock him with its cheerful blue color, a stark contrast to the darkness consuming his soul.

If only he could reverse being removed from the Papacy.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Terzo straightens his posture and adjusts his shirt in an attempt to calm himself. He struggles to push down the turmoil within, determined not to let his brothers see his inner struggle. As he approaches the card room, he steels himself, forcing his face into a mask of nonchalance.

Opening the door, he finds his brothers already seated. An almost startling wave of relief washes over him. He allows a scoff to escape his lips at the sight of Primo, face fully painted and wearing a Burberry scarf. Before he can comment, Secondo interjects.

"Already gave him trouble for it, stronzino. If you'd been on time, you could've joined." There's a glint of mischief in Secondo's eyes.

Terzo rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts to maintain his aloof facade. He saunters over to the table, pulling up a chair with dramatic flair. "Well, shall we begin? I'm feeling particularly lucky tonight." He shoots a pointed look at Secondo, silently accepting the challenge in his brother's gaze.

He settles into his seat and the feeling of relief continues to spread through him. Here, surrounded by his brothers and the familiar rhythm of an extremely low-stakes card game, he can momentarily push aside his anger and frustration. In this room, he's not the fallen Papa or a disappointment to the Ministry - he's simply Terzo, the youngest of the Emeritus brothers, ready to lose himself in the game and forget, if only for a while, how far he has fallen.

On this particular evening, Sister Imperator and Papa Nihil would make an unexpected appearance, delivering news that would leave the brothers startled and confused.

They would be unable to continue their card game.

Terzo is deep in his desk chair, his body nearly slipped from it onto the floor. His gaze is locked on the the hell phone which has been ringing nonstop since you left for the night. Your taste is still on his tongue, your scent clinging to his robe. He’s afraid to move to disturb the haze he’s settled into, even though you would be back bright and early for work the morning after next. Fingers fall to his temples, rubbing them with each piercing ring of the phone.

He wouldn’t answer. He doesn’t want to face who is on the other line.

Was it Omega? What could he possibly say? He would only complicate matters—as he already has. The hell phone materialized before you, and you listened to the sounds of the abyss. It drove you into Terzo's arms and bed, but... you didn't deserve to experience such terrors or feel so frightened in his home. Or at least, if anyone was going to frighten you it should be him. His fingers drum along the arms of the chair, a deep grumble vibrating from his chest. The goal is to get you to stay, to devote yourself to him and only him. Yet the fear gnaws at him. What if the terrors you've witnessed push you away? The thought of losing you to the very darkness he once revered sends a chill through him. He wants you by his side, but you have to want to be there. Perhaps, he muses bitterly, this is another of Lucifer's cruel jokes—dangling happiness before him, only to threaten it with the very forces he once embraced.

Maybe the imp who fixed your tire that Terzo had shredded was calling. What was that all about? He didn’t have time to mull that incident over earlier while you were here. Is he manifesting things?

The memory of when he had accidentally shocked you resurfaces, Terzo's frown deepens. He recalls the pain on your face when he zapped your wrist. His gaze drifts to his hands, studying them as if they belong to a stranger. These hands that once commanded crowds, that channeled unholy energies with precision and purpose, now feel like unpredictable weapons. He clenches his fists, feeling the familiar tingle of power just beneath his skin. What if he hurts you again?

Another memory flits to the forefront of his mind — when he screamed at you over his relics being displayed causing a lightbulb to shatter. He remembers the fear in your eyes as it happened. It wasn't Lucifer's doing—it was his own power, his own lack of control. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Perhaps the true threat to your happiness, to any chance of a future together, isn't some external force or cosmic joke. It's him.

The silver lining is that you had seemed to be… into it. But what if next time, it's worse than a small shock or a broken bulb?

The thought sends a wave of despair crashing over him. Is he doomed to be alone, forever isolated by the very gifts that once made him special? The irony isn't lost on him—he who once reveled in his dark powers, who used them to seduce and enthrall, now fears them as the very thing that might drive you away. Terzo slumps further in his chair. The illusion of his perfection continues to fade but he’s stubborn. Unwilling to change his ways even though he knows he can be cruel and difficult.

He originally expected you to just deal with it.

Terzo rises with a frustrated growl, letting the hell phone continue its incessant ringing. He stalks over to his liquor cabinet, hands trembling slightly as he pours himself a generous measure of whiskey. What have you done to him? How dare you make him want to be better? He decides he must, at the very least, attempt to protect you from whatever hell seemingly has in store for you. This includes tempering his emotions, an obvious factor of his otherworldly abilities. Seriously, how dare you?

Taking a long swig, he savors the burn as it slides down his throat. It's a familiar comfort, one that does little to reduce the budding anxiety he feels. With a heavy sigh, he turns his back on the still-ringing phone and retreats to his bedroom, drink in hand. The door closes behind him, muffling the sound of the hell phone but he can still feel its presence. Terzo takes another sip, hoping to drink himself into unconsciousness.

Only two sleeps until he sees you again.

[fabric-shower-curtain]

By complete accident I somehow have the autopsy scar mod on top of the bhaalist tattoo mod, don’t ask me how they’re both on my durge I have no idea how it happened. But it got me thinking how would the origin characters (+halsin) react/barely react to a lover that is heavily scarred and tattooed? (Set in Act 1)

Read more for the full brainrot

Astarion: The first time Astarion saw your body for himself was when he walked past your tent late at night, through the flaps in the entrance he saw all those scars, he couldn’t tell what had you awake this late in the night, especially mostly naked with your back turned. The vampire simply continued on his way to hunt for the night. He dropped it there, until that is, the second night in the clearing you two spent together. He was lying down leaning his head against his arms as his red eyes stared at your naked body. His eyes flowed down every scar that littered your body, he barely seemed to look at the tattoos but that’s what he asked about first “So, can you translate that one?” - he points to the tattoo across your left arm, lifting up the limb you pull your skin to take a proper look at it. It’s been a while since you properly saw it, because just out of sight enough to make it annoying to stare at. When you tell him Astarion seems content with the information. His fingers drift across the tattoo. It’s a tender moment until the elf’s hand floats toward your neck. His ice cold fingers dancing across the lingering puncture wounds on your neck - “But these are by far my favorite mark on you,” You lean into Astarion’s touch releasing a chuckling sigh before calling him the weirdest flirt you have ever seen.

Gale: He really didn’t mean to go to the river at the same time he truly meant to go two hours early when he said he would, but that tome was particularly interesting - the effects of adrenaline on libido, certainly important for a man so restricted by his netherese orb. But now it was two hours past and he definitely had a musk going on. Taking an extra robe and rag Gale went to the nearby river, only you were there too. Illuminated in moonlight you were bare in front of him. Gale cleared his throat loudly, trying to let you know he was there. What he did not expect was for you to whip around and get out of the water to say hello. He tried his best to only look at your face, he did not succeed. Your skin was glowing with a vei of water cascading down in droplets. Gale’s eyes followed one droplet from your hair, down your neck, across your chest until a certain tattoo caught his eye, infernal script. Trying to keep his focus on the tattoo rather than the flesh its on he asked you if it meant what he thought it did. He was right in fact, and you told him the story behind why you got it, quite the nice tale. The wizard relaxed enough to notice another scar across your soldier “Is that from a magic missile?” He asked without thinking. Nodding in confirmation you turned to show your shoulder blade where the other two missiles struck. As you turned around the coldness of the night hit you like a thunder wave, a massive shiver shook your entire body spraying tiny water droplets around. “Gosh you must be freezing,” - Gale wrapped you in his towel-rag before stressfully ushering you back towards the camp. Once you got back to your tent you realized you left your towel and clothes on a nearby rock, you could return the peeping Tom favor.

Halsin: Halsin adores you long before he ever saw your birthday suit, sure he thought about it, quite a lot, but with his focus deep on the shadow-curse he doesn’t have time to do much other than think about out. But the first time he does see you was far from romantic or sensual. A hook horror had slashed your entire back open when you got to close, and Halsin watched it all happen. Before the beast even hit the ground he was rushing over to you, he didn’t think, he just ripped your armor right off of you to get to the wound. You might have been screaming but his ears were ringing too loud to tell one noise from another. Halsin couldn’t even see where scar ended and fresh cut began, your tattoos were doused in enough blood to make them impossible to see against your skin. The bear of an elf’s hand floated above the wound with the same glowing blue light the hook horror’s body was basking in, thank silvanus he was far enough from the sussur tree for his magic to work. Even with his healing a scar in the same place as the monster's claw marks stayed. Halsin’s druidic skills must be faltering, that’s what he determines at least. Until the next day, you’re healed fully up and about getting ready to leave camp for the day. Halsin calls out your name - “I’m sorry I could not heal you fully, I tried best I could but the scar persists” to his confusion you begin laughing. The scar he’s so upset about has been on you for so long now, and you tell him such. His healing left no scar, in fact he healed you so well an old scar was able to show.

Karlach: The first time she saw you naked you were bathing next to each other after a battle. Even with Dammon’s initial upgrade you can’t touch each other, but you swore to find ways to be intimate without touching, just like this. However you neglected to inform her about what lay under your clothes until now, scars covering you head to toe interlaced with tattoos of varying quality. “Hey Soldier! How come you didn’t tell me before stealing my aesthetic!” You didn’t even register this was the first time exposing yourself in such a way, a brief moment of panic before you burst into a smile. “Come here, let me see them” Karlach makes you twirl around, using the faintest touch of her fingers to pull your arms out and see the tattoos wrapping around them. Her eyes continued to trail down your body, after a gasp she jumped back up to your face - “That burn scar looks like mine!” She said before pulling down her trousers to show you the near identically placed scar on her thigh. But Karlach didn’t ask about the obviously fresher stab scars, she continued to smile at her new discovery but lets the two of you properly bathe for once.

Lae’zel: Even when pinning you against a wall the githyanki warrior wasn’t particularly gentle. It’s not like you didn’t know what you were getting yourself into tonight, she had said pretty explicitly she seemed carnal pleasure. Somehow Lae’zel was even more assertive in such a scenario than during your adventures. You couldn’t even take your own armor off, she practically ripped it off of you. Your body is exposed to her in an instant, she doesn’t react, her hands go immediately to unlace your trousers and undergarments. The night is enjoyable even as exhausting as it was. Only much later does Lae’zel ever comment on them, and its in a conversation praising you two’s battle prowess “Each scar is a battle fought, a battle won.” You try not to tell her you have at least two scars from dropping the knife while cooking with Gale. She’s sweet in her own way.

Shadowheart: Shadowheart first saw you naked while healing a particularly cruel wound, goblin had snuck up on you and slashed your torso deep. You stabilized yourself quick enough with a healing potion but the wound persisted. After the battle you wandered your way over to Shadowhearts tent, asking for help. She laid you down atop her bedroll, sliding your shirt off as you let yourself relax into the makeshift bed. And then you caught it, Shadowheart’s eyes widened, shit. But she didn’t say anything; she pressed her warm hands towards your open wound as they lit alight with magic. Radiating from your gash the warm feeling washed over you, your eyes closed softly breathing out in relief. Shadowheart quelled her magic, looking over you for a fat moment. You can feel her eyes wandering over you, up and down your chest, down your stomach and across both your arms. The relief of healing has left you now but you’re still too scared to open your eyes. And then a soft hand traced along your largest scar, her fingers were so light it tickled. “I like your tattoos.” The half-elf’s voice was soft, her eyes focused back on your large scar, “How’d you get that one.” Whether or not you tell the story she’s content, happy to have this extra piece of you in her memory.

Wyll: Poor Wyll just wanted to ask about the plans for tomorrow, but not only did he smack his horns on the skeleton of your tent while entering but you’re also as naked as the day you were born. The man nearly shrieked like he saw a ghost, his entire chest swelled up with his shoulders shooting up and he looked like he just swallowed a frog. Without a word Wyll turned on his heel and left your tent, only after trying to cool his blushing face off did he even process all your markings. Upon the log he sat on he dragged his hand up and down his face trying to process what the hells just happened. And then you exited your tent, completely decent this time. You greeted Wyll and sat beside him wondering what he had barged in about in the first place. But the poor man can’t even look at you. He as calmly as he could gave you the sincerest apology you’ve ever heard. After your acceptance he finally turns to you “So what does that tattoo across your back mean?” You pause for a moment, then explain as best you can. And that conversation continues just like that, he’d ask how you got a certain scar or tattoo and you’d answer him. In return he showed you one particularly nasty scar on his arm from a monster he fought while traversing the sword coast. What may have started as the most embarrassing moment of your partnership ended with you closer than before.