#ironically have yet to do the crimson king

[sewerdraws]

rare non fandom art... some researches of the black queen, purple piper and yellow jester from The Court of the Crimson King

[dewdropdinosaur]

Our Mom

LUCIFER x (F) READER Part One Summary: You like Lucifer and he likes you. One problem though: what will your 'kids' think? Based off an comment from @river-ride Warnings: NONE OMG!!! My lovelies, thank you so much for the support on my last Lucifer fic. Y'all are amazing! Remember, requests are open for lots of fandoms etc. Thank you so much for all of y'alls love and I appreacite you. For now, enjoy more Lucifer my dears!!

In the bustling corridors of the Hazbin Hotel, where the damned sought refuge from the fiery depths of Hell, Y/N was a beacon of warmth and solace. She was more than just a resident; she was a pillar of support, a confidante, and a pseudo-mother figure to many within those crimson walls.

Among those she touched was Lucifer, the charming and enigmatic ruler of Hell, who found himself inexplicably drawn to her gentle kindness and unwavering compassion. Yet, despite the undeniable spark between them, neither dared to voice the truth lingering in their hearts. Despite being quite close after the battle with Heaven and the rebuilding of the Hotel, neither party could seem to bring themselves to speak their feelings. 

On one hand, Y/N feared two things: that Lucifer could never like a lowly sinner like her and that since she was a pseudo-mother to all of the hotel’s residents…dating the King of Hell may cause a few setbacks in relationships that she desperately did not want. Y/N loved each and every resident in the Hotel, an older demon herself who never had the chance to have her own, everyone under the crimson fading roof became like a child to her. She adored Angel’s compassion even in the midst of despair, she loved playing cards with Husk(who definitely didn’t let her win to see that small smile of hers), time spent chatting and planning with Charlie was always a blast, and yes…even time with Alastor listening to old jazz tunes had found its place in the grand scheme of things. So, her feelings for Lucifer would have to be put on hold indefinitely for this arrangement not to break.

On the other hand, Lucifer the King of Hell himself was a wreck. Every time he saw Y/N, her smile, the way she carried herself with compassion but still headstrong it made his knees buckle and he could have sworn he was back in Heaven. She was like an angel, ironically so. He fully knew of her past, her sins. Yet, she was so willing to help and assist others at a shot of redemption she knew she could never have struck a chord within the lonely ruler of the Underworld. 

However, one fateful evening, as the residents gathered in the grand hall for their routine meeting, tensions simmered beneath the surface. Charlie, along with Husk, Angel Dust, and Alastor, had grown wary of Lucifer's aloof demeanor towards Y/N. They knew of the unspoken affection that brewed between the two, and they were determined to push the devil to confront his feelings(or perishing for daring to even look at Y/N was another option considered by some…ahem…Alastor and the beloved Sassy Narrator) 

As the meeting progressed, Charlie cleared her throat, catching everyone's attention. "It has come to our attention," she began, exchanging knowing glances with the others, "that certain... feelings may be harbored within our midst."

Husk smirked, Angel winked mischievously, and Alastor's grip tightened, his eyes glinting with murderous amusement.

Lucifer's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he let out a breathy chuckle, sensing a trap. "And what feelings might those be, my dear? I surely hope no animosity has been brewing."

Charlie gestured subtly to Y/N, who stood by the sidelines, her gaze fixed on her ‘children’ around her. 

"Feelings of a... romantic nature, perhaps?" Charlie smiled but her eyes were nervous. She knew her father well enough that it was indeed time to move on from Lillith and Y/N was no better candidate, doing a better job than Lillith herself ever did. But what if she was wrong and her father really had no interest in her ‘new’ mother. Or the other way around?

A collective murmur swept through the room as the residents exchanged curious glances. Y/N's cheeks flushed crimson, and Lucifer felt a strange warmth spread through his chest at the mention of romance.

Clearing his throat, Alastor leaned forward, his grin widening into a smirk. "Now, now, Lucifer, don't be shy. We all know how dear Y/N is to you. Why, if anything were to happen to her, well..."

The implication hung heavy in the air, and Lucifer's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you threatening me, Alastor?"

Alastor chuckled nonchalantly, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement as he waved his hands in a circular motion around his cane which made ominous shadows appear around Lucifer’s chair. 

"Merely stating the obvious. After all, we wouldn't want anything untoward to happen to our dear Y/N now, would we?"

The tension in the room was palpable as Lucifer's jaw clenched, his gaze flickering between Y/N and the others. Husk flicked his claws open, Angel smirked with a glinting knife in hand, and even Vaggie tilted her head to gesture to her angelic spear. All of them were in agreement… ‘hurt our mom and you will wish you got to die a second time.’ 

 Sensing his inner turmoil, Y/N stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm.

"Lucifer, you don't have to listen to them. Whatever you feel, whatever we feel, it's... it's our choice." 

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still as Lucifer met her gaze, his expression softening with an unspoken understanding.

Finally, with a resigned sigh, he stepped forward, his hand reaching out to cup Y/N's cheek tenderly. "Perhaps... perhaps there is truth in what they say," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But know this, my dear Y/N: I would move mountains to keep you safe, to cherish you, for as long as you'll have me."

A soft smile tugged at Y/N's lips as she leaned into his touch, her heart swelling with a newfound sense of courage and hope. "Then let's face whatever comes together," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears.

And as the residents of the Hazbin Hotel looked on, witnessing the delicate dance of love and redemption unfolding before them, they knew that no matter the trials that lay ahead, Y/N and Lucifer would weather the storm together, bound by a love that transcended even the depths of Hell itself. 

And even if something did ever happen…well they would kill the King himself without a second thought and Lucifer knew it. 

[novaursa]

Hi Novaursa! I just saw that you're taking request. Your writing is beyond awesome and I'm wondering if I can make a request with Gwayne Hightower and Female Reader? The two decided to marry in secret when the reader's parents arrange her for another man? Bonus point if they get to have a short happy marriage before Gwayne leaves for King's Landing (and we know what awaits him there T-T)?

I might have mentioned it before but I love your writing! ^^

A Rose in Oldtown

- Summary: Gwayne steals a rose and allows it to grow strong in Oldtown.

- Paring: tyrell!reader/Gwayne Hightower

- A/N: I had something similar laying around on my hard drive. It was not for tyrell!reader, but I've used its bones for structure and it needed pretty little rewriting. This is why this is posted so soon. And yeah, I'm manic sometimes when it comes to writing. When I have an idea I can't sleep until it's done. Or do anything else basically. If I don't respond to your ask after a few days, then I'm probably starting from scratch. @justdillydally I hope you enjoy this as you did my other works. ❤️

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 3 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs

You stand at the front of the Sept, dressed in the finest gown Highgarden could offer—an emerald green masterpiece embroidered with golden roses, the petals dusted with delicate pearls that shimmer in the dim candlelight. The sleeves are long and sheer, allowing glimpses of your skin beneath, while the bodice is cinched tightly, enhancing every curve. The skirt flows like a river of green silk, the fabric whispering with every breath you take. A golden rose sits in your hair, nestled among the intricate braids that frame your face. It’s a gown fit for a queen, but today it feels more like a cage.

The air is thick with anticipation, the weight of tradition pressing down on your chest. House Lannister’s colors dominate the sept, crimson banners emblazoned with golden lions hanging from every pillar. They seem to mock you, roaring silently, a reminder of the fate being forced upon you. Your father stands beside you, his expression unreadable, yet you can feel the iron grip of his expectations.

“Remember your duty,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

But duty is the last thing on your mind. Your heart is hammering, but not for the man who waits for you at the altar. Jason Lannister stands there with a smug smile, eyes gleaming like a cat eyeing prey. You should feel fear—discomfort, even—but all you feel is anger and longing. 

Your gaze drifts past him, searching the shadows of the crowded sept for a pair of familiar gray eyes. You know Gwayne is near, can sense him even if you can’t yet see him. He promised you. He promised he’d come.

The sept doors creak open, and a gust of wind rushes in, carrying the salty tang of the nearby sea. For a heartbeat, the ceremony halts, heads turning toward the disturbance. There, at the threshold, stands Gwayne Hightower, clad in green leather riding armor, a stark contrast to the opulence around him. His hair is tousled from the wind, a few unruly strands falling into those piercing eyes that hold yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

“Are you truly going to allow this travesty to unfold?” His voice echoes through the sept, defiant and laced with a challenge. The guests murmur in shock, eyes wide as they shift between the Lannisters and Hightower.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, relief and something wilder, more reckless, surging in your chest.

Your father bristles, stepping forward as if to block the path between you and Gwayne. “You have no place here, Hightower! You disgrace your house with this insolence!”

But Gwayne’s gaze never wavers from you. There’s a promise in his eyes, a question. And deep down, you already know your answer.

“Disgrace?” Gwayne laughs, sharp and mocking. “The only disgrace is forcing a woman to marry a man she doesn’t love. Let her choose.” He extends a hand toward you, daring you to defy every expectation, every command that’s been drilled into you since birth.

Your breath catches in your throat. The world seems to narrow to this single moment—the choice between duty and desire, between a life of cold gold and a life of burning passion. The rose on your head suddenly feels heavy, a symbol of everything you stand to lose if you step toward him. But the thought of losing Gwayne is a pain sharper than any blade.

“Your duty is to your house,” your father snaps, gripping your arm. His fingers dig into your flesh, as if he can keep you there by force.

“Is it?” you whisper, meeting his gaze. “Or is my duty to myself?” With a sudden, fierce resolve, you tear your arm free, the embroidered fabric of your sleeve ripping in the process. The soft sound is like the tearing of bonds that have held you for too long.

The tension breaks like a thunderclap. You lift your skirts and run, the long train of your gown dragging behind you like the last vestiges of your old life. Gwayne doesn’t hesitate. He rushes forward, grabbing your hand and pulling you into a tight embrace as you reach him. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath the leather armor, matching the frantic rhythm of your own.

“Are you ready?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

You nod, breathless. “I was ready the moment I saw you.”

With that, he pulls you toward the doors, toward freedom. The guests shout in outrage, your father’s curses mixing with the indignant roars of the Lannisters. But you don’t care. All you can think about is the wind in your hair and the warmth of Gwayne’s hand in yours as you both burst out into the sunlight.

Two horses stand waiting, saddled and ready. Without another word, Gwayne lifts you onto one, his touch gentle but urgent. He mounts his own horse in a single fluid motion and turns to you, his eyes blazing with determination. “We ride to Oldtown. There, we’ll be married by nightfall.”

Your heart swells at his words. There is no more doubt, no more hesitation. Only the thrill of running toward a future you chose for yourself. You share one last glance, and then together, you kick your horses into a gallop, racing away from the sept, from duty, from everything that sought to bind you.

The road ahead is rough, the path winding and treacherous, but with Gwayne at your side, it feels like the smoothest ride of your life. The wind whips your hair, tangling it with the remnants of your torn veil, but you laugh—a wild, unrestrained sound that echoes over the hills.

“This is madness,” you shout to him over the pounding hooves, but there’s pure joy in your voice.

“Madness is letting you go,” he replies, a grin splitting his face. He reaches over, his fingers brushing yours as you ride side by side. It’s a touch full of unspoken promises and a future yet to be written.

By the time you reach Oldtown, the sky is painted in hues of dusk, the Hightower looming over the horizon like a beacon guiding you both home. Gwayne helps you down from your horse, and you’re both breathless, flushed from the ride. He pauses, holding you close for a moment longer than necessary, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ll never let anyone take you from me,” he whispers, fierce and possessive, but laced with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“Good,” you reply, your voice steady and sure. “Because I won’t let you go either.”

Hand in hand, you enter the modest sept in the shadow of the Hightower. The ceremony is simple, witnessed only by a few loyal friends, but it is perfect. When Gwayne says his vows, his voice is low and rough, thick with emotion. And when you pledge yourself to him, it’s with a heart so full it feels like it might burst.

As the septon pronounces you husband and wife, Gwayne leans in to kiss you, a fierce, claiming kiss that seals your fates together. In that moment, you know that no matter what battles lie ahead, no matter who might seek to tear you apart, you have already won the greatest victory: a life lived on your own terms, with the man you chose.

Life in Oldtown is a far cry from the rigid splendor of Highgarden or the bustling grandeur of King’s Landing. The Hightower looms majestically above the city, its walls steeped in history and tradition. You’ve come to love its winding corridors, the serene gardens tucked away behind ancient stone walls, and the way the sea breeze carries the scent of salt and lavender through the open windows. It’s become your home—a place where you and Gwayne have carved out a life filled with laughter, warmth, and stolen moments of happiness.

This morning is bright and pleasant, the sun spilling golden light across the gardens where you sit with Prince Daeron. The young Targaryen, with his silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, is a delight—sharp-witted and full of curiosity, yet with the unmistakable earnestness of youth. He often seeks your company, and you’ve grown fond of the boy, finding comfort in his easy laughter and unguarded conversations. Today, the two of you are seated beneath a blossoming magnolia tree, playing a game of cyvasse, though it’s clear Daeron is far more interested in the tales you’ve been telling him about the Reach.

“And is it true,” Daeron asks, eyes alight with fascination, “that the fields near Highgarden stretch as far as the eye can see? Nothing but green and gold?”

You smile at the eagerness in his voice. “Aye, and in summer, the air is thick with the scent of roses. The orchards are heavy with fruit, and the rivers run clear and cool. It’s as close to paradise as one might find in Westeros.”

Daeron leans closer, resting his chin on his hand. “You make it sound like a dream. Perhaps one day, I’ll see it with my own eyes.”

“Perhaps,” you say, though there’s a touch of melancholy in your tone. “But Oldtown has its own beauty, Daeron. Have you grown fond of it?”

He nods, a thoughtful expression passing over his young face. “I have. But it’s different—quieter, more… ancient. The Hightower has secrets, I think, buried deep beneath its stones.”

Before you can reply, you notice Gwayne approaching from across the garden. He’s dressed in simple but well-made clothing, his sword strapped to his side as always. When he sees you with Daeron, a warm smile lights up his face, and your heart skips a beat as it always does when you see him. Even after all this time, the love between you remains as fierce and tender as it was the day he stole you away.

“Prince Daeron,” Gwayne greets the boy with a respectful nod, though his gaze lingers on you, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I hope you’ve been kind to my wife and haven’t defeated her too soundly at cyvasse.”

Daeron grins, shaking his head. “She’s a worthy opponent, Ser Gwayne. I’ve yet to best her.”

Gwayne chuckles, but then his tone softens as he turns to you. “My love, would you join me for a walk? There’s something I wish to show you.”

Your curiosity piqued, you glance at Daeron, who waves you away with a knowing smile. “Go on, my lady. I’ll study my strategy for our next match.”

You rise, smoothing the folds of your gown as Gwayne offers you his arm. As the two of you walk through the garden, you feel the familiar comfort of his presence, the way his strength grounds you, even in the quietest of moments. You follow him deeper into the garden, past the flowering hedges and beneath the shadow of the towering walls, until you reach a secluded corner where a stone bench sits nestled between climbing roses.

“Here,” Gwayne says softly, guiding you to sit. The sun filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground, and the air hums with the song of distant birds.

“What is it you wished to show me?” you ask, though your voice is gentle, already sensing that this moment is less about revealing something new and more about being together, away from the prying eyes of court and the endless duties that come with your position.

Gwayne’s smile is tender as he sits beside you, taking your hand in his. “Nothing but this—just us, here, away from everything. I’ve been wanting a moment alone with you all day.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a familiar and intimate gesture that never fails to send warmth curling through your chest. The world falls away, leaving only the two of you, the quiet rustle of leaves, and the scent of roses hanging in the air.

“You spend so much time caring for others—Daeron, the household, the people who come to us with their troubles. I sometimes wonder if you’ve time left for yourself,” he murmurs, his gaze searching yours.

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “How could I want for anything when I have you? You’re all I need, Gwayne. You always have been.”

His eyes darken with affection, and he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers. “And you, my sweet rose, are more than I ever dreamed of. I often think of the day we ran away together—how reckless it was, how mad we must’ve seemed. And yet, here we are. You, the light in my life, and me, foolishly in love with you every day more than the last.”

There’s a sincerity in his words that makes your heart swell. You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close. For a long while, neither of you speaks, content simply to be in each other’s presence, surrounded by the peaceful solitude of the garden.

Eventually, Gwayne shifts, turning so he can cradle your face in his hands. His touch is gentle, reverent, as if he’s memorizing every line, every freckle and feature. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and there’s a rawness in his voice, a depth of feeling that makes your breath catch.

You smile, reaching up to cup his cheek. “And you are everything I never knew I needed.”

He leans in slowly, giving you time to close the distance, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tender, and full of unspoken promises. The kiss deepens gradually, a slow, deliberate connection that speaks of love and trust and a desire that never quite fades. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, so close it matches your own.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion, “this is all I want. A life with you, here, in our little world, where no one can touch us.”

You smile, closing your eyes and savoring the closeness, the warmth of him against you. “And you have it, Gwayne.”

The room is bathed in the soft light of dawn, the golden hues filtering through the gauzy curtains and casting a warm glow across the bed. The linens are tangled beneath you, a reminder of the night spent wrapped in each other’s embrace. Gwayne lies beside you, propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every curve and feature. The air is thick with the scent of roses, mingled with the salt from the sea breeze wafting through the open window. 

His fingers trace idle patterns along your bare shoulder, lingering on the curve of your neck, then down to your chest before they rest on the gentle swell of your abdomen. You place your hand over his, and he looks at you with a mixture of longing and regret. It’s in his eyes, in the way his thumb absently strokes your skin as if he can’t bear the thought of leaving you.

“I wish I could stay,” he whispers, his voice rough from sleep and emotion. “It kills me to think I won’t be here when our child is born.”

You close your eyes against the sting of tears, fighting the lump in your throat. “I wish you could stay too,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I know you must go. Aegon’s summons cannot be ignored, and you have always been loyal to your family. I understand that.”

Gwayne leans down, brushing his lips softly against your temple before moving lower, trailing kisses down your cheek and jaw. His lips linger at the curve of your belly, reverently pressing a kiss to the slight bump that holds your child—the child he might not meet for months, perhaps longer. The touch is tender, filled with all the love and unspoken vows he cannot put into words. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin as he murmurs, “I’ll be back before you know it, my love. I swear it.”

You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him close. “You can’t promise that,” you say, your voice trembling despite your attempt to stay strong. “King’s Landing is dangerous, especially now, with the realm so divided. What if—”

Gwayne lifts his head, cutting you off with a kiss—deep, slow, filled with a desperation that echoes the ache in your chest. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way he holds back the fear he won’t speak aloud.

“No ‘what ifs,’” he says firmly, though there’s a faint tremor in his voice. “I’ll do everything in my power to return to you and our child. This is my life—you are my life. Nothing will keep me from you.”

You nod, blinking away tears that threaten to spill. “I want to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” he whispers, cupping your face and wiping a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Hold onto that hope. I’ll need it as much as you do while I’m away.”

For a long moment, the two of you simply hold each other, the silence heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and the bittersweet reality of this impending separation. You can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat against your palm, and it takes everything in you not to beg him to stay, to forsake the king’s orders and remain here, safe, with you.

But you know Gwayne, and you know his sense of duty runs as deep as his love. He would never forgive himself if he abandoned his responsibilities, even for the sake of his own happiness. And so, you do not say the words that claw at the back of your throat. Instead, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent—earthy and familiar, a comfort you’ll cling to in the lonely nights ahead.

After what feels like an eternity, Gwayne gently disentangles himself from your embrace, rising from the bed and beginning to dress in silence. The rustle of fabric and the soft clink of his belt buckle are the only sounds in the room. You watch him as he fastens his sword to his side, his expression distant, already steeling himself for the journey ahead.

When he’s fully dressed, he turns back to you, his eyes softening as they meet yours. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels beside the bed, taking your hand in his. “I’ll write as soon as I reach King’s Landing. And every chance I get, I’ll send word to you. I want to know everything—how you’re feeling, how the babe is growing… Everything.”

You nod, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’ll write too. I’ll tell you of every little thing, so you don’t feel too far away from us.”

He leans in, capturing your lips in one last kiss—sweet and tender, a promise sealed between you. When he finally pulls away, it’s with a sigh that speaks of reluctance, of the struggle to let go.

“Take care of yourself and our little one,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll be counting the days until I’m back in your arms.”

You manage a small smile, though your heart is breaking at the thought of watching him walk out that door. “And we’ll be counting the days until we see you again. Ride swiftly, and come back to us.”

With one last lingering touch, he rises, and then he’s gone, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that follows is deafening, an emptiness settling over you like a heavy cloak. You press a hand to your belly, imagining the life growing within, and whisper softly, “Your father will come back to us. He must.”

But even as you say the words, a chill runs down your spine. All you can do now is wait, and hope that the gods are merciful enough to bring him back home—where he belongs, where all of your love and dreams are waiting for him.

The morning light spills across the bed, but it feels colder now, as if the warmth of his presence has been stripped away. You lie back against the pillows, closing your eyes and letting the memories of his touch, his voice, his promises fill the emptiness, holding onto them with every fiber of your being.

You whisper a silent prayer to the gods, hoping they listen, hoping they understand that your love is worth returning.

[fourthavecafe]

when you offend a curse

You barely had time to react. One moment, you thought it would be funny to poke at Sukuna’s side—a playful attempt to tickle the feared King of Curses.

But the next thing you knew, you were flat on your back, his two massive arms holding your wrist bound together above your head, while his other two arms hovered ominously, fingers twitching just above your skin.

“You thought you could tickle me?” Sukuna’s deep voice was laced with disbelief, an amused yet dangerous edge to it. His crimson eyes bore into yours, a smirk curling on his lips as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “A pathetic human like you, tickling me? A curse?”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding as you tried to wriggle free from his iron grip but it was useless. His strength was overwhelming, making it clear who was in control. “I—I was just joking!” you stammered, eyes darting to the two hands still raised in the air, their fingers teasingly flexing. “You don’t need to—”

Sukuna’s smirk widened, his voice dripping with mockery. “Oh? Suddenly not so brave now, are we? You were so bold a minute ago.” He shifted slightly, his weight pressing you further into the ground, making you feel utterly trapped beneath him. “But now… you’re begging?”

“I didn’t mean to! I swear!” you tried to reason, your voice shaky as you tugged at your arms in vain. “Please, don’t tickle me. I—”

His laugh was dark and low, vibrating in your chest. “You thought I would be ticklish?” He sounded offended, almost disgusted by the very idea. “How insulting that you’d think a curse like me would have such a pathetic weakness.” His hands hovered just above your sides, the threat of them touching down sending your nerves into a frenzy.

You squirmed under his gaze, dread building in your stomach. “Sukuna, please—I’m sorry!” you begged, your voice trembling as his fingers danced closer to your skin. “I didn’t know—!”

“Didn’t know?” he repeated, his tone mocking. “I think you knew exactly what you were doing. And now…” His fingers grazed your sides, a feather-light touch that had you flinching immediately. His smirk deepened as he saw your reaction. “Now you’re going to learn what real torment feels like.”

You gasped, your body tensing but before you could say anything more, his fingers dug into your ribs and you erupted into helpless laughter.

“S-Sukuna!” you cried, writhing beneath him but his grip on your wrists didn’t budge. His other hands continued their ruthless assault on your armpits, sides and stomach, his fingers expertly finding every sensitive spot.

“Pathetic” Sukuna drawled, his voice low and teasing as he watched you squirm. “Look at you. Reduced to this—laughing, begging. You thought you had power over me?” His fingers moved to the pit of your stomach, digging in with precision, sending you into another fit of uncontrollable giggles.

You thrashed beneath him, gasping for breath between the frantic laughter. “S-stop! Please! I’m sorry!”

He leaned down, his face close to yours, his voice a low, menacing whisper. “Do you think begging will save you? You dared to touch me, thinking I would crumble under your hands?” His fingers danced across your ribs and belly, making you arch off the ground in desperate laughter. “This is the least of what you deserve.”

Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes from the intensity of the tickling, but Sukuna showed no mercy, his smirk growing as he watched your helplessness. “You really are weak” he sneered, his voice filled with sadistic amusement. “This is too easy.”

His hands paused for a moment, giving you a fleeting sense of relief, but you knew better than to believe it was over. “Maybe I’ll stop” he mused, his eyes gleaming with cruel intent. “But not until I’ve had my fun.”

“Please!” you gasped, trying to catch your breath. “I won’t do it again! I swear—”

He chuckled darkly. “Oh, I know you won’t. You won’t even think of touching me again.” His fingers moved again, this time focusing on your bellybutton, driving you into a fit of frantic laughter that left you breathless and pleading.

“Beg all you want” Sukuna said, his voice cold and merciless. “But remember this feeling the next time you dare to challenge me. Because I’ll always win.”

[moodymisty]

What kind of nicknames/titles do you think each Primarch's wife would get?

There's some that all the wives share, just adjusted to fit with their husband. Lady of [primarch's planet]. Lady of the [Legion name]. And if the primarch is one with a last name, she uses her husband's last name. (Lady Guilliman, Lady Lupercal, Lady Aurelian, etc)

But most/all of the wives would have nicknames/titles unique to them.

Magnus's wife could be called the Red Lady.

Konrad's wife could be called Lady of the Night, but that's also an euphemism for a prostitute, so maybe not. I don't think any Primarch, especially Konrad, would like someone else calling their wife a slut.

Since the Primarchs presumably didn't know about Alpharius and Omegon being twins, they probably assume Omegon is Alpharius's last name. So their shared wife would be called Lady Omegon, which would please the actual Omegon greatly. He may only be able to be with her in public as Alpharius, but she is his Lady. It's a way for both brothers to show their claim over her. She's Alpharius's wife, Lady Omegon.

If a Primarch has a title/nickname that's Lord of [X] or the [X] Lord (like Perturabo being the Lord of Iron), she could be called the Lady of [X]/the [X] Lady (Perturabo's wife being the Lady of Iron)

I added all the ones I think since i imagine that not all of them would use the same default titles. Other people feel free to add!

Lion El'Jonson:

Beginning of relationship: Woman, Lion’s woman

Farther into relationship: Lady of the Dark Angels, but it’s usually rarely

Roboute Guilliman:

Lady Guilliman, Lady of Macragge, Lady of the Ultramarines, Consort of the Lord Regent, she has a lot of titles and it bugs her greatly lol

Magnus The Red:

The Red Lady, Consort of The Crimson King

Rogal Dorn:

Lady Dorn, Lady of the Imperial Fists. Their titles are very practical and literal.

Ferrus Manus:

None in my opinion. Other legions might call her Manus’ lady simply for lack of anything else to say.

Perturabo:

Lady of Iron, but in my opinion yet another legion/primarch that doesn’t use a lot of titles. Half because Perturabo doesn’t let them even perceive her; Forrix once called her Perturabo’s bitch and he beat the man bloody. And then he called her bitch in private. He’s toxic.

Fulgrim:

This one I actually have no ideas! Fulgrim is my least touched upon primarch but I’m sure he’d have many titles for her, what do you guys think?

Vulkan:

Lady of Drakes, Lady/Mother of the Salamanders, My Lady, Mother, etc. Unlike the other legions they all really want to associate with her as a legion not just Vulkan

Corvus Corax:

Raven Mother, Lady Corax. Surprisingly uninspired.

Alpharius/Omegon:

When Alpharius talking it’s Lady Omegon, when it’s Omegon talking it’s just My Lady

Internally, Lady/Mother of the Hydra

Konrad Curze:

None really, Shang or Sevatar might call her Lady Curze as a demeaning joke, and other legions call her Lady of the Night Lords simply because she’s basically an unknown to them. In my opinion Curze actively hides her until he can no longer.

Sanguinius:

Lady or Lady Angel, Lady of Baal, Mother Angel later on

Lorgar Aurelian:

Lady Aurelian, Lady/Goddess of Colchis, Lady/Goddess/Mother of the Word Bearers. He really loves cramming goddess into her titles

Mortarion:

None that I can think of, other than the obvious

Jaghatai Khan:

This one I’m also not sure one, but I also don’t think Khan is a super title driven guy. Given he isn’t for himself either.

Leman Russ:

Wolf Mother, Den Mother, Lady/Mother of the Wolves, Russ’ bitch

Horus Lupercal:

Lady Lupercal, and that's probably it. Horus jokingly tried to get his Mournival to call her Princess Lupercal once and she tried to smack him.

Angron:

none really. I HC that their relationship is too unknown to title, and so any formal interactions usually just hesitantly call her Lady or Consort to Angron, since that’s the closest descriptor.

[watersofmars]

ᴡᴇ ᴀʟʟ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴄʜᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ…

(Aegon Targaryen x OC!Reader x Aemond Targaryen). Torn between love and duty, Visenya Targaryen, daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, has a choice to make. Bound by the loyalty to her mother, her love for her husband Aegon, or the desire she feels for her uncle Aemond...

(A/N): This is my first Hotd fic so please bare with me lol... I also changed some of the canon story slightly, but its mostly in timeline.

WC: 2.9k

In the heart of Dragonstone, beneath the shadow of the ancient castle, the air was thick with whispered secrets and unspoken desires. The ocean bristled like a dragon's breath against the cliffs, roaring its eternal song, while inside the castle's stone walls, tensions of love and duty collided like fierce combatants upon a battlefield.

Born of two fiery souls—Rhaenyra and Daemon—Visenya was a product of ambition and dark passion. Her mother had once grasped for the Iron Throne while her father fought like a dragon to claim his birthright. Now married to Aegon, the younger half-brother of Rhaenyra, Visenya was both a queen consort and a pawn in the ancient game of thrones that twisted all destinies in Westeros.

Visenya sat in the sunlit chamber where she had spent countless hours nurturing the seeds of her family. Her marriage to Aegon had sparked hope for peace. The union represented a fragile balance between factions, a flowering of loyalty amidst the ashes of war—the Dance of the Dragons, as history would one day name it. In the months following their union, Visenya had found solace in Aegon’s gentle affection. Her husband, Aegon Targaryen, was handsome as he was gentle, and their three children; Aerion, Daenys, and Rhaegar, were a living testament to their union. 

The corners of her lips would turn upward when they called out for her, a joy that sparked within her from their mere presence. Still, there lay something untamed and restless within her, a longing that cast a shadow upon her heart like the wings of a dragon. Yet, as much as her heart had sought refuge in Aegon’s steadfast presence, it remained restless. For in the shadows of their shared chambers roamed Aemond Targaryen, the younger brother of Aegon and a tempest of unbridled passion. Aemond, with his sapphire eye that glimmered like a dragon’s flame, drew Visenya to him with an intensity that overshadowed her more subdued affection for Aegon. There was something primal about their connection, an undeniable pull that threatened to shatter the fragile peace she had constructed around her heart

Aegon had won her heart first, as young hearts often do, swept away in the fervor of courtship and familial duty. They had shared a betrothal grounded in tradition, as their family’s legacy demanded, by order of the late King Viserys in hopes of mending this broken family. Loyal and kind, he had been a constant source of warmth, a beacon of security amidst the chaos that lingered at the edges of their world, on the edge of a bloody war. Together, they forged a love that should have been flawless, yet beneath the surface, tides churned dangerously.

It was Aemond, Aegon's younger brother, who filled Visenya's dreams with passion and despair. His dark, brooding presence was intoxicating, a force of nature that unnerved and exhilarated her all at once. Their bond was close since childhood, where Visenya was often Aemond’s only source of comfort. But he was a dragon in his own right, wild and untamed, unburdened by the weight of responsibility that Aegon often bore. When their eyes met across a crowded hall or during the muted hours of the night, an unbidden fire ignited within her, and she felt the pull of a forbidden fruit she could never quite resist.

One fateful evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, laying hues of crimson and gold across the sky, Visenya found herself wandering into the garden—a refuge where the laughter of her children mingled with the scent of blooming roses. It was there that Aemond often sought solitude, brooding beneath the heavy branches of the ancient tree in the Godswood. The air was thick with anticipation, the moment charged with unvoiced words.

“Aemond,” she whispered, approaching the shadowy figure cloaked in darkness. “You should not be here. It isn’t fitting for us.”

His gaze, fierce and steady, locked onto her. “Fitting or not, sister, it does not change how I feel,” he replied, drawing closer, his words a tantalizing promise.

“Do you ever wonder what might have been?” Aemond softly spoke in the shadows, his voice low and conspiratorial. “If the blood of our house did not bind us, what would we be to each other?”

Visenya’s heart raced at the question. She had long grappled with this truth: was it Aegon’s love she cherished, or was it Aemond’s wild spirit that called to her, igniting a fire that threatened to consume her whole? When she looked into Aemond’s depths, she saw a future of unfettered desire, while Aegon’s steady presence offered comfort and stability. 

“But to carry the sins of desire is to bear a heavy burden,” she murmured, her voice like the rustle of leaves in the wind. “If the truth of our hearts were ever revealed, what then?”

Aemond stepped closer, his breath warm against her skin. “Do not fear the chaos of love, Visenya. We are Targaryens; chaos is our birthright.”

In that moment, their lips met—a union forged of hidden desires and dangerous secrets. In that sacred space, amidst the hidden life of the garden, time weaved itself into a tapestry of stolen moments. Visenya’s heart raced as Aemond took her hands in his, the warmth of his touch igniting embers hidden deep within her soul. They spoke of their dreams, their fears, the weight of their lineage, and the bittersweet bonds of family ties that pulled them in opposite directions.

Visenya was aflame with passion, yet guilt gnawed at her, whispering memories of her children, the purity of their innocence. She recalled Aerion's laughter and Daenys's dreams, and Rhaegar's fierce loyalty. Visenya's thoughts turned to her children, to the simple joy they brought her, and the duty she held to Aegon, who remained blissfully unaware of the tempest brewing within his wife’s heart. The gnarled roots of her love for Aegon intertwined with the fervour she felt for Aemond, a duality both beautiful and torturous. Each time she laughed with her children, each time she looked into Aegon’s earnest eyes, the weight of her choices bore down.

When her children had been born, rumours had already sparked in the desperate halls of the Red Keep and at court. As autumn leaves began to fall, rumours swirled within the court, each speculation carrying the weight of uncertainty. Whispers drifted like smoke between courtiers: were Aegon’s children truly his, or was there more to Visenya’s love than met the eye? The truth remained hidden, an enigma cloaked in Targaryen secrecy.

As seasons waned into years, the children grew, each embodying different facets of their lineage. Aerion, with the spirited bravery of a dragon, beloved by all; Daenys, who carried an ethereal grace that warmed hearts, often resembling her namesake, Daenys the dreamer; and Rhaegar, whose brooding intensity mirrored that of his Uncle Aemond. The question of paternity began to murmur through the corridors of Dragonstone, insidious as wind-wrought flames, though none could be sure. At least Visenya’s children bore the silver Targaryen hair that seemed to fail in her brothers. Whispers tainted her children’s innocence, and every shared glance between Visenya and Aemond seemed to ignite suspicion in the minds of their kin.

As the truth hovered like a specter, looming over the Targaryen family, Visenya stood at a precipice. Would she give in to her longing, embracing a passion that pulsed as fiercely as dragonfire? Or would she bind herself tightly to duty, choosing the path carved out by blood and obligation?

Visenya stood before a new dawn, knowing she must confront the echoes of her choices. Whether she chose to remain tied to Aegon for the sake of their family or succumb to the intoxicating pull of Aemond’s allure remained unanswered. She sought her mother’s endurance and her father’s unbridled will, but it was her own heart—a heart torn between love and loyalty—that would ultimately shape her fate.

In a moment of desperate clarity, Visenya understood that love was never meant to be simple. Each heart she held belonged to the tapestry of her life, entwined in ways that were as complex as the spirals of dragonfire. And as her children grew, so too did the weight of her choices, an unbreakable knot she must learn to navigate, balancing love and treachery, loyalty and longing.

—-------------------------------------------------

In the growing darkness of the evening, Visenya stood by the window, her long, silver-gold hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. She gazed out over Blackwater Bay, the waves crashing like the thoughts inside her mind. Her husband, Aegon, approached with a gentle smile, though the weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air.

“Visenya,” Aegon said, his voice soft, “what troubles you this evening?” 

She turned to him, her heart swelling with love for the man who was both her husband and a symbol of duty. “Naught but the uncertainty of the morrow, my dear Aegon. The realm feels restless. I fear storms are brewing, but not of the kind we prepare for,” she replied, feigning a smile. 

Unbeknownst to Aegon, Visenya felt her heart pulse hotly for his younger brother, Aemond. Aemond, with his fiery spirit and sharp wit, ignited a flame in her that she could not extinguish. Though she loved Aegon fiercely, it was Aemond who stirred her soul in ways she was hesitant to admit.

Just as she suffocated under the weight of her thoughts, the door swung open, and Aemond strode in, his sapphire eye glinting with mischief. “Our dear brother broods while the world turns, as always,” he remarked, casting a quick glance at Aegon before fixing his gaze on Visenya. “Shall we not partake in the joy of life while we can, my sweet sister-in-law?”

“Always the jester,” Aegon replied, though his smile was strained. “What joy can be found in revelry when the realm readies itself for war?”

“War, duty, duty, war,” Aemond mocked lightly. “You sound like our mother, brother.” There was a lingering tension in the air that Visenya felt too keenly.

“Stop this, Aemond,” Visenya interjected, speaking in High Valyrian, which Aegon didn’t entirely understand, looking to temper the air between the two brothers. “We should not jest of such things. We have each other; we have our children.”

Aegon nodded, the weight of concern still visible on his brow, while Aemond’s expression shifted to one that danced on the edge of something more dangerous. “And what will become of them?” Aemond’s voice dropped, a hint of something darker lurking beneath. “Are we to allow a sea of disputes to wash away their future?”

Visenya bristled at the thought. Her children needed a world of promise, not shackled by the chains of the past. Yet the more Aemond spoke, the more her heart wavered between affection for her husband and the forbidden pull towards the younger brother, whose ambitions were vast and whose eyes shone with desire. 

Weeks passed where words remained unspoken, but a certain tension was brewing in the Red Keep, there would be fire and blood, but the war within Visenya Targaryen still raged on.

—----------------------------------------

In the candlelit chambers of Aegon and Visenya, the air was thick with both warmth and tension. Visenya Targaryen sat at her vanity, the reflection of her silver hair bouncing off the polished surface. A soft knock interrupted her contemplation.

“Aegon,” she called, turning to fully face her husband, Aegon II, who stepped into the room. His presence filled the space with an uneasy mix of familiarity and distance.

“My love,” Aegon began, his voice a gentle rumble. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Thinking?” Visenya echoed, arching a brow. “You have a talent for that.” She offered a teasing smile, though her heart was heavy.

“Visenya, I wish to discuss… us.” He paused, searching her gaze for something he couldn’t quite define. “You hold the realms in your heart, but I…”

“Is it my love for our children that frightens you?” she interjected, the warmth in her voice slowly fading.

“No, no. It’s Aemond.” 

Visenya’s breath caught. Aemond—his younger brother—was both a flame that flickered dangerously close and a comfort that beckoned like an undertow. “What of Aemond?” she asked, trying to mask the tremor in her voice.

“He has grown reckless.” Aegon’s irritation surfaced. “He challenges authority as easily as he commands Vhagar. I fear—”

“Fear what? That he will dethrone you?” Visenya leaned forward, her emerald eyes piercing through the dim light. “You rule as king of Westeros, and he bears no crown.”

Aegon stepped closer, his brow knitting in concern. “Yet, in his heart lies the blood of the dragon—a flame that may consume what we hold dear. Our family is at stake, Visenya; our children… they deserve stability.”

“They deserve love,” she replied, her expression hardening. “Not just the kind you give, but the kind that includes passion.” The confession hung in the air like an unspoken vow, opening a chasm between them.

Aegon stiffened. “You love him, then?”

Visenya’s gaze fell to the floor. “Love is a flame, Aegon. It can warm the spirit or burn down all that you hold dear.”

Time passed slowly within Dragonstone as familial ties began to unravel. Aegon’s jealousy morphed into a simmering resentment, while intrigue danced around Visenya’s heart like a delicate waltz. 

Meanwhile, Aemond Targaryen, an embodiment of youthful ambition, found solace in the open skies, where his dragon, Vhagar, soared. He had always admired Visenya’s caring nature and what she brought to the family. Their secret meetings kindled something deep and forbidden, and as days turned into weeks, their connection intertwined with destiny.

Days turned into weeks, and then into months, shadows gathering around the Targaryens as they prepared for the inevitable clash between Rhaenyra's supporters and the impending forces that rose against her claim. Then came a day that would change…

—----------------------------------------------------------

The sun crested the horizon, shrouded in a soft blushing hue, contrasting the stormy clouds that loomed ominously nearby. Aemond rode Vhagar, chasing shadows and draconic dreams, unaware of the imminent collision path with tragedy.

“Lucerys!” Visenya’s brother, Lucerys Velaryon, tore through the skies riding his dragon, Arrax, defiance resonating through every flap of his wings. He was young, fierce, and willing to protect his mother’s legacy.

They met mid-air, the whispers of the firmament charged with the feud brewing below. 

“What brings a Velaryon to confront a Targaryen?” Aemond bellowed, a fierce grin etched across his face. The thrill of battle had summoned him; perhaps Fate would grant him the victory he craved.

“I will not yield to you or your brother, I stand here in honour of the Queen, Rhaenyra!” Lucerys shouted back. Behind him, the storm swelled, becoming a tempest to mirror their raging emotions.

“I have been waiting for this for a long time, my dear strong nephew.” Aemond spoke with his teasing nature, his eyepatch now removed with his sapphire eye shining in the moonlight of Storms End.

The two young dragons immediately headed for their fierce beasts, Vhagar and Arrax. With a fierce roar, Vhagar took flight, challenging Arrax with a display of power. Fire spewed forth as the dragons collided, the sky igniting around them.

“Enough Nephew!” Aemond cried out in their mother tongue, but exhilaration coursed through him and the storm clouds raged amongst him, losing sight of Luke for that moment. Cloud and fire danced in chaotic beauty as dragons unleashed their fury upon one another.

Lucerys, desperate, urged Arrax higher, staying vigilantly aware of his surroundings. “This is between us, Aemond! Fight like a man, not a beast!”

“A man?” Aemond mocked, fire swirling beneath him. “I choose the beast. Will you embrace your fate?”

The moment hung in the air, heavy with unfulfilled promises, desires unvoiced, and a storm of blood in the making. Suddenly, Aemond lunged forward, Vhagar's jaws seeking victory. Arrax couldn't evade; flames engulfed the sky, and with a chilling cry, Lucerys plummeted, joining the chaos below.

—------------------------------------------------

Upon hearing the news of her sweet, young brother’s death, Visenya’s world shattered. She could not escape the curtain call of sorrow nor the memories shared—the teasing laughter around a hearth now replaced with the chilling howl of anguish.

“Aemond, how could you?” she cried, her heart torn between love and despair as she confronted him.

He stood before her, fury and regret clashing within his gaze. “I did not seek this! The bloodlust of dragons consumed all”—his hands balled into fists—“he attacked me. You must understand.”

“I don’t wish to understand!” she shot back, tears trailing down her cheeks. “You have taken my brother. Do you know what you’ve ignited?”

“I have ignited nothing but truth, Visenya!” Aemond retorted, the air crackling between them. “We are Targaryens; we are destined for fire and blood!”

“Fire and blood,” she repeated, a bitter taste rising to her tongue. “You didn’t even see the flames consume his soul. Will it be my children next? I cannot let this continue.”

“Inaction will be their doom, just as Lucerys’s defiance led to his downfall.” Aemond stepped closer, anguish straining against the mask of confidence he wore.

Visenya turned away, lost within the storm surging in her heart. Death birthed a cycle; she would either embrace it or be consumed by it.

As she stood at the precipice of war, Visenya felt the first stirrings of the Dance of Dragons begin, a catastrophe whose burning embers loomed ominously above, threatening to set her world ablaze. 

What was once filled with love now echoed with battle cries, and the dance had begun, fueled by loyalty, passion, and heartache—a cycle that would devour them all.

(A/N) Let me know if I should do a part 2.

[yanderes-galore]

Hello! May I request a Yandere Diavolo concept please from Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure?

Sure! Sorry for the long wait, I also mention Doppio in this since I don't think you can talk about one without mentioning the other. The same would happen vice versa in a Doppio concept.

Yandere! Diavolo Concept

(FT. Doppio)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Murder, Violence, Blood, Possessive behavior, Denial, Kidnapping, Slight delusional behavior, Isolation, Restraints, Mentioned Stockholm Syndrome, Forced relationship.

Diavolo is a strange yandere due to his nature.

He doesn't like to be perceived and often hides in the shadows.

He doesn't want anything tying him to an identity.

He'd view romantic attachments, or any attachments, as distracting and problematic.

Diavolo would want to remove any weakness or distraction from his life.

Which is how he views his obsession at first.

He most likely would meet you through Doppio, his other persona and disguise.

While he's in denial of his obsession at first, he'll eventually see it as fate.

Even more so if you were also a Stand User.

He sees you as a distraction to not only himself but Doppio.

Doppio won't stop coming across you to the point it annoys Diavolo.

That or Doppio only came across you once and Diavolo just won't stop fixating on it.

The point is, the fact you plague Diavolo's mind messes with him.

He becomes obsessed with the idea of getting rid of you.

That's how things start.

He sees you as someone he needs to get rid of to regain his train of thought.

Which isn't very new to him based on what he does in canon.

He's killed those who got in his way, while you may not know it, you're in his way.

Things start with him stalking you through Doppio and researching about you online.

Doppio is a bit hesitant on the idea of killing you for not doing anything... But he can't question his boss.

The issue that soon comes up is Diavolo getting... attached.

Ironically while he's stalking you to kill you in the perfect way, he only falls deeper into his obsession.

Every new piece of information occupies his mind as he finds himself thinking about you more often.

He should kill you, he should've went through with it a long time ago instead of hesitating.

But now he can't bring himself to do it.

You have no clue who he is or what his intentions are.

You're living your own life, oblivious to the pink haired man watching your every move.

He starts to wonder if fate brought you to him.

It's troublesome... Yet you must be important.

Soon he casts aside his ideas to kill you.

He tells Doppio to find more information about you, all while plotting a plan to have you.

Diavolo is probably one of the most dangerous yanderes to have after you.

Granted, most Stand Users are, but King Crimson is particularly dangerous.

He can easily get rid of threats without being in your sight.

For example, if Diavolo finds out you have a partner, he'll track them and kill them with King Crimson.

What's the scariest part of Diavolo being a yandere is this...

You won't know he exists until he takes you away.

The obsession is usually entirely out of sight.

He's in the shadows watching your every move before finding the opportunity to strike.

It really is a stalking predator and prey dynamic.

You may have slight anxiety or paranoia due to being watched, but that's it.

Diavolo doesn't send gifts or letters while stalking you.

He isn't an idiot who will give himself away just yet.

He may use Doppio to get as close to you as he can, however.

After all, Doppio seems so innocent.

You could easily befriend him, unknowingly letting a devil into your life willingly.

The moment Diavolo deems you close enough to Doppio... He strikes.

Diavolo would definitely kidnap you and keep you in a secret location.

He's a big one for secrecy and hates others knowing about you.

He'd wipe your existence from the public, killing all who know of you and hiding his tracks.

It's like you disappeared... In reality, you're stuck with Diavolo in isolation.

It's terrifying for you because... Well...

You've never met this man.

Even if he told you he's Doppio, you'd probably never believe him.

They look so different.

It only gets worse when Diavolo mentions you've been on his mind for a long time now.

It can be anywhere from months to years.

He admits he originally planned to get rid of you... But realized he wanted something else.

Which leads to him admitting his obsession with you...

Much to your horror.

You can't do much with the restraints on your body.

Even if you had a Stand... Diavolo has King Crimson to counter it.

Diavolo come off as intimidating most of the time.

Although, I imagine if he did really love you, he gives you gifts and gestures now.

After all... You're his, now.

Having you here has managed to soothe his mind, even more so than just killing you.

Why? Well, now he can come to you when stressed and get your affection.

You may not reciprocate, but you'll learn to worship the king.

Diavolo seems like the type to break his darling mentally to gain their obedience.

He likes obedience and loyalty, even if he has trust issues himself.

After all, you are his little partner.

Many will fall at his hands, especially in your name.

His affection is rough yet passionate... Yet unreciprocated on your part.

Perhaps fate really did bring you into his arms, he can see that now...

Unfortunately for you, fate brought you right into the devil's arms.

"You've been a distraction long enough... It's about time I do something about that, dear."

[tiredrxtz]

Eternal love of a demon king and the one he called his wife

She was harmonious, that was what he would say.

The way her heels clicked and scraped against the grass of the barren field she found herself in at the break of dawn, her eyes dazed as she gazed up into the night sky; [e/c] reflecting the divine emotions held by the very moon that took up the large canvas splattered with stars.

She was bewitching.

Anos voldigoad followed her swaying figure from where he was perched, besides an old blossom tree that blemished into a true representative of mother nature, his crimson eyes never straying from the women that danced to her hearts content before him.

The unconscious bodies of the humans that swarmed them previously forgotten, not dead, never dead, but a lot more quieter than when they stood before. The war between the human race and the demons was unyielding; no matter what constitutions he proposed, nor how honestly he bestowed his ideology of bringing peace to all beings, the humans failed to recognize the path of fate they were swarming down.

This war would possibly last centuries to come…

For what he wanted— a generation that did not have to suffer the consequences of a battle forgotten deep into the past— not even a miracle bestowed by the gods could compensate the desperation of his request.

He did not wish to demand peace because he was a demon nor because he was a king, Anos voldigoad simply wanted to clear up the misunderstanding that demons were the true enemy in this magic filling world.

To achieve the goal that all races wanted to forge into reality, he, along with his beloved wife, would have to lay down their very own lives in order for that to happen.

“Kanon, let me ask you this; just how many demons have you killed?” Anos spoke with sincerity as he gazed down from his throne and into the eye for the human hero— the only person that had the potential to come even close to defeating him.

Kanon hesitated on an answer. They had time but they had to hurry if peace was to be obtained within this era of time. After all, time waits for nobody…

Except for the demon king himself.

Their end had been tragic yet Anos couldn’t have asked for anything more. While it had been selfish to strip his beloved wife of her life, all in the name of peace, it was a necessary precaution he had taken; if he had been reincarnated alone, he’d have to see his wife take on the burden he once carried and that would drive him utterly insane.

He can only hope that, when they meet again in their new life, she’ll forgive him for being so selfish.

If not then he’ll have to make it up to her by taking her hand in marriage once again.

“Who would’ve though...” he wondered out loud. Anos voldigoad gazed longingly towards the night sky that was splattered with pinpricked shining stars from where he lay on his bed. “2000 years and there’s still signs of destruction.”

The demon king had been reincarnated into a new era 2000 years after his announced death as a teenage boy and had been admitted into a demon king academy— a school that purposely trained descendants of demon royalty.

Ironic isn’t it?

the peace he had obtained was formidable, well for now at least. His death had resulted in the magic residing within him to create a barrier that’s purpose was to separate the humans, demons and even the gods from each other.

His true power was truly remarkable.

The only thing that he had left to do was fulfill his last promise: find his wife and have her hand in marriage once more. If she were here right beside him, he’d bet that she’d say something along the lines of—

“The moon is rather bright tonight, don’t you think?”

The mattress dipped slightly as the weight Anos voldigoad knew all too well settled over his relaxed stature. A smile made its way to his lips as one of his hands enclosed around the one that lay against his broad chest.

It seemed that his wife was closer than he’d realized. Lucky him, he hadn’t even lifted a finger and his beloved had already sought him out from the thousands of people within the village; he was quite lucky to have an extraordinary women as his betrothed.

His lips found her own within seconds, their fingers intertwining and their bodies being pressed together. He had waited 2000 years for his wife to finally come to him and the time had come, he wasn’t going to waste another moment without her.

As cheesy as that sounded, he had missed her dearly.

Parting with a small pant, the reincarnated demon king racked over the appearance of the women lay beneath him. She hadn’t changed at all from the looks of it; her [h/c] locks cascaded down her figure just as graciously as before and her eyes were still gazing into the abyss they both ruled over.

“[Y/n].”

She was just as devoted to him as he were to her. She had remained loyal to him for all these years and had believed in his return to her— she was the embodiment of the love he longed for.

“Anos—“ the door creaked open and in popped his mother who, upon peaking in for no more than a mere second, squealed joyously and skipped away with a poor departure excuse.

Anos voldigoad sighed while the [h/c] female giggled.

“I guess your introduction will come just as early as expected.” He complained, sliding off of the female and stretching to a stand. “There’s no doubt about it that mom will spill her little fantasies to dad so there’s no point in trying to hide this little secret, is there?”

“Come, I’ll introduce you to them.”

Her hand enveloped his and on they went. The evening was then spent with Anos voldigoad’s mother crying tears of joy, clinging to the women he called his forever wife, while his father drank in honor of their announcement.

Before his reincarnation, Anos voldigoad didn’t have the fortune of his parents being alive, meaning that not only did he miss out on their shared love for him, he also didn’t get the chance to introduce them to his wife.

However, if they still resided here on earth, there’s no doubt that his mother would love [Y/n] just as much as he did.

His love remained eternal and so did hers. Only now can they experience true peace without having to draw their blades and dance in a mach destined to end in death.

[muzansfangs]

Guilty pleasure.

Starring: Muzan x f!reader; Nakime x f!reader, Douma x f!reader, Daki, Kokushibo and Akaza (mentioned).

Warnings: modern au, cheating, choking, mention to murder, gore and violence, mild sexual content, vaginal sex, dom!muzan, sub!reader, slight somnophilia.

Plot: the morning after, you wake up in Muzan’s embrace. While he seems affectionate, his mood swings allow you to see past his angelic face and you start to connect the dots about his dark side. You make love again, but he becomes distant right after it. He leaves for work and you bump into Nakime, who tells you about some of Muzan’s habits. In need for fresh air, you run in the basement but Douma allures you to give in to your animalistic desires. You could love whoever you wanted privately, right?

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

THE DEVIL.

His hot breath fanned your earlobe, his arm was draped over your waist to keep you close to him. Muzan loved how you were smaller than him, so beautiful and fragile. You were his special someone to protect, to give his all for.

His mouth left a trail of open mouthed kissed down your shoulderblade, his half-lidded, plum red eyes watching how you stirred in your sleep and snuggled into his chest. He barely knew you and he had already taken so much from you. You had practically given yourself to him without blinking, so diligently, you had given up on the mundane and trivial part of your life to train yourself to be a First Lady.

“Y/N” he purred, his long fingers drawing patterns on the naked skin of your stomach to wake you up softly. He did not want to startle you, he just craved to taste you once again before leaving for work. While he perfectly knew he could have had you by the time he got back from his office, he had the irresistable urge to have you again now, as the first rays of the sun seeped into his bedroom from the curtains.

You rolled on your side, facing him and, lifting your heavy eyelids to peek out at his angelic face. It felt unrealistic. It was not a dream, you were really sleeping on Kibutsuji Muzan’s king-sized bed. His hand was gently squeezing your hip and you blushed, hiding your face into his toned chest, not to allow him to see your sleepy face.

A hoarse laughter rumbled through his chest as he pulled you closer to him, his chin propped on the top of your head affectionately “I did not wake you up for you to hide your pretty face to me. – he murmured, sending shivers down your spine – I have the ardent desire to fuck you again, before I go” he blatantly said, his fingertips digging onto your waist possessively, earning a soft whimper from you.

“Do you?” you whispered bashfully, craning your neck to stare up at him.

Your legs were still sore from the previous night events and a dull track of pain was still present in your core. But you could do it again, you could do it one more time because you wanted to, because he was staring intently into your eyes and his fervent passion felt like boiling droplets of lava on your sensitive skin.

“I don’t particularly like to repeat myself, darlin’. – he stated, arching a dark eyebrow up and propping his elbow on his crimson pillow, only to rest his head on his fist to inspect your visage – I own you, I desire you. Haven’t I been clear enough, hm?” he inquired in a cold tone, his voice dropping a few octaves.

There it was, his feral side. The one you, deep down, hoped to see crossing his face. He had rarely lost his temper on the camera, but when he did you usually feared for the safety of those who had dared to enrage him. And, dear God, something bad happened to them, sometimes.

How could he be so fascinating, when his malicious inner side showed up? You should have been scared of him.

“I didn’t mean to—…” you said, yet you never finished your sentence. His hand reached out to your neck, the iron-grip knocking the air of your lungs as he easily pushed you down on the mattress and hovered over you. You gulped down forcefully, lips parted in excitement and a ounce of fear as the dark-haired man on top of you grinned down at your writhing frame.

“Tch, bloody hell. How do you expect me not to fuck you senseless, when you look at me like that?” he rhetorically asked you, a vein popping his forehead as he gave your neck one last squeeze, before releasing it.

You inhaled sharply through your nostrils, legs timidly hooking behind his back as a sign that you were ready, that he could claim you again.

“Muzan…” you called his name lowly, your hand cupping his smooth cheek and brushing your thumb against his cheekbone. His eyes never left yours. His lips twitched as his mouth connected with yours in a hungry kiss. You did not even fight for dominance, he won, he shoved his tongue into your mouth without bothering to ask for permission. Your hands went up to thread his hair as you shyly squeezed his waist between your legs to relief your core from the pressure engulfing your nether regions.

He growled in your mouth, grinding his groin down onto yours to feed you what you longed for.

His hands cupped your face, his lips barely brushing over yours as his breath mingled with yours in erotic, erratic pants “Impatient little girl. You will learn not to play with fire”.

You had no time to realize what had happened. All you knew was that a sharp pain pierced the tender flesh of your neck and you squealed out in surprise. You tugged at Muzan’s hair unintentionally, when you felt his tongue lap at the bruised skin of your neck. Only then you came to the conclusion that he had bitten you and, right after that, he wasted no time in pushing your panties to the side and slipping into your already wet cunt.

♚

You walked him to the door, once you two were ready. He did not kiss you goodbye. Actually, he was back to be the cunning, distant politician you saw on the tv screen during his interviews. He barely glanced at you, before shutting the door behind him and leaving with Kokushibo.

You should have not felt hurt. You were not into an enstablished, true relationship. You were paid to keep him company and stick by his side in public. You remembered what he had told you before Kokushibo took you back home that night.

“You can love whoever you want privately”.

You could, right. But if he kept on these mood swings, if he made you believe you meant something for him by the way he fucked you, or the way he looked at you, there was no way in the world you could have ever had eyes for someone else. Additionally, who? Who could you love far from the medias, without letting the news reach the ears of the journalists?

You were conflicted and the best thing you could do to distract yourself was probably talking to someone, or asking them the permission to leave. Possibly alone. You made your way to the elevator, your finger reaching up to push the button, when you had stop midway.

“Miss L/N, can I help you?” Nakime asked from behind you.

You flinched, turning around to face the woman with the same expression of someone caught red-handed and bowed your head at her “Ah, Nakime-san, goodmorning – you quipped, forcing a smile on your face – I was going to the basement” you told her, thinking that your answer would have sufficed to chase her away.

Nevertheless, you were wrong.

“No one is in the basement” she declared flatly.

“Oh… Do you know where I can find Douma and Akaza then?” you then asked her, folding your arms against your chest. Were you really going to spend the day in her company? Honestly, it sounded like hell.

The brunette took a few steps forward, her high-heels clicking against the marble floor “On a mission. – she said, cocking her head to the side – How can I help you, miss L/N?” she repeated the question, her red-painted lips curling up in a faint smile. There was something off about her. She radiated hostility and danger. However, you did not have much of a choice.

You shrugged, averting your eyes from her and staring at the majestic Muzan’s potrait hanged on the wall. Damn it, his eyes were haunting you even through paintings.

“Uhm… A-actually, can you do something for me, please?” you stammered, fidgeting with the charm of your necklace. Bad habits never died. It was a clear sign that you were on the verge of snapping.

“Do you want me to kill someone for you?” Nakime blurted out, making your blood run instantly cold. What did she say? Why did she ask that as if it was not a crime? Was she really a killer? Well, you should have not been that surprised.

“What?! No!” you replied horrified, grimacing at the mere thought of Muzan giving his bodyguards the order to kill his opponents. But, deep down, you knew he did. You just decided that pretending he was a good man was the easiest way to get along with him.

Further more, the feelings he gave you were controversial. Would you have been able to forgive him, if he had told you he had made his flunkies slaughter his foes? Probably. Why? He could manipulate you to believe it was the rightest thing to do.

Silence swallowed you two for minute straight. Then, she spoke out again.

“Oh, I get it then. – Nakime said, walking towards you and stopping right in front of you – Just relax, okay?” she added, before slowly dropping down on her knees. You were puzzled by her actions, even more when she grasped your hand and planted a chaste kiss on its back. Nakime curled up to your thighs the hem of your skirt, careful not to touch the exposed skin of your legs.

You were paralyzed, mouth agape when she planted a kiss on your clothed sex. What was she doing? You shivered, blushing furiously as she reached for the waistband of your panties and tried to tug them down. Was she going down on you? Were you letting her do it? Christ, why? No, no, no. That needed to stop.

You took a step back, gawking at her as you straightened your skirt and ran your fingers through your hair in shock. Nakime cocked her head to the side, scrunching her nose in annoyance at your rejection. Why did she assume you needed this kind of favor? Plus, was she really into it?

“W-What was that, Nakime?” you blurted out, blinking at her skeptically.

“Well, I assumed you were sexually frustrated. – she chimed, standing back up and bowing her head at you – I apologize. Master Muzan usually asks me to help him relax” she added, blushing slightly but keeping her head high.

Her words made your breath hitch in your throat and you gaped, forrowing your brows in curiosity “Y-You… Does Muzan—”.

“Fuck me? Yeah, he does. Daily”.

“Jesus…” you choked, clenching your fists down your sides. You were such an idiot. Of course he had told you to love whoever you wanted privately. It was exactly what he did. You should have not felt offended at the revelation, you were nothing more than an actress. Yet, it pissed you off.

“I’m not even the only one and, definitely, not his favorite. Daki is probably on her way to his office. – Nakime added, glancing at her wrist-watch – Now, what was that favor you needed from me?” she pressed, folding her arms over her chest.

Daki. Daki was his favorite. If Daki was his favorite, you were not. Ouch.

“Who’s Daki?” you asked, cursing yourself for being upset about it.

Nakime scoffed “His sixth in command. Now, what in the actual hell do you need me to do?” she asked again, exhaling through her nostrils.

You rolled your eyes at her and turned back to the elevator, pushing the metallic button. You felt her staring at you, although her eyes, that you still had to see, were hidden by her long fringe.

“Where are you going?” she spat, but before she could pest you again with another question, you entered the elevator and waved your hand at her mockingly. Maybe you were going to be punished for that, but you needed to get away from her and taking a little time for yourself. You knew that there was a garage, somewhere, with dozens of car. You had heard Kokushibo mentioning it and, right now, you needed to borrow one of them. You were the soon to be First Lady, after all.

Nakime sprinted up to catch up with you, but the doors closed and in five seconds you were at the basement. When you walked in, you took a look around and you realized that the cold-hearted brunette was not lying when she told you no one was there. You sighed and started to search for a secret door, or something that could have led you to the garage, but you could not find anything.

“What the fuck…” you uttered in exhasperation, walking over the huge library and staring at the titles almost absent-mindedly.

It was foolish, maybe, but you had seen enough movies in your life to know that rich scions loved to hide rooms behind libraries. Now, which was the book starting the device?

Your fingertips grazed the covers of the novels, as you passed by and you were about to pick one of them to test your theory, when a mild voice rang in your ears and you jolted in fear. You twirled around, your back pressed against the library as your eyes locked with a pair of multicolored hues. Was he not supposed to be out on a mission?

“My, my… What is my cute, little doe doing here?” Douma chimed, his hands on each side of your head caging you between his body as the library.

You blushed, staring up at him in embarrassment. It was hard to breathe. Not only he was standing way too close to you for your likings, but he was handsome as hell and… And some dried, scarlett substance was splattered over his face. Was it blood? Was he out murdering someone?

“D-Douma… Is… What’s on your face?” you breathed out, heart thrumming into your chest as you pointed your finger at his right cheek.

He quirked his eyebrows up, his gloved hand reaching up to touch the stained portion of skin on his face and he grinned, his pearly teeth on display as he took a step back and nodded his head at you “Oh, that’s blood! It’s not mine, don’t worry, love!” he stated, winkig at you.

You thought you were going to faint and maybe you would have slumped down on the floor, if it was not for his sharp reflex. As soon as your knees buckled, his arms were wrapped around your waist and he held you up easily. It was time for you to deal with the fact that your fiancé was a murderer. The morning had started with a bang and you were, apparently, not ready for Kibutsuji’s secrets to screw your life.

“Sensitive, aren’t we? – Douma joked, as you clutched the fabric of his white shirt in your hands – Are you alright?” he asked, giggling at your reaction.

You sighed and let go of him, walking to the small leather couch and sitting down “Whose blood is it?” you boldly asked him, watching how he hastily joined you and slumped down on the comfortable surface.

“Does it really matter? I mean, he is not dead… Just battered. I did such a good job!” he beamed, winking at you and lolling his head back on the backrest.

You flinched and shifted to face him properly, eyes round as you jabbed your finger at him “Douma! Please… It matters to me. I didn’t think–…” you started, but you choked on your own words, tears spilling out of your eyes without your permission. Gosh, it happened. You were on the verge of a breakdown.

Douma stared at you clearly confused, his hands immediately cupping your cheeks as he tried to calm you down. You sobbed, his thumbs wiping away the tears falling from your lashes as he ducked his head down to inspect your face better. You did not protest, you did not have enough strength to do anything else, except for leaning into his touch and batting your eyes closed.

“Don’t cry, little doe! – he murmured, his nose now brushing against yours – No one is going to hurt you, I promise!” he soothed, his hands sliding down your back, until they were settled over your hips. It was weird, inappropriate even. Maybe, if Akaza or Kokushibo were here, he would have not even dared to touch you like that. But some physical contact, some comfort, even from a serial killer, was not that bad.

You had slept with one of them twice, after all. And, naturally, you knew that Kibutsuji Muzan was the worst of this crew.

You nodded your head and Douma smiled, cradling you in his arms. Now, you were the one who had pushed his limits. You should have not straddled him, you should have not played with his tie, but when he grasped your chin between his forefinger and thumb, you parted your lips and Douma kissed you.

It was intense, but not demanding. Was it a soothing kiss? You had no clue about what was happening, but you kissed him back, chest pressed against his one as he held you close to him. His tongue brushed over your lower lip and you softly moaned, arching your back as he entered your mouth. It lasted for a while, your body melting under his touch. You only abruptly parted, when you felt his bulge pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his trousers.

“What the fuck did I do?!” you panicked, standing up and fixing your clothes. Was everyone horny in that place? Were you slowly slipping in the deep end too? Were you becoming a whore?

Douma licked his bottom lip, a smug smile curling his plumped lips as he stood up and straightened his tie “Oh, well, you opened your mouth for me, ma’am. Such a pity you did not open your legs too…” he complained, feigning sorrow and tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants.

Muzan did not have to know about that. Plus, he had no shame in sleeping with Nakime and that Daki girl, right? Maybe you should have not felt guilty for it.

“Listen, that was a mistake—…”.

“One hell of a mistake, love!”.

“Gosh, will you please just take me out for a stroll and a lunch? I might just explode” you blurted out, throwing your hands in the air.

Douma gladly complied, his hands somehow always finding their way to your waist, but you finally managed to hop into his car.

Your phone in your purse buzzed, you ignored it. You were too busy chatting with Douma, laughing at his stupid jokes, to check it out. It was Muzan, telling you that you would have made your first public appearence in two days and that, maybe, you were in trouble for having tricked Nakime.

Muzan: I don’t accept insubordination. I know what you did. We ought to talk tonight. Don’t bother wearing anything.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi there! Third part is out! Buckle your seatbelts and prepare yourselves for a very, very crazy ride with the Kibutsuji crew. I enjoyed writing this part and, just to be clear, I’m a sucker for Douma… So, it’s clear why the reader is going to have some fun with him, alright? Thanks for the support, really! Please, read the first two parts of this series to understand better. Likes, comments and reposts are appreciated!

Tags: @bookandstar

[sugar-plum-writer]

Dark Glamour

Paring: Sukuna x Fem!reader Tags: Slight! mention of violence; Fem!reader; Sukuna!imagines; will be 18+ as more chapters come; slow!burn, [I want to have a good build up!]; Modern AU; Mafia!AU

A chapter by chapter series, It will be a bit long maybe 10 chapters. So~ enjoy~

[If you all like it, please heart and reblog the post! to know you want to read more~ and follow for chapter updates! or leave a comment to tag you when I put out new chapters~ I will do my best to roll out UPDATES ASAP!]

CHAPTER - 1

The evaporated city from the map stood deary, with only its rubbles remaining, broken concrete foundation- cracks gracing it with iron rods threatening to crash underneath the pressure.

Shockwaves of the fight remained wherever your eyes could fall upon, swirling winds carrying fear and the scent of blood fluttering around you. Brains oozing out- crying to you about the injustice and pain inflicted on them, bones crushed to dust blowing past your face as a reminder of what you weren't able to stop

The grey sky looked down nihilistically as if used to death and destruction, not a ray of sun graced the Earth and covered itself with clouds as if not wanting to see this nightmarish Earth, crimson ink swirled beneath the watery rivers and lakes with the Earth trapping the dead forever in it's soil.

"Shit. Oh shit. things were not supposed to be like this" you muttered as your heels clacked against the ground, in a hurry all you wore was your bathrobe around you.

You left for just some minutes and the next thing you know your assistant slams the doors of your bathroom open screaming in horror as blood trickled down his face

"Miss Y/N! Boss has started a massacre!"

"What!? How!?-" Adrenaline coursed through your veins spilling into your guts

"I just left him for 2 minutes to take a shower!?"

"Miss-"

"Forget it-" Stepping out from the tub water droplets glistened on your skin dripping from your fingertips

"For now focus on saving as many civilians as possible! use all our resources!" screaming you wore the red stilettos you had removed- almost tripping in a hurry donning your bathrobe

"I will find him!"

"But-"

"Just do as I say if you don't-", glaring at him, "want to die"

Shit this was the biggest mess of your life

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

You had met Sukuna on one fine night as you walked home from work drunk. Feet bruised from walking in heels the whole day, it did not help your boss had to have a drinking party today making everyone drunk. Somehow you managed to escape halfway through and saved your sobbing liver.

"Malevolent Shrine" a deep voice echoed

Raising your head the next thing you knew- you were standing on ink-like black waters, blood red sky, and a shrine- no it could not even be called a shrine- skulls of dead adorned it

"WHAT THE FUCK!?"

"Bow"

Your eyes met his, and looking into those red eyes felt as if- you were looking into the eyes of a demon; a monster so terrifying your legs gave out

"Who-Who are you!? what do you want!"

"Me?", amused he looked at you "I am Ryomen Sukuna- The King Of Curses" smirking he gazed down upon you

"Be honored, your screams tonight will grace me" Stepping down in a flash he was in front of you

Fear. Horrible gut-wrenching Fear consumed your heart eating away through the valves.

"Please…don't kill me! Please! I beg you!" sobbing you kneeled on the ground as tears spilled from your eyes

"I have not even gotten married yet! I am too young!.." your mouth ran by itself like a Ferrari on a race track of Formula One, spilling out essay after essay

"I have not even-"

"Shut up brat, how long is your list of things you need to do? I will kill you if you don't shut up"

"No! No! No! I will shut up!" clasping your hands over your lips you looked at him but your mouth just had to continue, "But how can I not!? There are so many things to do in this world!"

"I said shut up" giving you a death glare he grabbed your jaw

"As for things to do, I doubt your modern world could amuse me"

"Wh-? How old are you?" eyes widening you looked at him

"1000+ years old, why?" confused he looked at you

"What….? And you still have that style?" raising an eyebrow you looked him up and down

"I don't mean to be offensive, but seriously…?"

"Why should I care how I look?" throwing you to the ground he rolled his eyes

"Ouch!", hissing in pain you looked at him, "Because, see for example if you want to recruit people into your group, shouldn't you look good? Looking hot while doing it?"

"What-? What psychology is this?"

"Yeah duh" Putting your arm around his shoulder you looked at him

"You are wasting that face plus knowing about modern technology will help will it not? For example with this phone-" Opening your phone you handed it to him, "You can text, call, etc, isn't it so much better?"

He scrolled a bit as you continued your explanation about modern technologies, the power of money, and so on. Showing him all kinds of things on your phone, all kinds of luxuries, working in the sales department sure came in handy today.

"Hmmm…", intrigued he listened and filtered through the bullshit that came from your mouth. Though he was 1000+ years old he sure was extremely terrifyingly intelligent, the way he filtered through the information grasping the core information shocked even you.

"Fine" tossing the phone to you, "You seem to know a lot of how things work around here" Looking into your soul chillingly, "Work for me, and let's do this so-called style change"

And like that soon you were out, alone on the streets, the realization hit you like a nuclear bomb

FUCK

Biting your lips you walked groaning, sure in a moment of panic your brain switched a circuit and bullshitted its way out. Somehow convincing The King of Curses to go shopping with you. You deserve a PR and Sales award for what you have just done. Sure you were good at what you did, turning thousands of yen product into millions but today, you saved your neck.

With a sharp sigh, you unlocked the door of your apartment.

"This is crazy AHHHHH!" screaming you buried your face in the pillow trying to convince yourself it was a dream

But it was not

Proof?

Right now you are standing in a short black sweetheart body con dress, high stilettos, red lipstick, hair all curled up scrolling through your phone, normally when you dress up many creeps give you stares but today nobody; why?

Sukuna stood beside you.

Link to masterlist!

[doodle-pops]

Tears of the Sun

Maedhros x reader

A/N: Since this came in 2nd on the poll, you all can have the treat you've been voting for. You all have no idea how long I've been dying to release this :) 🙈

Warnings: 3rd Kinslaying, death, blood, heavy angst, hurt and not an ounce of comfort (the bucket is dry), major character death

Words: 1.6k

Synopsis: We always regret the things we do when the worst happens, and Maedhros finally seems to have enough.

His body moved with less grace and more aggression, leaving behind a trail of victims struck down by his ruthless blade. The horror and grief in the eyes of each lifeless body meant nothing to him; they were just obstacles on his path to his ambition. Their deaths only fuelled his determination, pushing him further up the hill and past the point of no return. His once–pristine armour was now stained with splatters of crimson, matching the colour of his hair and sword. His usually well–kept hair was matted and frizzed from the chaos of the battle, and his helmet lay discarded in the heat of the mindless fight. None of his opponents were formidable enough to engage him in a true battle of skill; they were merely obstacles to be obliterated.

He found himself growing bored with the resistance he encountered. He had come for his treasured heirloom, and the stubborn defence he faced only made him scoff. He swung his sword recklessly, striking down anyone who dared to challenge him. If kindness couldn’t win him what he desired, he would take it by force. The last shreds of sanity that had held his emotionally compromised heart together had shattered, leaving him with no option but to resort to raiding and plundering. Blood was his familiar companion—it was what he had come to know intimately, the colour of his hair and the blade he wielded. The hand he had been dealt in the losing game of life resembled his sword’s hue: crimson.

Existence was his only reality, a reality driven by the notion that death wasn’t yet ready to claim him. He existed because he couldn’t die, and death toyed with his life as though it were a mere game of chess. One moment he was a pawn, the next a bishop, then a king, and back to a pawn. It was a cruel dance of fate, and he had long accepted his role as its unwilling participant. In this twisted game, he found a perverse pleasure in taking what he believed was his by-right, regardless of the consequences.

But you changed everything. You brought light into his world, giving meaning to the bleak and dreary existence he had grown accustomed to. A smile, a look from you, and his heart would soar, mending itself and allowing him to experience the simple joys he had been denied. With you, the cage he had felt trapped in was shattered, and he no longer felt like an animal awaiting its inevitable demise. You gave him purpose, a reason to believe in something greater than the cycle of violence and death he had become ensnared in.

A scoff escaped him as he remembered your influence on him. He wiped away the blood that had trickled down his brow, the metallic scent of iron filling his nostrils. The smell was familiar, a reminder of countless battles and massacres he had orchestrated. Despite the carnage around him, this was a relatively minor raid, akin to dealing with a few dozen orcs. Most of his men had switched sides to prevent further destruction, but those who had stood against him now lay lifeless, their bodies strewn across the ground. The balance between valuing his soldiers’ lives and discarding their lifeless forms after insubordination was a precarious one, and in his current state of mind, the line was blurred beyond recognition.

He continued his macabre dance, his temper a raging fire that consumed everything in its path. Lifeless bodies, once vibrant with vitality, now littered the streets. The urge to be repulsed by the sight was a fleeting burden; he was too consumed by his frustration at his failure to reclaim the Silmaril.

“Háno!” A pained voice, his brother Maglor’s, reached his ears, and his heart clenched with dread. After coming this far, losing another of his kin—his last kin—would be the final blow, shattering what little remained of his fractured soul.

He rushed forward, his steps heedless of the broken bodies that lay in his path. He cut through the streets of Sirion with a single–minded determination, following the urgency in his brother’s voice. What he found was a scene of sombre desolation. Maglor stood there, his sword hanging limply in his hand, his shoulders slumped, his legs wobbling, and his head bowed in defeat. A pit formed in the depths of his heart as he approached his brother’s broken form, his own anger momentarily forgotten.

And then he saw you, lifeless. Your body leaned against the wall of a nearby home, your form covered in your own blood. Your expression held a haunting mixture of pain and resignation.

He didn’t want to accept what he was seeing. It felt impossible, like a cruel illusion playing tricks on his senses. You were supposed to be safe, wrapped in comfort and far from the clutches of death and destruction. This had to be the work of darkness, a sinister fabrication that twisted reality into something nightmarish. This couldn’t be you lying lifeless before his eyes; it had to be some twisted trick, a distorted reflection of his fears.

Convincing oneself of falsehood, even in the face of an unfathomable and horrifying sight, was a coping mechanism that allowed one to shut their eyes and turn away. He chanted to himself repeatedly that what he saw couldn’t be true—it couldn’t be you lying there lifeless at the cost of his hands. His footsteps, once soundless, turned into thunderous beats as he rushed toward where you were slumped against the wall. The scene before him was surreal, and he desperately needed some kind of proof that what he was seeing wasn’t real. His trembling fingers inched closer to touch your form, seeking that moment of realization that would tell him the world had deceived him.

His eyes were narrowed in disbelief, his brows furrowed, lips pursed, and fingers trembling as he gingerly reached out. His boots made contact with your foot, and he half–expected to hear your familiar ‘Ouch’ in response, a playful reaction you often had to his touch. But there was no response, no movement from you. Your eyes were cast downwards, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him. He knew that after your last bitter exchange, you wouldn’t want to look at him. He understood that. Yet, the sight of blood staining your clothes and your lack of breath sent a spike of panic through him.

He blinked back tears that threatened to spill, his teeth gritted, nostrils flaring. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand to touch your head. He crouched over your lifeless form, keeping a respectful distance as if he feared that even in death, he was intruding on your personal space. His hand made contact with your head, and when you remained unresponsive, he slid his hand lower to cup your face, lifting it to meet his gaze. But your head lolled limply in his hold, and the puppet–like motion of your head sent waves of terror through him. A cold heat engulfed his body, sending shivers down his spine.

The motion of your head was unnaturally limp, like that of a puppet with its strings cut. His hand quivered as it cradled your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Y/N?” he called, his voice cracking with anxiety. The silence that followed was deafening, and suffocating, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“Háno, they’re dead—” Maglor’s words were met with a feral growl that erupted from the depths of Maedhros’s chest. He snapped his head in Maglor’s direction, his eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and desperation. A mere glare and a low, menacing command silenced his brother’s words.

Sinking to his knees, he carefully gathered your lifeless form into his lap, cradling you close. He adjusted your position, holding you as you liked to be held, your head resting against his chest so you could hear his heartbeat. His mutilated hand cradled you, his fingers gently caressing your skin. He rocked you back and forth, murmuring soothing words in a broken symphony of promises that he knew he might never be able to fulfil.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispered, his voice a fragile melody of reassurance. He pressed rough kisses to the top of your head, his lips brushing against your hair. “I’ve got you now, I’m here. I’m going to keep you safe when you wake up.”

The juxtaposition between the past and the present hit him like a wave of sorrow. He remembered the times he had pushed you away, the harsh words he had spoken, and the pain he had caused. And now, here he was, holding you tightly, his heart breaking with the weight of his regrets.

“This will be over soon,” he promised, his voice laden with emotion. “You’ll be safe and happy. I promised you that, didn’t I? I’ll keep my word, my love.” He continued to sway with your lifeless body, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s pleas for him to accept the reality.

He whispered to you over and over, his tears mingling with the blood and sweat on his face. The saltiness of his tears against his wounds was a numbing sensation, a reminder that he was still capable of feeling something amidst the darkness. He was hollow, consumed by the curse of his actions, bound to live with the consequences of his choices—he took your life with words. A simple command and you fell innocent to his sword.

The cycle of violence and suffering that he had perpetuated had led him to this point, where he held the lifeless body of the person he loved more than anything. He had pushed away his chance at happiness, his heartless actions sealing his fate.

In his arms, he clung to you, the only source of light in his life, hoping against hope that this was just a nightmare, that you would awaken, and that the blood on your skin was nothing more than an illusion. But deep down, he knew that he was living the nightmare he had created, unable to escape the prison of his own making.

Masterlist

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[princelylove]

How about I make you some tea and biscuit, your highness? ☕ 🍪 I hope it will please you while you help me answer my wondering about this.

I read your work "The Father" that analyze about Bruno. There is a small detail about Narancia get closer to darling. It's maybe not important the reason why, but I just thinking, what if the reason is Narancia fall in love with Bruno's darling. How Bruno react if Narancia (or any other members) fall in love with his darling?

~ 🏵️ anon ~

You know, I’m not really a tea person, or hot drinks in general. I do like one or two kinds, but I don’t have it frequently. I can bear the cold with my cold drink. 

Ohhh, that would be……… bad. Bruno’s the possessive type, even if he tries to hide it. “Man With An Open Heart” and “Model Man” by King Crimson are, ironically, very Bruno songs. Here’s the entire Bucciarati team falling for Bruno’s darling, as a treat. You’ve been good. Hopefully this makes sense, I've been a bit busy lately.

Poor Pannacotta. He’d probably never mention it, but there would be signs. It’s incredibly weird to fall in love with your father’s almost-spouse, but it’s worse to actually make a move on them. Pannacotta isn’t going to ruin his chances at having a safe home- if Bruno suddenly hates him, he loses the one place he feels safe, and probably goes back on the streets. He’s not risking it. But it’s obvious, he’s difficult to handle at the best of times, but treats you oh-so-delicately. You broke something? That’s fine, annoying, but fine. You don’t have any glass in your hands, do you? Ok. Leave, he’ll clean this up. Bruno wants Pannacotta to love you, of course, but not in a romantic way. He’s delusional enough to just tell himself that Pannacotta doesn’t view you as part of the family yet, and that’s why this.. problem has made its home in his perfect happy family. Really, Pannacotta never viewed you as family, more like a random stranger forced to live in his father’s house, but Bruno never has to know.

Naranica is in the same position as Pannacotta, but he has a little more wiggle room. I’m not your son, I just live here! (< desperately wants to be a family with Bruno, ignoring the weird implications). Bruno’s still fairly upset, but he’s not as quick to anger with Narancia- Bruno often forgets that Pannacotta is actually his youngest, since he’s spent more time with him. Narancia’s actually the most vocal, he makes extremely inappropriate comments when you’re here, and when you leave. It’s not uncommon for Narancia to drop a “Is that babe you keep hanging out with coming over today?" or a "Damn..." when you bend over. Bruno scolds him the usual way- through smacking him as hard as he can. He'll knock it off eventually, hopefully.

I do not think that Giorno actually likes Bruno, to be honest with you. He views him more as a… coworker, really. “Man who I happen to be betraying the boss with.” Absolutely no emotional attachment. Bruno is the opposite- he views Giorno as somewhat of a friend, never mind the age difference. Bruno is fond of Giorno, Giorno is the only one who has seen Bruno in a real state of vulnerability lately, so he thinks they have something- he thinks wrong. Giorno will play along, he doesn’t mind playing the long game, but he won’t play pretend forever. Bruno feels betrayed when Giorno makes his move- unless, of course, he’s dead. Then he can’t do much thinking at all, can he?

Guido is not about to cuck the man that bailed him out of a multiple decade sentencing, but looking is free. If you can’t handle someone checking out your partner, you’re probably insecure. Checking you out isn’t a crime, plenty of people do it in a non-invasive way. It’s natural for a human being to acknowledge another as attractive. Guido’s fine with settling if you really do love Bruno- or if he thinks you love Bruno- so he won’t compete, but he’s not going to abandon his spot as #2. Bruno’s not the happiest about Guido trying to get into your life- you already have a family, but… he supposes it can be a little bigger. As long as he doesn’t try to touch you too much. (He will.)

Spare Leone the guilt, he can barely find it in himself to speak to Bruno, this can’t be happening. He’ll just shut up and let the feeling pass, or cope about it later. Until he sees the way you smile at him, whether it be genuine or not, and he just melts on the spot. A little crush is fine, as long as he doesn’t… say anything about it… to the man that saved him… Bruno has mixed feelings, on one hand, he really trusted Leone to watch you, and that is now ruined. On the other hand, it’s great that Leone is feeling emotions again and getting out of his slump! It’s just a shame he’s going for someone who is already spoken for.

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

How would the Ganondorfs (Wind Waker, Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Hyrule Warriors, and Tears of the Kingdom) & Demise react: They are waking up to begin their day, and SO is clinging to them in their sleep. The Demon King tries to escape… only for SO to mutter "If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours."

The image of the fearsome Demon Kings—masters of power and dominion—being unable to escape their SO’s affectionate grip is not only humorous but also a heartwarming display of their softer side. Each Ganondorf and Demise would have a unique reaction to being held hostage by their SO’s sleepy, but commanding, presence. Here's how they might react in such an endearing situation:

Wind Waker Ganondorf: The Tragic King

Reaction: Wind Waker Ganondorf, who harbors deep sadness and ambition, would initially be startled by his SO’s demand. He’s used to being the one in control, and for a moment, he contemplates ignoring their sleepy threat. But seeing his SO cling to him with such affection melts the heavy weight on his heart. His rare moments of vulnerability are usually hidden beneath his ambitions, but here, in this quiet space, he finds solace.

Scene: Ganondorf slowly stirs awake, the dawn’s soft light casting faint shadows across the room. As he tries to shift and get out of bed, his SO tightens their grip, murmuring in their sleep, “If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours.”

At first, he blinks in surprise, his lips curling into a small, amused smirk. He’s never been one to take orders from anyone, but this… this is different. He gazes down at them, watching how peaceful they look, still clutching his arm like a lifeline. For a brief moment, the weight of his responsibilities lifts, and he’s reminded of what truly matters to him.

“…Very well,” he mutters, settling back down into the bed. He wraps an arm around them, pulling them close. He can feel the tension in his chest ease as he gives in to the simple pleasure of staying by their side, his eyes closing once more as he allows himself a rare moment of peace.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf: The Ruthless Conqueror

Reaction: Ocarina of Time Ganondorf is a man who controls everything around him with an iron fist, so being told what to do—especially by his SO, even in their sleep—would immediately make him bristle. However, he has a soft spot for his SO, a secret vulnerability that even he cannot deny. Despite the desire to assert his dominance, he finds himself pausing and considering their plea.

Scene: Ganondorf’s crimson eyes open as the first rays of sunlight seep into the room. He moves to rise, ready to begin his day of conquest and planning, but the tight grip of his SO pulls him back. “If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours,” they mumble, half-asleep but surprisingly firm.

He raises an eyebrow, irritation flickering in his chest at the bold command. No one tells him what to do. And yet… he can’t deny the warmth of their body pressed against his, the way their soft breath tickles his skin. For once, the unrelenting conqueror hesitates.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling… generous today,” he mutters under his breath, his deep voice laced with amusement. With a small huff, he lays back down, wrapping a possessive arm around them as if to remind himself—and them—that while he may indulge their request, he’s still the one in control. For now, he’ll let the world wait.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf: The Calculating Tyrant

Reaction: Twilight Princess Ganondorf would be more calculating about the situation. His SO’s demand intrigues him; they rarely try to assert themselves, especially in such a bold way. He feels a mixture of amusement and admiration for their audacity, and while part of him contemplates leaving to assert his authority, he decides to indulge their request, seeing no harm in granting them this small victory.

Scene: Ganondorf slowly opens his eyes, his mind already racing with plans for the day. He begins to rise, only to feel his SO cling to him, their voice low and commanding in their sleep: “If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours.”

A low chuckle escapes him, deep and rumbling. “Oh? You would dare threaten me?” His voice is laced with amusement, but his SO only shifts slightly, still wrapped around him like a protective barrier.

He could pull away. He could remind them of their place. But instead, he settles back down, watching them with a quiet smirk. There’s something endearing about their sleepy demand, and for once, the calculating king decides to put aside his plans for the day.

“Very well,” he murmurs, his voice softening ever so slightly. “You win this time.” He allows his SO to cling to him, their warmth lulling him back into a peaceful rest he hadn’t realized he needed.

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf: The Warlord

Reaction: Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf would be caught between frustration and amusement. As a warlord, he is used to commanding armies, ruling with strength and force. The idea of being told what to do, even by his SO, would stir his pride. However, the affection and playfulness in their demand would eventually win him over. He may grumble, but deep down, he enjoys their attention and the fact that they feel so comfortable with him.

Scene: Ganondorf stirs from his sleep, his mind already preparing for battle plans and conquests. He moves to rise from the bed, only for his SO to tighten their grip, murmuring sleepily, “If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours.”

He frowns, glancing down at them. “You’re bold to make such demands of me.” His voice is rough with both amusement and the beginnings of irritation. For a moment, he contemplates simply pulling away and starting his day, but the sight of his SO curled up against him, so trusting and warm, gives him pause.

With a low growl, he relents, settling back into the bed. “You’re lucky I’m feeling merciful.” He pulls them closer, his strong arms wrapping around them in a protective embrace. “But don’t expect this every day,” he adds, though his tone betrays the fact that he’s not entirely displeased by their request.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf: The Corrupted Demon King

Reaction: Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf, with his dark and corrupted nature, would initially be resistant to the idea of staying in bed when he has plans for domination and destruction. However, the fierce attachment his SO has to him, even in their sleep, would spark a rare flicker of warmth in his otherwise cold heart. He would be intrigued by their boldness and eventually decide to indulge them, though he would make it clear that it’s a special exception.

Scene: Ganondorf’s red eyes snap open, the darkness within him stirring as he prepares to rise and continue his plans for domination. But before he can move, his SO wraps themselves around him, their voice soft but firm: “If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours.”

He freezes, the sheer audacity of their words almost laughable. Who dares to make such demands of him? His first instinct is to shake them off and continue his day, but then he feels the way they cling to him, their warmth soothing the corruption that always simmers beneath his skin.

With a low, rumbling chuckle, he lays back down, pulling them against him. “You’re lucky I find your boldness… amusing,” he murmurs, his voice rough but not unkind. He tightens his grip around them, his dark energy calming as he allows himself a few more hours of peace by their side.

Demise: The God of Destruction

Reaction: Demise, the god of destruction, would initially bristle at being told what to do, even by his beloved SO. He’s a being of power, and no one commands him. However, the affection in their sleepy voice would give him pause. He’s not accustomed to such softness, and the fact that they feel safe enough to make such a demand would strike a chord within him. He would grumble, but ultimately, he would indulge their request, though he’d make it clear that it’s a rare exception.

Scene: Demise opens his fiery eyes, the eternal hunger for destruction already pulling at him. He moves to rise from the bed, but his SO’s arms tighten around him, their voice soft but commanding: “If you leave this bed, I will ensure you regret it. Go back to sleep, my love. Give us a few more hours.”

A low growl rumbles in his chest, his pride flaring at the thought of being ordered around by anyone. “You dare command me?” he rumbles, his voice like thunder. But then he feels the way they cling to him, their small form pressed against his massive body, and something inside him softens—an unfamiliar sensation.

With a huff, he settles back down, his arms wrapping around them protectively. “Only because it pleases me to do so,” he mutters, though the truth is that he’s secretly touched by their need for him. He allows them to stay curled up against him, the destructive fire within him quieting for the moment as he lets them rest in his embrace.

[klutzyroses]

Hey!

I was wondering how would ikepri suitors act with an awkward, quiet but strong and fit mc? Weird combination I know 😂 I was just curious if any of them would have a reaction to someone like that

A most interesting combination indeed anon👀

IkePri HCs: Awkward and Strong!SO

How do they react to an so who is strong and fit but also awkward and reserved?

Suitors: Clavis, Sariel, Keith, Gilbert

Clavis

Oho, the fun he can have with this lovely young lady~

He can already envision all the mischief he can get into with her.

Her reserved nature coupled with her Amazonian strength is quite the intriguing contrast. He must wonder if she trained to be this strong, or if its in her genes.

Either way, he will surely take a quick liking to her, often teasing her to see her pretty cheeks flush as she fidgets and mumbles nearly incoherent responses.

One of his most amusing memories of her is when one of his traps had yet again ensnared Yves, leaving him trapped in a ditch, again, and the lovely lady had singlehandedly (literally with a single hand), lifted the Fifth prince out of the ditch...ironically by the back of his collar, similar to how one would scruff a cat.

The pink clad prince was...of two minds about it, but for Clavis, it made his entire week. He will never forget the sight.

He will make her the center of his doting attention just to see her flustered and flushed as he gives her a sly smile, never once breaking eye contact when he speaks to her.

She is simply a delight to behold, to be around and he just knows they will continue to have buckets of fun together.

Sariel

Well now, what an fascinating contrast...

But then again, he isn't too surprised...Well not as surprised as when he experienced her strength the first time he met her.

Ah yes, he can remember it like yesterday. After choosing her as the next Belle, he had already determined she was quite the shy, awkward woman...until he had come to collect her.

He understood she was startled, maybe a bit frightened by his sudden presence within her workplace, but was it necessary to pick up an entire bookshelf and throw it at him?

Surely not. If he had not moved in time, he would have possibly joined his Majesty the King in eternal slumber.

It was only because she was so apologetic and embarrassed that bringing her to the palace following that disturbing exchange was such an easy feat. All under the guise of "making it up to him", does he get her to take up the mantle of Belle.

Perhaps it isn't all bad, in time, her physical prowess may prove to be useful yet.

So long as no furniture is being launched at him or their highnesses. Maybe except for the hellcat.

Keith

A girl after his own heart, hm?

The prince of Jade knows a thing or two about being quiet and shy whilst also being quite physically capable.

He finds it endearing and sweet coming from her. From him, he feels its uncomfortable and weird. That's just how he sees it.

He will admire her strength though, her ability to do things most women her size usually cannot accomplish at the drop of a hat is absolutely remarkable...and a bit mind boggling at times.

He can't help but think because she is currently blushing and stuttering timidly about preparing tea for his tea party with Yves and Licht, who are gaping at her at the moment because she is carrying the entire food laden table with one hand and seemingly no effort.

He will always try to make her as comfortable as possible but there are limitations...

His awkwardness collides with hers and he says the wrong thing and then she says the wrong thing and then there is an uncomfortable silence where nobody knows what to say.

Someone outside the conversation may have to save them both.

Gilbert

Ah, what an interesting woman he has here~

A cute, shy rabbit with the strength of an ox, hm? You certainly don't see that everyday.

The Obsidian prince will most definitely amuse himself by tormenting her a little bit, just to see her squirm under his crimson gaze as her cheeks start to turn a similar color. It's so fascinating to him that such a strong little lady could also be such a timid flower.

He may, for the sake of his whims, ask her to lift something heavy for him, even if he can lift it himself, of course essentially extorting her with his usual "You wouldn't deny a guest of honor, would you?"

He will find it even more amusing when she blushes and lifts the object one-handedly without even wavering, contrary to her stuttering and awkward disposition. How darling~

Just to see her fall apart more, he will gush about her remarkable strength with a slow, rather gleeful simper on his lips as the young maiden averts her gaze, rubbing her arm while mumbling her thanks for his compliments.

And she isn't so good at responding to praise with confidence, which he is sadistically aware of.

She may have to try to avoid him, but he always loves when his prey runs. It makes the hunt all the sweeter...

🌸

[cor-lapis-candy]

So there is a very very talented artist on Instagram under the name daione.sith (100% look at their stuff! And of you have the money their patreon cause !!!! The NSFW versions!) And they have a demon Diluc drawing and good lord has it given me an idea.

So here I come like some kind of goblin out of my lil cave of Minecraft and grinding to give you this.

This piece doesn't really need a CW or a TW to my knowledge, but if religious themes or anything to do with possessive themes makes you umcomfy maybe don't read this one!

Have you ever seen the Anemo Archons cathedral in the afternoon?

Rays of golden light transformed into halos of gold and blue, green specks filling gaps between pure white streaks, the air filled with specks of dust that drift and paint the cracks between each colour stained display of devotion. Candles of every kind, pillars and tealights, long burning towers of wax that are lit day in and day out, melting and painting old stained wood with pools of faded whites and yellows, all long since forgotten and uncleaned after their purpose had been served.

There is piety in the air and whispered hymns on the lips of every soul that passes through those doors, heads bowed and hands offered in prayer and open devotion, and yet one resounding set of steps is all it takes to taint and defile, the solid click after click of his shoes against polished tile is a simple rhythm that sinks sin into the very stone foundations of the cathedral, a rot of domination seeping into the roots and curling around the heart of the church of freedom.

A demon in only your mind alone, and a saint in all others eyes, the uncrowned king and deep shadow across your devotion looms over you, standing as he always does, clothed in his jacket and hands ringed in simple yet daunting steel rings, lips moving through mockeries of prayer after prayer as the air fills with thick incense.

The censer by your side long since burnt out, a centerpiece to the flowing wreaths and displays of devotion through fruit and wine, the ash that falls and spills from the gaps tells of age and endless nights in the fogs of devotion and prayers that the red haired man that has come to curl around your back would disappear from your side, that 'The Diluc Ragnvindr' would turn those crimson eyes from you and find some other lamb to lead a stray, and yet again you feel the heat of his gloves drag across your arms, his hands pulling you backwards into the broad expanse of his chest.

The scent of incense is overpowered but the smell of oak, wine and something burnt, like the after scent of a fireplace or boiler pit, it smelt like iron and ash.

You know what lies under the heavy finery, that the moment you step out of these hallowed halls and step over the threshold of your home there is no archon or divine grace to save you, red hair will give way to arching horns and draping layers with loosen and fall away to leave the defined lines and markings of his true nature bare.

A sight many women and men would kill for will lay bare and inviting on your bed, legs spread with one hand lazily pumping his length. Fingers dragging the small trail of pre further down and making the ridges and inhuman shape all that more prominent, black trails that swirl across his hips and up around his chest, for something so inhuman he plays the role well, a thick swatch of red hair covers his chest and leads wispily down his stomach.

The deep red of his hair mats itself with sweat and other evidence of your entanglement, something of both his and your own, and yet it's not a matter of when you would give in but how.

Some Days he would catch you before you got into the cathedral, other day, ones much like this one, he would cradle you through your last prayers and escort you home, making you a sight of envy for all those that would catch sight of the two of you, and oh how people would see. The route he would make you take winds the many main streets and side roads, every set of envying eyes would watch as his gloves hands dug into your hips, how he let you push against him and made him chuckle.

The sound mistaken for mirth when really it was nothing but condescension.

Whatever his end goal was, Diluc Ragnvindr was working his way into your heart and head, somedays all it took was a flash of the fiery red of his hair and you would be wound up expecting those heavy hands and ash laiden words to coax you off your beaten path and into the dark of some ally for a quick moment of hushed breaths and shape teeth digging into whatever skin you had exposed or could be exposed.

But here in your home as he lays back, horns ripping through the plush pillow you had bought not a day before, red tipped claws digging into the soft skin of your hips and dragging you further and further down his cock making the finale ridge of something just shy of to big, to wide, too much for you, press against your opening as he huff out a laugh.

Today he would take you wholly, leave you gasping and open mouthed as he sunk that finale but of himself into you, stained you inside and out with himself, marks of theet and hands mean nothing to how he will know that he finally came in you, finally painted your inside with his spend.

How glorious it will be the day he gets you watch you stumble back from that cathedral to his winery, to drape yourself across his lap and grasp at the base of his horns and beg for him, true devotion to him, true adoration and nothing but from you, to him would be the icing on this long overdue cake.

For now though he will enjoy the fucked out and watery eyes stare from you as he pushes you that little bit further down his cock, bottoming out and drawing a deep gasp from your lips.

For now this will do…

[annaberunoyume]

The Hug (Bunsen x Beaker Carrie au)

EXPLANATION BEFORE YOU MAY START READING:

This is a Muppet (namely about Beaker and Bunsen) alternative universe which I imagined long ago on my Deviantart account (sampea.deviantart.com).

Please allow me to explain this alternative universe. It is basically the Carrie White Universe (the one from Stephen King, that is), only with Muppets/Sesame Street characters. In this universe, Beaker is a muppet which has been bullied by others as long as he remembers, not only by Kermit and his gang, but his preacher father as well… After a particularly hard beating in the shower, because of a nosebleed… He discovers a new power hidden to him until now…Telekinesis.

One day, as he is researching some books on it, he comes upon another outcast of his school: a green muppet man with glasses that is passioned by the occult and science. Seeing Beaker’s similar interest in it, he gladly invites him to try some experiments. And thus, Beaker’s secret is revealed for the first time to someone else. Far from being afraid, Bunsen happily continues on his experiments, studying Beaker as a fascinating specimen (while keeping it totally secret). And…Over their secret meetings after school…A new feeling develops inside Beaker…Love…for a man…What would his father do to him if he found out? Certainly, something worse than the dreadful closet…And yet, for the first time in his life, Beaker is not that terrified of his father’s wrath…For Bunsen is the first one in a long, long time to show genuine kindness… And dare he say, he wished he could go to prom with him…

***********************

It all happened so fast...One moment they were there on the podium...Then...a warm and gooey substance splashed both of them...When Bunsen turned to his side...Beaker was there...All covered in...Wait, iron-like smell...Oh,no...BLOOD. He gawked for a moment and turned towards the stunned attendants...Then, it got out...

''YOU MANIACS!''

Then, a metal sound... CLUNK! Something on his head...Then, he passed out...

''Bunsen!''...

When he came to, Beaker was gone...and the gymnasium was aflame...The smaller, pudgier teen quickly got to his feet, despite his headache, seeing a door struggling against panicked students. He quickly calculated (or rather theorised) what had happened and pushed against it, until he could see his love on the other side as Bunsen squeeze through the door.

''Beaker!''

The latter whipped his head back...glowing white and red in the eyes...Bunsen gasped...But he resolved himself:

''Beaker! Wait!''

Suddenly, the door slammed-opened, apace and the struggling teens burst out of the confines of the boiling gymnasium. Bunsen was almost trampled, but he was determined to find the taller, red-haired boy that was his date...

That one was now almost solemnly walking towards the distance...his tuxedo all stained of crimson...

But if Bunsen was freed by him, then surely, he could stop him...

(TIMESKIP)

By the time Bunsen reached the church, the streets were swimming in high voltage...Beaker would not let any part of the town go unpunished...In all that time he had experimented with him back at the school lab...He would have never guessed just how strong Beaker's powers could be...He figured Beaker would be here...And the cracked door was hypothesis enough...

Beaker was here...praying...like a man about to get married...at the altar...Bunsen stood there...Unsure and concerned and afraid...He slowly inched towards the center of the two rows of wooden seats...

''...Beaker?...''

The latter slowly got up on one knee...then fully standing... knuckles white and bleeding...Though most likely not from the downpour of earlier...And then, through gritted teeth..and a sigh...

''...Bunsen...''

The spectacled one recoiled a little. And the small objects and lanterns began to shake...''Cautiously..Cautiously...'', said a mantra in Bunsen's head...

''I...I am sorry...I never knew this would happen...This wasn't supposed to...I wanted to offer you a most...positive experience...This wasn't supposed to happen.''

''You...did this...Didn't you?...'' Beaker hissed, panting...And the lanterns shook and the seats creaked...

''No!'', Bunsen whispered... ''I did not! How can you possibly say-AAH!''

The lanterns flew like a shell past his ears, crashing near the big doors at the front and the seats exploded into shards.

''ADMIT IT!'', snarled the telekinetic redhead.

Bunsen ducked and whimpered, but he still resolved to move forward...Even as he felt himself levitating...But he was not thrown backwards...Enough of a good sign.

''Beaker! Listen to me! I did not know that this prank would happen! I swear! Search your mind! Search my mind! It was never in my hypothesis to hurt you! Please! It must have been Kermit! Beaker-''

WHOOSH! He was suddenly flung over to Beaker. Bunsen instinctively held him...

Beaker was panting...The shards dropped. He then...Found his arms around the meatier teenager...

But a piercing glaze of his slented pupil made Bunsen gasp in primal intrusion of his mind...He felt it being scanned and scrubbed-clean with a cotton bud...Inspected and probbed beyond his ability to bear it...But then, it was swifly done...

Beaker's eyes widened...Then his irises return to their normal browns...Bunsen was not lying...He...wanted him...All of him...Loved him.

Beaker short-circuited in the throat...He almost coughed...And let the tears flows and hid into the crook of Bunsen's shoulders...He whimpered like a wounded animal...A pup even...

Bunsen just held him in the same manner...pushing the thought of a fire away from his thoughts...

His love was hurt...And needed him.

THE END

SECOND PART TO THIS FANFICTION: