itbelihdat

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; fushiguro megumi & reader (mentions of fushiguro toji)

— summary; headcanons of reader as megumi’s mother

— manga spoilers

❋ Your pains start in the middle of the night. Toji keeps a tight hold on your hand as the contractions seize your body, and as your back arches off the mattress. He isn't the most encouraging person, but for you he tries, gentling his voice and holding your vision steady and strong and willing you through it. 

❋ Megumi's birth is the happiest you've ever seen your husband. He's hesitant to hold Megumi at first, but after some encouragement on your part, he cuddles the bundle to his chest tentatively, and a slow, sweet smile breaks across his face. 

❋ Even as a newborn, it's glaringly obvious how much your son resembles his father, especially when your baby is nestled in the crook of his father's arm. Megumi's has a headful of soft, dark hair; his eyes are shaped exactly like Toji's. His lips are full, and turned up in a pout. 

❋ Megumi is a very quiet baby. Even his birth had been quiet – he slid out into the hands of the midwife with the smallest hiccup and the tiniest snuffle. The only time he cries is when he's scared or hungry, but he calms down quickly when he's rocked and soothed in the arms of the people he loves.

❋ Megumi's default expression is a pout, but he brightens whenever you hold him. You're the one he always raises his arms to first, giving you a wet, gummy grin. He hangs on your every word, your every coo with glittering eyes, and even though he can't express his love for you verbally yet, it's obvious how much he adores you.

❋ Megumi is almost eerily attuned to your moods. He's good at picking up on the smallest changes in intonation in your voice, and the expressions on his face shift to match yours. It's especially amusing to see his pudgy face scrunch up in anger when your anger is directed at someone else; on the rare occasions that your anger is directed at him, his eyes glisten wetly and his chin warbles.

❋ He handles being cooed over by strangers in a soldierly manner, but has a zero tolerance by being touched or held by strangers. He can and will wiggle away from probing fingers, and his face takes on a red, indignant tinge when he's decided he's had enough of being subjected to such indignities.

❋ Megumi has the fattest and chubbiest cheeks.

❋ You mostly raise Megumi alone, since Toji is out working. On the nights that Toji's at home, he holds Megumi as much as he can. Before he has to leave, he'll stand at the doorway to Megumi's bedroom, with the blue of the night-light picking out his outline in the shadows.

❋ Megumi's not a fussy baby by any means, but on the nights where he's unable to settle down, you've learned to prepare the first-aid kit, sitting up at the dining table as you wait for Toji. Sure enough, your husband soon stumbles through the door, bloodied and bruised. Megumi stops fussing when he sees his father, and it's in the dark and the quiet that you tend to Toji's injuries, with your baby strapped to your chest.  

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; gojo satoru & reader

— summary; a short drabble of gojo as a newborn

— author’s note; im in love with the idea of the reader being gojo’s mom.

Crying.

Your son is crying.

Screaming, howling at the top of his tiny lungs. Anyone hearing it would assume that he's being murdered. Every cry wrenches at your insides, calls on all your instincts to protect and soothe.

You can't blame him. After a tedious afternoon of being passed around like a package, of being held by a never-ending stream of elders and other wives, you suppose that the ceremony has worn thin on Satoru's nerves. He's only a few days old, and already, your child has been burdened with the heavy mantle of responsibility upon his shoulders.

"Give Satoru to me." You say, roughly. The I'm his mother, goes unsaid. As if to punctuate your point, Satoru screams until he chokes, his little face turning an alarming shade of red. He's developed a habit of spitting up on people, and you've lost count of the number of robes he's single-handedly stained. "Now."

Satoru is handed back to you without further protest. Already, his chubby arms are outstretched, reaching for you with no small amount of impatience.

"Oh, sweet baby, sweet little Satoru," You croon. He settles into his usual position on your shoulder, his head a warm weight against your neck. Satoru smells like baby shampoo and diaper cream. He smells like innocence. His small body conforms to yours exactly, as you rock him in the languid motion he likes best.

Wrapped up in your little world of two with your son, you don't look up once.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; gojo satoru & reader

— summary; a short drabble of gojo as a newborn 

— author’s note; happy birthday to gojo, who singlehandedly saved this year

At seven in the morning, Satoru is born. The midwife washes and wraps him like a miniature mummy, and places you in your arms while the doctor takes care of you and stitches the places the baby has torn. There's no pain now, just a gentle tugging sensation that is easy to ignore, drunk as you are on a sudden love for your child.

You've never had much to do with babies before, and you've never held a newborn. And yet, your son fits so easily in your arms, like they've been shaped just for him. Satoru's face is bright pink and crumpled-looking, his eyes grayish-blue and perfectly round. Hair covers his head like the pale feathers of a wet chick. He cries, loudly, wetly, the strongest sound you've ever heard.

"Oh." You sigh, cuddling the little bundle to your chest. Satoru cries all the louder, and it's the most wonderful, the most terrible sound in the world. "Oh, Satoru. Don't cry."

You sift a hand through the soft down of his hair, and try a rendition of the only lullaby you can remember, a soft, shaky version of "All Is Found", which you'd happened to hear the previous day as you had lain in bed flipping through the channels. By the time you've reached the last "and all is found" Satoru's cries have filtered away into nothing, and his blue-eyed gaze is staring at you in myopic wonder.

Tomorrow, your son will be taken from you, and presented to his father and the elders of the clan.

You don't want to let him go. A thrill of possessiveness goes through you. You've sweated for this baby, bled for him; he's part of your body, knotted to your soul. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, you murmur, "I love you. I am your mother, and I love you."

You hold him for a very long time.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; gojo satoru & reader

— summary; a short drabble of the reader as gojo’s mother

You're alone. You sit propped up on pillows in your bed, the blankets pooled around your waist, with a playlist on shuffle, blaring out songs you aren't really listening to – but at least the noise masks the loud silence and the whooshing sound of the breast pump.

It's too quiet.

Your eyes land on the crib by your bed. Even now, it still waits for Satoru. Just the sight of it fills you with grief – it doesn't belong to anyone anymore. You've lost him in one fell swoop, in one last push, in one birthing.

You sit in bed and work the breast pump. Your hand aches, but so far nothing's come out. The pump, made of plastic and rubber, is designed to emulate the sucking motion of an infant.

It's not the same.

A great black wave of despair threatens to swamp you and pull you under. One cry, one snuffle from Satoru and your breasts would be leaking. The front of your dress would darken in wet patches of milk. The tiniest movement or sound is enough to prompt your body to hold him close, skin to skin, and nourish him.

Your eyelids are sheets of fire against your eyes. Your heart feels sick. Heavy. You think of Satoru's small sounds. You think of his small head, with his downy white hair, nestled in the crook of your arm. The unfurled mouth, the squashed red cheeks, the toothless gums. The scent of his skin, with that sweet baby smell. Your hands ache from pumping, your arms ache from not holding him.

Your baby.

Gone.

Ripped from your arms.

The milk isn't coming. On your lips, you taste salt. The bottle is sealed, safe and sterile, but still, you turn your head aside so that when the milk comes, it won't be touched by your tears.

In the early hours of the morning, you're awakened by a scream loud enough to wake the dead, and the softer turn of the doorknob. You would recognize a sound from your son's lips in a crowd of thousands; now, your heart constricts painfully in your chest. You know his movements, know the soft sounds he makes, feels him in the deep instinctive part of you that makes milk, that has no words, where there is love.

Is this some kind of trick?

Why have they taken your son away, only to bring him back again?

It's the cruelest kind of torture.

Belatedly, you realise that the mussed, untidy hair of the shadowy figure belongs to your husband.

You stare at him with wide, wet eyes, your gaze flitting from his face to your baby, cradled tenderly in his arms. If it's even possible, Satoru's screams increase in volume. He's revving up, shrieking in objection to the indignity of being kept apart from his mother. His little hands grasp into fists again and again as he struggles and reaches out for you. The sound of his cry pierces right through you, spearing you to the bed. Your eyes burn and prick.

In response, your husband moves close to the bed, depositing Satoru in your arms. Your body remembers what your heart yearns to forget, and fits him against your chest. This soothes the crying. Satoru sniffles, loudly, wetly, and turns his face into you. His upper lip is caked with snot and his cheeks are streaked with saltwater tracks. You use your nightgown to dab at his sopping wet face, unconcerned of the dampness saturating the fabric, clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

Your husband watches you. "The elders thought it would be best if Satoru remained in your care."

"What?" Your breath rattles in your chest. You can feel the tears brimming in your eyes. You have to swallow past the lump in your throat before you can speak again. "What?"

"You want the list of his offences?" You think your husband's lips quirk up in the barest hint of a smile.

Hope is filling you then, and it's a terrible, delicious feeling. You want to laugh. You want to cry. Whichever comes first, the other is sure to follow. "There – There's a list?"

"He spat up on one elder, vomited on another, tried to bite everyone, cried the whole day and refused to eat."

Satoru nudges at you, making snuffling, rooting sounds. You murmur soothing things, nonsense things, prayers and reassurances as you unbutton your nightgown and nurse him. He latches on quickly, easily, while his little fingers pat yours.

"You little monster." You say to Satoru, smiling wetly at him with so much gloating affection that the criticism is entirely weightless. "What am I going to do with you, huh?"

Nestled safely in your arms once again, Satoru's crystalline gaze flickers to yours.

You swear he smiles.

[3rdgymbros]

FEMALE LUCIFER OBEY ME

female lucifer x female reader

NSFW headcanons

inspired by both @azulsartdump​ ( especially this art ) and also inspired by @boxbusiness​ genderbender au and female lucifer for obey me !!

♡ she likes the whole dominant and submissive idea, and she’s firmly in the ‘dominant’ camp. she is always a top, and she always gets what she wants.

♡ even if you try to be dominant with luci, chances are that the odds won’t be ever in your favour. if you start coming onto her physically, you can be sure that she’ll turn the tables and have you pinned beneath her instead. the fact that she’s so much stronger than a human definitely helps, so there’s no way you can forcibly hold her down.

♡ she can be a soft dom if you so prefer, depending on what you’re into. expect to be showered with praise, while she guides you on how to please her. luci will pet your hair, gently cooing at you to be good and promising all the things she’ll reward you with. 

♡ conversely, if you’re into her being a hard dom, expect to be tied up and gagged, your legs spread and you completely at her mercy. expect orgasm denial and spanking. she will demand you call her mistress, and she’s not above using you solely for her own pleasure. she’ll make you eat her out and she’ll refuse to return the favour until you beg.

♡ luci may or may not have a mommy kink – not that she’ll ever admit it.

♡ if she fingers you, she’ll let you taste your own arousal on her fingers after you cum.

♡ if you come to her while she’s doing work, and if she’s feeling particularly cruel, she’ll make you get off on her fingers or on her thighs while she works, all the while refusing to pay you any attention. and, if she’s feeling particularly stressed, prefer to get bent over the desk and fucked until your limbs are jelly, and until stars dot your vision.

♡ luci enjoys wearing dark shades of lipstick, particularly those in shades of red, and staining your body with lipmarks. it gives her a thrill to see the smudges of her lipstick marking your body, almost as if she’s staked her claim upon you.

♡ luci can be a bit of a tease. she’ll sometimes indulge you by wearing lingerie underneath her neatly pressed blouses and uniforms. expect her to brush casually up against you in the hallway, lifting her skirt ever so slightly to let you see the black silk stockings hooked to a black lace garter belt. she’ll let you have a tantalizing peek, but she won’t let you touch her . . . not in school, at least.

♡ expect to see expensive sets of lingerie laid out your bed. they’re all perfectly tailored to your size and they fit you perfectly. sheer black mesh, magenta satin cut so racily that it’s only a few scraps of fabric . . . bra and panty sets all in her favourite colours. expect to be throughly rewarded if you wear them for her to see.

♡ you can try to eat her out under her desk while she’s having a meeting. annoyingly, she’s able to keep her composure, even as she’s ever so subtly churns her hips into your eagerly-waiting mouth. but prepare for her to return the favour once the door clicks shut.

[3rdgymbros]

BEELZEBUB OBEY ME

vampire beelzebub x reader

sfw headcanons, implied smut

♡ as the avatar of gluttony, when beel gets hungry, he really gets hungry. he’s aware that humans are fragile though, so he’s careful not to take too much blood from you, as good and as tantalizing as you smell, and as hard as it is to pull away from your skin after only two or three deep gulps.

♡ beel’s go to position for biting you is to wrap his arms around your middle before pulling you onto his lap, burying his mouth into the junction of your neck and shoulder.in a low, husky voice, he’s always careful to ask you for your permission before sinking his fangs into your neck. even when his eyes are clouded over with want and hunger, he’s still gentle so that he won’t inadvertently frighten you, and you love him even more for that, for putting his needs before yours every single time.

♡ he’ll brush the hair from your neck, before lowering his head down. he’ll press kisses to the skin there, sending shivers scurrying down your spine, until you’re squirming and gasping for more on his lap. only then will he slide his fangs into your flesh, mumbling quiet apologies when you cry out at the sensation of pain. his fangs drive deep into your flesh, but the brief sensation of pain is quickly overtaken by pleasure, by the warmth as you feel fresh blood flow as beel laps hungrily at your blood, made all the more potent by your arousal.

♡ his eyes are glowing red when he pulls away, his lips slick with saliva and your blood, but then he runs a tongue over his fangs and lips, erasing all traces of evidence. 

♡ beel’s always attentive to your needs after he’s taken blood from you. before you can so much as blink, he’s already gone, heading towards the kitchen to find you a sweet drink and a snack to replenish your energy, anything to stop you from looking so pale and wan. if you want to cuddle, he won’t complain either, he’ll hold you in his arms until you drift off to sleep.

♡ another go to position for drinking from you is in from in between your thighs. it’s easy for beel to take blood from the soft skin there, and it usually leads to him eating you out after, your own blood and the taste of your arousal mingling on his lips pleasantly.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; fuegoleon vermillion x reader

— summary; in which fuegoleon wakes up, and saves you

You’re jerked awake in the middle of the night by the door being forced open and a cacophony of heavy boots thundering towards you. Legs tangled up in the blankets, you tumble off the spindly sofa in a panic; the hard landing shocks the dregs of sleep from your mind.

Your voice trembles as you push yourself to your feet. “What’s going on?”

“The sky is red. The capital is burning,” The newest recruit to the Crimson Lions, a small, delicately boned youth with dark burning eyes, draws your attention to your windows.

You’d thrown the shutters back the night before, pushing aside the blackout cloth, and now, in horror, you gaze out into the deep pink sky. Above the black silhouettes of trees, the sky is alight with fiery reflection. The night seems to come alive with pain and suffering.

And yet, you know there’s more. There’s always more. A bad feeling hovers over your gut, icy fingers of dread tightening your bowels. “What else?”

“Vice Captain Randall’s gone berserk and he’s started attacking!” Another member of the squad blurts out. You don’t know his name, though you should by now. “It’s not just him, some others – They all have these strange markings – Leopold went to hold them off, but –”

“Alone?” You cry out in alarm. Worry frays the edges of your voice.

“Some others went with him, but –”

“Stay here. Protect Fuegoleon.” You motion to the man slumbering in bed – your hands and feet already up and moving in a flurry of desperation, grabbing your grimoire off the desk – you’re so absorbed that you don’t notice a hitch in Fuegoleon’s breathing, the twitching of his toes under the thin white sheets.

“Miss ( Last Name ), what are you –”

“I’m going to help Leo. Stay here.”

One of them protests feebly. “But Captain Fuegoleon would never forgive us if you were injured –”

“Stay here.” A delicately sharpened edge comes into your voice. You’re baring your fangs again, showing some hint of a backbone. Mereleona would be proud. “That’s an order.”

It’s with eyes full of pain and apology that you gaze down at Fuegoleon, squeezing his hand for what might be the last time, wishing you were brave enough to kiss him, but again hating yourself for being unable to, and the thoughts echo in your head as you rush from the room in your thin nightgown, forgetting, in your haste, to slip on a pair of shoes. You stumble barefoot on the cold stone floor, not slowing down even when the scrapes and scratches of the stones beneath your feet draw blood.

You burst onto the courtyard in a whirl of white skirts and red silk; almost immediately, you see Leo. His face is a mass of small cuts, and there’s a bloody tear in his trousers, but relief floods through you – he’s alive.

You don’t know how you would have answered to Fuegoleon and Mereleona otherwise.

“Song Magic – Musical Shield!”

Upon your shrieked out command, your magic wraps itself around Leo in a protective cocoon; Randall’s next attack bounces harmlessly off your shield. Randall’s eyes narrow, the flurry of attacks only increasing with intensity. You use the chance to slip close to Leo, grabbing at his arm in worry.

“Leo!”

Relief blooms over his face. “( Your Name )? You shouldn’t –”

“Leo, listen to me. We don’t have much time.” You cut him off mid-sentence. Your eyes burn with renewed intensity as you lean forwards, loosening your grip on his arm and holding onto his hands instead. “I’m going to find the rest of the squad – the ones like Randall, and I’m going to stop them before they can do more damage. We have to keep them here, before they escape and hurt civilians. But I need you to take care of Randall. Can you do that for me?”

“I –”

A crack near you forces your head up to investigate; your eyes widen, your face blanching as you realize that your shield won’t hold out for much longer. Your ears pop, but all you can hear is a train’s approach. A huge, angry train whistling to you right on a collision course.

You have to raise your voice to be heard over the wind. “Leo. Can you take him? Yes or no.”

Leo swallows. You think he might falter, but then he seems to remember the red cloak around both his shoulders, and you can read the stubborn pride spreading over his face. “Yes.”

“Good.” Ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you give Leo’s hand a final squeeze, almost mirroring the way you’d tenderly held onto his brother’s hand just moments before. “Are you ready?”

“Leave it to me.”

And just as your shield shatters into pieces, Leo sends up a spiral column of flames, and you dart away. Behind you, you hear Randall’s voice shrieking high alarm, screaming out unfamiliar names and demands to stop you before you can escape.

Good, you think grimly to yourself, leaving a trail of bloodied footprints in your wake. Come after me.

The pounding of you heart thunders through your body, but you’re not sure if it’s caused by excitement or panic or dread or some combination of the three. Despite the chill in the air, your skin feels cold and clammy. The smell of ash and burning flesh hangs heavily in the air; Leo’s flames give the scene a weak illumination, and it’s in the glow of these flames that you see how they’ve herded you into a corner, prey herded into a trap.

But when you turn around, on your next breath, you are strong and sure and ready to rise. You wrap yourself around the same silent mantra, the words repeating and reverberating through you. I will not die. I will not die. I have to go back and help Leo. I have to go back to Fuegoleon. I will not die. I will not die.

“Song Magic – Mother’s Lullaby!”

Your grimoire flutters open in a burst of light, the rustling of the white pages filling you with comfort. Thrusting out your hands, you start to sing. Your voice clings to them like a silk shawl, light and cool. You barely have to sing the first bar of the lullaby before they collapse to the ground like dominoes, one after another.

Is that all of them? How many members of the squad are like Randall? Your mind races, trying to find solutions and answers to the problem which you have no idea how to solve.

You hear the splash of cool water before you feel it, but when it envelopes you, it turns your skin to ice, pouring into your still screaming mouth. In a throb of panic, you find yourself reaching for your grimoire, but you only end up gulping down even more water when you open your mouth to cast a spell. It’s a simple but effective way of incapacitating you, and you might even be impressed if the situation wasn’t so dire. Your lungs begin to burn and scream for air, black spots dancing before your eyes.

White-hot pain lances through you, sharp spikes of ice shooting up and piercing through skin. Blood stains the clear water with burgundy poison. Your voice refuses to work as pain, all-consuming pain shoots through your brain, stopping your heart, freezing your blood, killing your mind.

Your mind becomes fuzzy as something orange flashes in the corner of your eye. The freezing temperature of the water changes to a balmy warmth, and despite yourself, you relax, the tension leeching out of your frame. I’m sorry Leo, but it looks like I’m going to be with your brother now. You vaguely realise that the light is moving and that its blurred outline resembles a body before the bubble of water surrounding you vanishes in a cloud of steam.

Your body crumples, but just as you expect to hit the ground with a sickening thud, you’re cradled gently in a pair of warm arms, one made of flesh, and another made of flames. The heat is gentle against the ruined cotton of your chemise, but you wince when fabric brushes over the tender wounds and sticks to the blood painting your body red.

“( Your Name ).”

The affection in that familiar voice is enough for your breath to catch in your throat, your heart faltering in your chest. You’re imagining things. It can’t be him. It isn’t the first time that the pain has gone to your head. But even as you think it, you know that it isn’t in your head, that it’s the same voice you’ve begged God to give you another chance to hear.

Your eyelids feel stitched together, but you force them open, catching a glimpse of red silk, of a shirt in midnight blue. Auburn hair pulled back from a tanned sharp-edged face, eyes the colour of violets.

Those same violet eyes, alight in worry, running up and down the torn flesh of your form, but then hastily averting when he realizes you’re almost naked. He sheds his cloak and wraps you up in it, shielding you from the freezing air. The darkness glows orange, and you feel warmth engulf you, the clatter of footsteps below your back.

“( Your Name ), you’ve gotten strong, haven’t you?”

“If – If you wake up,” You say, gathering your resolve, and reaching out to hold onto his hand, “I’ll practice my magic. I’ll – I’ll work hard. I’ll become strong. And I won’t cry anymore. Please.”

The words wrench a sob from you that you can’t control. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and break down, his words cutting to the very center of you.

“Fuegoleon. You came back.”

“I won’t leave you again,” He promises, but all you do is cry harder, enveloped in his warmth.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; fuegoleon vermillion x reader

— summary; in which the reader once again visits fuegoleon after the loss of his arm.

It’s been a bad shift for you.

A number of healers have succumbed to the current wave of flu sweeping the town, leaving the hospital short staffed, and you’ve been shunted from one ward to another. For a while, you’ve been in the First Class ward to which only nobles are admitted; the most difficult thing there is dealing with the lewd comments of a sick nobleman twice your age.

You slog through two shifts back-to-back without rest, fighting the urge to lock yourself in a broom closet and refusing to come out. The next morning, as the first weak light of day grows in the open door of the Admissions Room, you’re barely able to keep on your feet.

After changing out of your white robes and into a more serviceable dress of aquamarine silk, you make your way back to the headquarters of the Crimson Lions, stifling a yawn as you climb the stairs to Fuegoleon’s room. Over the weeks, you’ve developed a comfortable routine – you’ll visit him before and after your shifts in the infirmary, chattering away as your words fill the empty silence. Sometimes Leo will drop in, sometimes Mereleona; but for the most part, you’re left alone with Fuegoleon.  

Today, the headquarters seem unusually quiet. There’s almost a desolate, abandoned feel to the building that makes your skin crawl. Life is lived elsewhere; even the nurses in charge of his care look anxious to take off for the weekend.

You’re thrown back to the earlier days of Fuegoleon and his coma; everyone in the Vermilion estate had been plunged into foreboding and distress, sunk for weeks into a state of lowered voices and black reverie.

Fearing that their only daughter would be tethered to an invalid, your parents had been most insistent that the engagement with the Vermilion family be broken off, but you’d surprised everyone present, including yourself, by coldly stating, “If this arrangement is to be annulled, I want to hear it from Fuegoleon when he wakes up. Nobody else.”

The unexpected gesture had shocked your parents into silence – the newest lion to the pride had bared her teeth at last.

Mereleona had gazed at you with a dawning in her eyes. You think that she’d harbored her doubts about whether you would be able to fit into their pride, why Fuegoleon had let this engagement go on for as long as it did, but this show of backbone had impressed Mereleona, who now looks at you with new eyes. Leopold had loudly proclaimed that he was proud to have you as a sister, to which you’d gently reminded him that nothing was set in stone as of yet; for all you knew, Fuegoleon might awaken from his coma and announce the engagement to be over, to which you’d acquiesce to his wishes, even though your heart would surely shatter if such a thing were to happen.

You greet your fiancée, who slumbers on at the sound of your voice. Tiredly, you check his breathing, dampen his lips lightly, and wash his face with a warm cloth.

You draw up a chair by his bedside, your eyes landing on a forgotten bouquet placed on a nearby table. The flowers are wilted and tired, a brown, crispy tinge at the edge of its leaves. Several petals have dropped, now dry and crinkled. The flower isn’t dead yet, but it’s not far off. You lean forward and press your hands to the blooms, moving your face near enough so that your lips brush against the edge of its leaves, and then you hum, a mindless tune of a lullaby you remember your nanny singing once. Your three-leafed clover grimoire floats in the air beside you, shining an iridescent shade of pink.

You think you’ve gotten stronger; you haven’t forgotten your earlier promise to Fuegoleon, made in the throes of grief as you’d sobbed your heart out beside him. You’d promised to become stronger, and that you wouldn’t cry anymore. You’ve tried, struggling to figure out your magic on your own, adding more spells to your grimoire as you train. It doesn’t seem quite so small anymore, and you can look upon the pages with pride shining through in your smile.

An icy feeling shoots down your spine and, in response, life bursts through the bouquet, filling the room with the intoxicating fragrance of spring. Flowers springs upward and a verdant green floods the leaves and stalk and new petals bloom, colorless at first, then turning a brilliant shade of crimson.

Releasing a huffed-out breath of exhaustion, you finally allow yourself to wilt onto the hard-backed chair. You take hold of Fuegoleon’s hand, still somehow burning with heat, relaxing your core as you hold it tightly, as though he’s all you have left.

“( Your Name )? ( Your Name )?” Your name comes from a distance.

You open your eyes to find yourself leaning with your head against the mattress. Fuegoleon’s hand is still clutched tightly in yours. His covers are askew.

“What happened?” You ask Leo.

“I think you fainted.” He peers into your eyes. “Are you okay?” His concern is palpable.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You came about an hour ago, and you wouldn’t wake up when I came in. Asta and Noelle are here, but I told them to wait outside –”

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting.” You stand, your legs buckling as a wave of dizziness floods you; Leo darts over, surprisingly fast, and catches you in the nick of time. You shake back burning, twirling fatigue. You have to get to sleep earlier.

Leo guides you and your quivering knees over to the edge of the bed, before moving to the door and ushering in Asta and Noelle. He’s shaping up to be quite the leader, especially since he’s been placed in charge of the squad while Mereleona’s away – under the vice-captain’s careful eye, of course.

Your lips curve up into a wan smile as the two of them enter, dressed in new robes of maroon, edged with blue. It’s odd not seeing them in their black and gold robes, but you think that this new look suits them just as well. Knowing that the Eye of the Midnight sun will soon be destroyed should fill you with relief, but a bad feeling tickles your neck and puts you more on edge. You can’t help but think of all the possible ways that things could go wrong, even though they’re led by the more-than capable Mereleona.

Knowing Fuegoleon, he’d tell you to have faith in all of them, and you try to hold onto that thought as you heave an exhale and return to the present.

“It’s good of you to come visit, even though we’re rivals!” Leo declares with a flourish, hovering by your chair, not touching you, but close enough that you feel his presence. “I heard from my sister that the two of you were scrappy enough to pass the Royal Knights Exam!”

“Congratulations,” You add, your smile blooming as you turn your attention to Asta and Noelle, their cheeks pinking at the full force of your smile. You still find yourself clutching to Fuegoleon’s hand for support, his touch grounding you and giving you strength, even as all you want to do is to drift off to sleep and the oblivion that it brings. Your tired mind can’t keep up with the rest of you, and before your mind can register what your mouth is saying, the words have already tumbled out, and it’s far too late to take them back. “Fuegoleon, look, the children came to visit!”

There’s silence for a blessed second, as your brain registers what your mouth has said, and just as a wave of embarrassment washes over you, all hell breaks loose.

“C-Children?” Noelle splutters, her cheeks tinted bright pink. “We-We’re not –”

“We’re not your children!” Asta screeches at top volume, competing with and somehow managing to overpower Leo’s deranged cackles.

Leo completely revels in your misery, laughing harder as he sees how flustered you look, and how you’re stewing in your own embarrassment. You suppose it’s a nice change from how down he was at not being able to pass the Royal Knights Selection Exam, but now, as his laughter rings loud in your ears, you briefly consider fratricide.

In the face of having just admitted that you see Asta and Noelle as your children – and after admitting that you wouldn’t mind having Fuegoleon’s children – all you want is to bury your head in your hands, put your fingers in your ears and sing at the top of your lungs.

“I’m sorry!” You blurt out, your heart racing. Your fingers leave deep crescents in the soft flesh of Fuegoleon’s own palms. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know why I said that!”

“He’s smiling,” Leo says, suddenly, amazed, and the four of you fall silent.

All of you peer at his face.

It’s true.

His normally placid face wrinkles up in the ghost of a smile, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. Stubbornly, you refuse to let them fall, continuing to hold onto his hand as Leo talks to Noelle and Asta, your previous slip of the tongue forgotten. Your sadness mingles with the happiness you feel, and it still seems to take tangible form in the space around you.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; baal ( oc ) x reader

— warning; implied stockholm syndrome

— credit; baal belongs to @obsessionsnon​

You wake to darkness and the smell of smoke mingling with the cool night air. At first, your hazy mind thinks you to be still locked in the throes of a nightmare, recalling your homeland burning, your palace, and your family along with it, but then your mind and body both register the tell-tale jangle of Baal’s earrings, and despite yourself, you find your body relaxing, going boneless into your nest of beddings and cushions once more. The peachy silk coverlet around you flutters in the breeze, but quickly stills when the flaps of the tent are pulled tight shut once more.

“Umph,” You offer in terms of greeting, pale and tousle-haired, looking at Baal foggily as he lights a candle, his movements practiced and polished with grace. You aren’t quite capable of coherent speech, not since you’ve just been woken up rudely in the middle of the night, and since you have yet to be plied with a generous amount of caffeine. “Hhmmph.”

“Little empress,” Baal says, and you can hear the smile in his voice as he dips his hands into the basin of water, washing them free of blood. He’s quick to strip off his armor and to change into sleep clothes, and is even quicker to join you in your warm little cocoon. “So you stayed.”

The nickname, though laced with affection, only serves to remind you of the title given to you in your coming-of-age ceremony, and then cruelly taken away when he had conquered your country. You had been a queen once, regal and strong, but now, you are reduced to a living joke.

The nickname barely stings anymore.

You supposed you’ve grown resigned in your glided cage of gold.

The iron manacles twirl loose around your wrists, the vivid red of the collar cinched much tighter around your neck as Baal tugs you onto his lap.

At first, you’d struggled against the cruel embrace of iron and leather, pulling away from it, but the manacles bit fast into your wrists, and their owner held on that much tighter onto your body.

That morning, as he’d played at war, with the whole camp awash in activity, you could have easily stolen a horse and made your escape. No one would have missed you. And yet, something had kept you tethered to his tent, more chains weighing your already fragile body down.

You tell him none of that.

Instead, you keep your voice light, your voice roughened by sleep as you push words into empty air. “’Course I stayed. I don’t know how to ride.”

“Would you like to learn?” His voice is laced with all kinds of dark suggestions as he bends, nips playfully at your throat. “I would be more than willing to teach you.”

As tired and as worn out as you are, you have a vague inkling of what his lessons will entail. Wandering hands, accidental touches, all with the aim to rile you up until you’re a blushing, quivering mess. You find that the thought doesn’t disgust you anymore; rather, you think your body warms with want, and you find yourself shivering. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

And now, in the face of his warmth against the chill of the night, you allow yourself to sigh wearily, tucking your face into the crook of his neck and accepting his affections as he anchors your body to his. In the flickering warmth of the candlelight, his features are softer, innocent.

You could almost forget that he’s a cold-blooded conqueror keeping you here against your will.

Almost.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; kyu ( vampire oc ) x reader

— warning; non-con, implied brainwashing, biting, implied kidnapping.

— credit; kyu belongs to @degenerate-yandere​

When you wake up that morning, the first thing that comes to mind is that the bright white shutters look familiar. 

Why do they look familiar? 

No. That isn't right. That isn't the right question to ask. You’re getting ahead of yourself again. It happens. But now you have to concentrate. Every day you have to ask yourself three very important questions, and that isn't one of them.

The first question you ask yourself is, what is my name?  

You can't remember.It’s almost like trying to decipher a scribble on a sheet of paper. You know what the words on the paper say, but you’re just unable to make out the handwriting. Like having something just out of reach, behind a closed door, and you’ve lost the key. Or like waking up blind. Wildly, you grope about in the dark and try not to panic.

What is my name?

Your name. You have to remember your name. 

Otherwise . . . 

Otherwise . . . 

You don’t want to think about it.

Once upon a time there was a girl named . . .

Once upon a time there was a girl named . . .

You have an unusual name. You know that much. Your name is pretty and unusual and has meaning. Your name is . . . [ Name ]. Yes. That’s it. You hug it to yourself, as tight as you can. You know your name. As long as you can remember who you are, you’ll be okay. You won’t go crazy. At least not today.

But it’s hard. It’s so, so hard because now there was the – the . . . Your Master to consider, your mind supplies helpfully, through the permanent fog residing there. Your Master who takes care of you, for all intents and purposes. The Master brought you home with him, and he feeds you and clothes you and give you presents if you behave. 

You’ve tried so many times to remember where you’ve met him, but nothing comes to you, your mind drawing blanks each time. Like you didn’t exist until the moment you woke up on a leather couch to wooden white shutters.

Cold arms close themselves around your stomach, and belatedly, your mind wonders if you should protest, your mind always working too slowly nowadays it seems – but then you catch a glimpse of fair, untidy hair and vivid purple eyes, and you’re pulled onto a lap, held tight in your Master’s embrace, forced against his chest. 

You relax, your body going boneless of its own accord, sinking back into a relaxed, almost numb state that has seemingly become the norm for you now.

He breathes softly over your neck, a gust of cool air passing over your skin. Even with your senses dulled and your mind in a haze, you still shiver violently, your shallow breaths speeding up. His lips close around your neck, sucking gently, but never breaking the skin. A soft sound of protest falls past your lips, and you feel a chuckle rumble in his chest.

You feel your lips turning down into a pout, already begging him to feed from you.Please. Please. Please. Master.

He complies, taking the bait, his fangs piercing your skin so painfully that you scream.In the ensuing slash of pain rippling across your neck, absurd pain – fangs tearing through skin – a sudden, unbidden memory comes to you, your mind regaining some semblance of clarity once more.

This isn’t your house.

You don’t know him.

He took you away hE TOOK YOU AWAY – 

“Get off me!” You scream, your voice hoarse and rusty from disuse. You’re trembling violently in his too-tight grip, his arms changing from perfection to a cage in a matter of seconds. “Let me go!”

“Behave,” He snarls, the word a command, already sinking deep into your mind, deep into your very being, your very existence being overwritten by one simple word, through sheer force of will alone. He extracts his fangs for the briefest of moments, his tongue chasing the drip of something warm, leaving a trail of saliva . 

His lips are coated in blood. Your blood.

Dimly, it’s the last thing you register before the fog rolls back in and you crumple into his arms once again, soft and pliant, bending to your Master’s whims once more.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; yandere! foreign languages ( lucio martínez ) x reader

— credit; lucio belongs to @yandere-daydreams​

— warnings; yandere themes, collars, leashes

The door to your too-pink, too-frilly bedroom opens and shuts with a click.

Clothed only in scraps of white lace and silk, a blast of cold air hits your limbs; the pink silk-and-suede collar digs painfully tight into your neck, chaffing against skin rubbed red and raw. Glazed eyes flicker, some awareness settling in; you turn your head to see Lucio, drinking in the sight of you sitting prettily atop of the pink comforter.  

His eyes glitter in a way that makes you impossibly more aroused, but also sends a bite of fear through you. It’s an unguarded look, like the one that had wrung the breath from your lungs when you had first met – scorching and possessive, filled with dark threats of ecstasy. His softness of his face is made harsh in the shadows, lips curving up into a wicked smile as he pads over to the dresser.

You watch him root through the dresser, your pulse racing and your breath coming in quick, shallow pants that sound unbearably loud in the silence that cocoons the room. He’s conditioned you and your body to react in this way, and you hate how he makes you feel, the power he lords over you, and yet your hatred is quickly swallowed up by the fear that consumes you now. Lucio’s expression never changes, not as his slender fingers open and shut drawers with a thoughtful hum, purposely drawing this out and heightening your emotions and playing on nerves already pushed to the breaking point.

“Here we are,” Lucio sing-songs, a tone which admittedly does not bode well for you.

Hearing it when you’re curled up under his arm is one thing, but hearing it now, when you’re in a position of vulnerability, you swallow hard, a sick feeling settling in your gut. Through your thick fall of hair, you glance nervously at his hands. A shiver moves through you at the sight of the black leash, at the sight of long and slender fingers toying with the black leather.

He moves closer, the bedsprings creaking under his weight; up close you can see how his eyes darken behind wire-rimmed spectacles as he hooks the leash to your collar and tugs, sending you sprawling into his lap with a yelp. Another pull, this time upwards, forcing your head up into an uncomfortable angle as tears prick at your eyes, the pain biting and sudden.

“Aren’t you pretty?” He coos, voice high and mocking, carding his hand through your hair, acting as though his touch can rub the bad away. “Pink really does suit you.”

He looks at you like a child does when they get a toy that they can’t quite wait to take apart and destroy. Still, he’s gentle with you as he loosens his iron-grip on the leash, and you think that you breathe a silent sigh of relief, the air leaving your lungs in a rush. You aren’t sure if his guarded tenderness is because you’re playing the part of the good, obedient pet well, or if he’s decided that your infractions this time are minor, but you don’t care. 

“I’m sorry,” You say on a ragged gasp, the apology tumbling out of your lips, because it’s expected and you know what will happen to you if you don’t. Your hips and the inside of your thighs still bear the evidence of one of his harsher punishments, and your eyes are glazed over with a layer of fear, even though he hadn’t lifted a finger to touch you the last time.

“You know what you did wrong?” The leash wrapped loosely around his fingers now, he toys idly with a strand of your hair. His bottom lip is pushed out in a pout.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” You shrink deep inside yourself. “I was wrong. It won’t happen again.”

His smile never falters, even as his blunt fingernails dig into your scalp with just enough force to inflict a hint of pain. “It had better not.”

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; yandere! muichirou tokitou x reader

— prompt; “this is why i didn’t want you to leave the house.”

— warnings; yandere themes

“You’re awake.”

Muichirou’s hair tickles your face as he leans over you and strokes your cheek. His face is stained with ash, and he smells of wet blood and burnt flesh. You flash to the demon, its fangs inches away from your throat, to Muichirou, swooping in and beheading the demon before it could so much as sink its teeth into your flesh. It takes a minute for everything to flood back into you, and you can barely suppress a shudder.

You cough, sitting up.

Muichirou immediately braces you, supporting your weight until the coughing fit passes. He rests his face against your neck and you feel two hot drips of tears against your skin, a garble of words sobbed out as fingers dig painfully into wounds still fresh and raw. You wince, groaning as your entire body erupts into joint-wrenching pain.

“This is why I didn’t want you to leave the house.” Muichirou cries out pitifully, dissolving into heart-breaking sobs that wrench at your heart. “I was just trying to protect you – What would have happened if I hadn’t made it on time? You’d have left me all alone! Everyone always leaves me, but you never do, you can’t!”

He clutches you tighter to match his need, and you try to pull away, but he won’t let go, shooting you a subduing look. His bottom lip quivers and his lips swell to a pout. His eyes are reddened and round, shiny with a sheen of tears.

“I’m sorry. I won’t go out without you again.” You card a hand through his hair, trying to sound comforting even as his hands pass over fresh wounds still throbbing painfully under the bandages.

“Do you promise?” Muichirou asks, his voice surprisingly steely.

“I – I do,” You say, trying to ignore how your heart stutters in your chest at his tone. “If it makes you feel better, I won’t go out without you again, I promise.”

Muichirou is all smiles once again as he scrubs at his streaming eyes with a long sleeve. His bruisingly tight grip on you loosens; the pain recedes, and no longer threatens to pull you under. He leaves to bring you your medicine and lunch, bouncing out with a spring in his step, all traces of tears gone.

You don’t miss the way the door is locked behind him, and you swallow.

It seems that he intends to make sure you honour your promise, and you can only watch as your slim freedom disappears behind a locked door.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; lemiel silvamillion clover x elf! reader

— summary; you fall in love with a human boy, but your story is doomed to end in tragedy

Your favorite dress is bright vermillion, with no sleeves, and very little back. Your people have always favored the loose, simple chiton styles, as opposed to the structured heavy velvets and silks that the humans wear. It makes you look almost like a princess, complete with the fresh flowers woven through your hair, though your mother would pinch at your cheeks and claim otherwise, with the way that your face is currently twisted up into an expression of wide-eyed wonder.

It’s not directed at Licht; rather, it’s directed at the two humans with him. You’re not alone in your reaction; many other elves are watching the humans with wary eyes, giving them a wide berth as they venture through the village.

“They’re humans,” Your elder sister Lenna murmurs, and something dark flickers across her expression as she takes your hands in hers and turns away. You’re forced to turn away with her, and you’re left with an abrupt sense of loss as you’re no longer able to see the boy with the golden crown glittering in his hair. “( Your Name ), let’s go.”

Ironically, it’s a human who ends up saving you.

Your parents, wary of the humans who keep coming back to the village, have forbade you from leaving the house. Restless, looking for diversion, you turn to exploring the gardens of Bougainvillea House. The place is half-wild with papaya trees, mango, wild orchids, spider lilies, and an abundance of bougainvillea after which your house has been named. At the back of the house is a small lake, its grassy banks ending in coarse lallang upon which monitor lizards sometimes sun themselves. You’ve seen minnows, and crabs and crayfish stalking about the weeds.

One second of misplaced footing is all it takes, and you slide right off the banks and into the water with a shriek.

Before you even hit the surface, you feel its chill and see your skin turn an icy blue. As the water erupts around you, it pours into your still shrieking mouth. You cough and splutter, gulping down even more. Your legs flail as you search for the bottom, more resembling an octopus than a human being. Your lungs begin to burn and scream for air, and right as you’re sure that you’re going to die, a gentle grip yanks you out of the water.

Your dazed mind thinks that he’s an angel at first.

“Are you alright?” He speaks slowly, so that your still-reeling mind can have a chance to understand him.

You can’t form words, only cough, but he rubs circles on your back reassuringly, and sheds his damp cloak to drape over your form. Later, you would look back on this gesture and blush; it’s tradition for husbands to drape fabrics over their newly-wed spouses during the wedding ceremony, and you can’t fault him for doing so unknowingly, since he isn’t aware of your customs.

“Do you need anything?”

As the spots clear from your vision and your mind comes back to the earth, you realise that it’s no angel. The man standing in front of you is a human. The male human, hanging around Licht. Up close, he has pale skin and small, delicate features. His eyes are the blue of the warm summer sky, and his thick blond hair is plastered wetly to his face. His strange clothes are soaked through, though it’s nothing compared to how sheer your dress has become, but he still manages to smile brightly at you, asking once again if you’re unhurt.

As you catch your breath, trying to ignore the flush on your cheeks, and the traitorous thumping of your heart, he tells you his name and proclaims that the both of you are friends, as if it’s as simple as that.

Lemiel makes an effort to seek you out when he visits, sometimes accompanied by his smiling sister and Licht, sometimes without. His smiles are freely given, and each time, his presence sweeps through you, filling you with amazement that, although for so many years he had been so near, you’ve had no knowledge of his existence.

You grow daring enough to slip out of the grounds, careful to remain unseen as you hurry to meet him.

You should have known that no secret ever remains a secret in the village, and soon, your parents find out and bar your way one evening, as you prepare to make your escape.

Your mother is incensed in a way that you’ve never seen her before, shaking a finger at you. “He isn’t the same! He isn’t one of us! He could be dangerous!”

“He’s my friend,” You say. In the face of her fury, you falter for the briefest of moments, but then the thought of Lemiel waiting for you overriding every other emotion. One way or another, you’ll see him; you’ll have your way, and you tilt your chin up in determination. “He’s my friend, and I’m going to see him.”

His dream of coexisting seems so far away, you think that night, as you meet him in your secret clearing under the gazebo, but you don’t say anything. You’re unusually quiet, and your famed sharp tongue is weighing heavily inside your mouth. Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder and let his voice wash over you, a cool silk shawl that drapes over you and lulls you into a feeling of peace and serenity.

You’ve been getting used to having two humans in the village, but never before have you spoken to Tetia alone; she and Licht have become close, and they’re often seen wandering about hand-in-hand, wrapped up in their own little world. Tetia takes the teasing that comes her way in stride, with a good-natured smile and retort for everyone who stops to chat.

The smell of roses tickles your nose; blue silk skirts and silver slippers fill your vision as footsteps approach, lighter and slower than you’ve been expecting. You know instinctively that it’s not Lemiel, and even though your heart sinks in disappointment, the expectation is clear in your eyes when you look up from weaving a crown of flowers, placing a spell on them so that they’ll stay fresh for longer.

Tetia’s hair seems lit from within by tawny light and frames a slim face of high cheekbones. Her eyes are hazel and slanted, cat-like against her light olive skin. She appears radiant and impossibly beautiful as she gifts you with a smile, and motions to the empty patch of grass next to you.

“May I sit?” She asks, her voice a musical lilt.

You shrug your shoulders non-committedly, to which Tetia takes as a yes, and it’s without a word that you continue weaving your crown of flowers. You’ve amassed quite a number of them in your wicker basket to hand out to your friends, and, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re hoping to see Lemiel, to pass the best one to him. He may have a crown of gold, but you think that the softness of the flowers brings out the roses in his cheeks.

“Is –”

A small smile plays at her lips, but this one seems slyer somehow, even as she shakes her head and gazes at you out of the corner of her eye. She hugs her knees to her chest. “He isn’t coming today. Father wished to see him, I’m afraid. He’ll be stuck in meetings all day.”

The realization twists your gut because it’s a reminder of how close the two of you have become in just a short span of time. The blunt reminder of Lemiel being royalty makes you feel as though you’ve been dunked in cold water; again, it’s made apparent that the two of you come from two different worlds. Tetia must see how your eyes widen, how the color drains out of your face under the heat of the blinding sun, and she hurries to apologize, tripping over her words in her haste to make things right.

You sigh. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She nods, but you can tell that she doesn’t believe you. She opens her mouth to say something, but quickly shuts it again.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Licht.” You say instead, your mouth twisting up as you change the subject abruptly.

Tetia counters instantly. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with –”

“He’s nice.” You say, cutting her off before she can apologize again, for bringing up her brother. “I like him.”

“He likes you too,” She replies, and the knowing glint in her eyes only darkens.

Your hours together are filled with a strange expansion you know he also feels, your emotions growing every time you see him.

Sometimes, Lemiel brings an instrument made of wood and strings, a contraption he calls a ‘violin’, and plays for you, plucking hesitantly at the strings, his tongue poking out in concentration. The music, although sometimes broken by a bout of laughter or a squawking trail of notes, curls through you both. If you’re in a particularly good mood, or if Lemiel has his way, you’ll twirl about, barefoot on the grass, your skirts fluttering about your knees. You’re the best dancer in the village, and the music speaks to you, lives in you, and you heed its call with gleeful abandon, losing yourself in it.

He tells you interesting, irrelevant things, about magic, about his latest inventions, the magic tools he’s tinkering with in his room. He always carries a book, is always reading. Sometimes, he’ll read out passages from the dusty tomes as you press your cheek to his neck and look at the faded, yellowing pages. You sit close to him on the bench, your legs touching as you talk.

Sometimes, you’ll take him to the lake at the back of your house. The two of you kick off your shoes and wade into the shallow waters. Tucking your dress into your undergarments, unashamed – though Lemiel averts his eyes, the tips of his ears turning red – you splash water at him, amongst the weeds and slippery lichen. The two of you always take care to keep to that part of the canal that’s tucked away from Bougainvillea House by the overhanging trees.

Only away from him do you realize that this is happiness.

At night, you remember his face, and sleep.

“I saw you at that wedding a few days ago,” Lemiel says, after a long stretch of comfortable silence. You let out a hum of acknowledgement, but focus on planting more flowers in your garden, burying your hands deep into the earth and sprinkling water atop the mound. You could use your magic to command the flowers to grow instantly, as you do with the crops in the village, but you love seeing how the seeds slowly grow into the fragrant blooms. “You were dancing with some other girls.”

The compliment surprises you. You hadn’t thought that he’d been watching, and the knowledge makes your cheeks warm, sends a shiver dancing down your spine and has gooseflesh pimpling your arms. “You should have come over. We could have danced together.”

“I’m not much for dancing, I’m afraid.”

Silence falls again. The soft sounds of people and commerce drift down to you, but the two of you are wrapped safely in the green embrace of the trees above.

“Tetia’s pregnant.”

“I heard,” A smile lights up your face, tinged with secrecy and mischief as you remember the surprise party that everyone’s planning for the newly engaged couple. Everyone’s had to keep Fhana away, knowing that her contagious giggles would give the game away almost instantly. “I’ve been roped into helping to plan the wedding. She wants a spring wedding.”

For some unknown reason, Tetia had wanted you specifically as a bridesmaid, and you’d found yourself unable to turn her down, even if that means having to spend hours upon hours at the dressmaker for your fittings. You bear it good-naturedly, the hours made slightly more bearable with Tetia chattering away by your side.

“What about you?”

You eye him. His smile seems perfectly innocent, but you can’t help but wonder if he’s offering to put a ring on your finger, and his cloak around your shoulders once again. You don’t tell Lemiel that you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your life with him; you’re far too proud for that, and there’s a small part of you that’s actively conscious of the fragility of what you both have. You don’t want to be the one to break the spell. “I don’t want a spring wedding.”

A smile turns up the edges of his lips, and it’s with his next words that you feel something shift inside of you. “What about an autumn wedding?”

“Are you offering?”

“Do you want me to?”

Yes.

You stare incredulously, but have to try to smother the giddiness his words bring out in you. It’s a heady feeling, like you’ve swallowed down a mouthful of liquid sunshine, and even as you try to hide it, an exquisite smile blooms across your face; Lemiel’s own smile widens in response.

We’re technically already married, you think, but what you say is, “No, of course not. We’re not getting married until you put a ring on my finger and a donkey in my father’s yard.”

The party is in full swing by the time Lemiel arrives.

The village square is lit up in the dark of night with lamps and the fullest moon you’ve ever been under. Everywhere around you people laugh, dance, and play. The musicians strike up a tune that has everyone tapping toes and dancing.

You smile, the joy contagious. “Dance with me.”

You’re dressed in saffron yellow silk today, the fabric draping over both your shoulders in wide swaths and a neckline high enough to cover your clavicles. The bodice is pinned tighter around your torso, so that it highlights the curve of your waist.

You hold out a hand to Lemiel, and he takes it, as easily as breathing, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. He has, but never in public, as openly as he has now, and you don’t miss the way everyone is staring at your intertwined fingers, his calloused palm pressing against your own as you pull him after you, onto the dance floor.

Lemiel’s hands come to rest on your waist; for once, he looks unsure of himself, almost resembling a deer caught by surprise in the light. His steps are clumsy, hesitant, and his foot comes down hard on yours, eliciting a wince from you, followed hard on the heels of a breathy laugh. The warmth of his touch seeps through the silk of your dress; laughing, drunk on the sheer atmosphere and a touch too much wine, you press closer, your cheek against his neck.

Lemiel lets you guide him into something resembling the complex steps of the dance. You almost blend into the twirl of the other dancers around you, but you’re not foolish enough to believe that people aren’t watching you and the human prince. Tetia swirls by, her blonde eyebrows arching so high that they nearly disappear into her hair, but her mouth is smiling as she takes in the two of you, far too close for comfort.

“You can’t dance,” You say lightly, teasingly. Your heart is hammering so loudly it feels like everyone present can hear it, even over the flutes and the drums. “Is there anything else you can’t do?”

“He can’t cook, he forgets to eat half the time, and you have to force him out of his room sometimes,” Tetia chips in on a laugh, right before Rhya cuts in and steals her from Licht.

Roses bloom upon his cheeks. “Tetia!”

“Well,” You say wryly, “It’s a good thing I know how to cook.”

Lemiel stares. His shoulder muscle tightens under your hand and his skin almost feels warmer. “What?”

“I know how to cook,” You repeat, your footsteps slowing to a halt. You have to tilt your head back to stare at him, and his eyes are so blue that you could almost drown in them. “And I know how to bake, too.”

He catches his breath. “You're sure?”

“About my cooking skills? Yes, I'm sure.”

A slow smile blooms across his face, spreading up into his eyes, making them smolder. You feel your pulse quicken and smile back.

Nothing else needs to be said.

Wrapped up in the sky blue silk of his cloak, your nose crinkles on a tired yawn as you lean over and kiss the small patch of exposed skin on his shoulder, just above his shirt collar. “Will you be coming to the wedding tomorrow?”

“I’ll be late,” Lemiel says. His fingers are tangled in your hair, combing through the strands idly. “My father wants to see me.”

“Late to your own sister’s wedding,” You tease, propping yourself up on your arm. “I’m shocked.”

Lemiel laughs and rolls you over so that he’s looming over you, shoulder-length gold hair tickling your cheeks as he presses another lazy, lingering kiss to your mouth. When he pulls back, you follow him a couple of inches before breaking the kiss.

“I’ll be the one in blue,” You’re looking forward to wearing your dress tomorrow, the silk cool against your skin, with aquamarine pieces sewn into the hem and neckline. You’d specifically requested the color, noting how it matches his eyes perfectly. “I’ll even save you a dance. As many dances as you want.”

It hurts so much, you think. Lemiel, Lemiel, everyone’s dead . . . Please, please, Lemiel, please make it stop hurting.

Your whole body feels on fire, your limbs are leaden, and your mouth seems to be clogged with warm mud. Blood runs hot over your fingers, staining the skirts of your gown.

And you think, I wanted Lemiel to see me in blue, I wanted to dance with him forever, for as long as I lived.

Then something sharp pierces through your body, and its bite is cold and red.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; platonic nozel silva x daughter! reader

— for; @theopengrimoire​ --- thank you so much for inspiring me to write my own black clover imagines ! i’m a big fan of your blog, so this is something small for you ! thank you again, and merry christmas !

Once your lessons are over, and you’ve thanked your tutors politely, you return to the castle with your nanny, walking up the shady tree-covered avenue.  Lanterns burn before the wrought-iron gates of the castle, and guards stand to attention. The gates swing open and you proceed up the long drive to the turrets and towers of the great castle. Already, shadows are dense amongst the trees although a streak of pink still clings to the sky. Marble statuary gleams dimly on great swathes of lawn.

Later, after a warm bath and a change of clothes, you abandon your nanny, slip out of your room, climb up stairs and travel along corridors and cross a great ballroom. On tiptoes, you knock on the door to your father’s office, somehow managing to turn the knob and scamper in when you hear his cool, clipped voice telling you to ‘enter’. Hardened magic knights of the Silver Eagles turn to stare at this new manifestation of starched white and purple linen, complete with black patent pumps, clean white stockings, and shining well-brushed hair.

“( Your Name ),” Though surprise flits across Nozel’s face at how you’re wandering around the mansion without your nanny, it quickly fades into one of resignation – this is the third time this week, after all, and it’s quickly becoming a habit for you to give the slip to your hassled-looking minders. You giggle, and rush over to cling onto his legs, chubby baby cheeks melting into an endearing grin with a cheerful gap, the missing front tooth having been knocked out during training with your father. You’re still incredibly proud of it, and flaunt it at every turn. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s your dinner time, Daddy,” You say imperiously, even though it’s barely six, and the cooks are still preparing the meal. You just want the chance to spend more time with him, seeing as how your Mother is visiting family in the country and your older siblings have left with her. Your little five-year old mind worries that your father might be lonely in a house that seems too impossibly large and cold. “Let’s go and eat.”

“My dinner time?” Nozel arches an elegant eyebrow, and you wind yourself free from his leg in favor of grasping tightly onto his hand with all the strength you can possibly muster – which isn’t to say, very much.  

You nod, lips twisting into a pout, managing to quash down the giggles that threaten to erupt. You’re the only girl in the family of five rambunctious boys, and it’s become glaringly obvious that your father has a soft spot for you, his youngest girl.

His face softens as soon as you enter the room, and he makes a point of seeking you out everyday to hear about your adventures in school, as busy as he is with paperwork and missions, and, as a result, the two of you are closer than ever.

You wait impatiently as your father dismisses his squad members, keeping up a constant string of tugging upon his pinky finger all the while. Normally, you’d bid them goodbye with a wide smile and friendly eyes, but today, you can barely restrain yourself from bouncing up and down on the tips of your toes in your impatience. The process seems slow and tedious to you, but as soon as the last of them leave the room, you crowd closer to your father, turning the full force of wide and shiny eyes onto him.

“Daddy, can we eat ice cream?”

Nozel, to his credit, manages to stand his ground, even as he is presented with large eyes and a quivering bottom lip.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please, Daddy? Please?”

Nozel, to his credit, manages to stand his ground for all of five seconds.

“One scoop. But only after dinner.”

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; strawberry milk ( oc ) x idol! reader

— warning; yandere themes

— credit; strawberry belongs to @milkkaaton 

“W-What happened?”

The nurse who greets you isn’t a face you’re familiar with, considering how often you’re in and out of the hospital for the occasional stich or splint during your career as an idol; but the tag attached to sea foam green scrubs informs you that he’s a trainee and that his name is Strawberry, so he’s as new to you as you are to him. His face flushes an endearing shade of pink when you turn your head to meet his gaze head-on, his voice is barely above a whisper; you have to strain your ears to hear him.

Momentarily, you’re confused by his question, but then you remember the accident. The stage lights collapsing. Screaming. Smacking your head. The warm liquid that soaks your hair and travels down your cheek. You’re still in a ragged t-shirt and a pair of holey sweat pants, the sweat on your back cooling and drying from practice. You probably look really bad.

“There was an accident. The stage was pretty old, and everything just . . . Collapsed.” You say, biting down on your bottom lip. Strawberry doesn’t look surprised; rather, his nod seems almost expectant, a reaction that should surely be cause for concern, but your mind is groggy with a combination of drugs and exhaustion, and you hardly notice. “I’m ( Your Name ). Strawberry, right?”

Strawberry’s answering nod is eager, almost too eager, especially when you murmur his name once more, with an idle comment about how it suits him. The blond softness of his curls bounce as he acknowledges your words, but his pink-hued irises are glued firmly to the floor. “I – I know who you are.”

Your next peal of laughter is tinged with both awkwardness and exhaustion. You suppose that you shouldn’t be surprised, considering how much attention your idol group has been receiving as of late. “Of course you do.” 

“I read your chart . . .”

“Oh.”

You shift on the exam table, thinking longingly of your friends. Are they safe? Are they injured as well? Are they here? A hot streak of fear races through you; your movements growing more restless, your body already itching to leave.

“S-Stay still please.” Strawberry warns as he ties off the thread and then grabs the scissors to snip it. You shiver as the metal ghosts over your skin, digging into the tender flesh momentarily, before the pressure eases up. “Or you’ll get hurt even more.”

“Sorry.” Again, you try for a smile, sitting on the crinkling paper while he cleans off the metal tray and goes to the sink to wash his hands. When he’d first examined you, Strawberry was quick to give you a Vicodin after getting a look at the huge, bumper-sized bruises on your thighs. You’d had to bite back a scream when he’d poked and prodded at the bruising, iron encased in velvet, but he was just doing his job as a nurse . . . The drug’s left you a little groggy, but that’s good. 

Strawberry tells you that you’ll be sore for the next few days, but there won’t be any lasting damage. His gloves are still smeared with blood – your blood – and he sounds almost reluctant when he tells you that you can leave, and that your very anxious manager is waiting outside.

“Thank you for all your help.” You hop down from the table, the deep bruising of your thighs making you wince. Once again, the full force of your smile is directed at him, your gratitude shining through. “Hopefully I won’t be coming back so soon.”

You’re already collecting your things and breezing out the door, where you’re immediately ambushed by your manager, and pulled into tight hugs by your friends, all of whom sport bruises and bandages in various stages of injury.

For better or for worse, Strawberry is pushed to the back of your mind – but just as the door is pulled shut, you glimpse how his expression shutters and darkens, a flower closing in on itself for the night.

You shiver.

[3rdgymbros]

— pairing; fuegoleon vermillion x reader

— summary; in which the reader visits fuegoleon after the loss of his arm.

Ever since you can remember, you’ve always spent your weekends at the Vermillion estate. When you were younger, you and your parents would journey there to meet your fiancée. You’ve become such a familiar face around the estate that the guards simply smile at you and wave you through. Now that you’re older, your parents rarely accompany you anymore, and so you make the trips solo.

You walk along the drive, amongst neatly manicured gardens and its army of gardeners. The hot sun pours over your flesh, and you close your eyes in pleasure. This is how you remember it, running barefooted and hand-in-hand with Fuegoleon in the compound of the Vermillion Estate. A familiar smell drifts to you, of hot damp undergrowth and frangipani, and already, it feels as though some part of you has come home.

You pass the family physician in the hallway.

“It’s a good day,” The doctor informs you, smiling.

“That’s good to hear. Thank you.” You smile back.

It’s been almost a month since Fuegoleon’s defeat. Most days, he lies placidly on the bed under a layer of blankets and freshly fluffed pillows, not moving, barely breathing.

But on good days, something happens – a flutter underneath the closed eyelids, the movement of his index finger, a twitch in his cheek. Once in a while, he sighs for no reason at all. They are all small, infinitesimal signs of a vibrant man trapped in the cocoon of a living death.

You remember the doctor’s final prognosis. “All of his organs are functioning. He is perfectly healthy, but yet he still remains unconscious. It is a mystery.” Surprisingly, the doctors are still convinced that there’s a chance he can awaken, given the right circumstances. “Sometimes, it's a song. Or a voice from the past. Something triggers them, and they wake up. Really, he can wake up at any time.”

You have to hide a smile then, thinking of Leo and his rambunctious attempts to rouse his brother into wakefulness, which had not been limited to lighting fireworks in his room.

You push open the doors to Fuegoleon’s room, greeting the heavy, silent air with a cheerful smile and a wave. The room is as luxurious as ever, with dark walls, paneled in teak, and the fittings of bright red velvet. You set your book down on the ornately carved bedside table, with the small crystal bowl of flaming flowers.

You help to change the linens, and you clean and dust the room, despite how the servants have protested numerous times. You freshen the water pitcher, bring in more flowers – life – from the gardens, and you check his fingers and toes for cold. It seems to you such an easy thing to do. Your own frigid fingers and toes never seem to warm, and always ache with piercing cold, even when Fuegoleon had carefully held your hands in his.

Finally, with a rush of air, you declare the room to be cleaned to your standards, and, after wiping down your hands, you sit on the very edge of his bed.

You always feel so inadequate in this moment; when you look around the room, as silent as a graveyard, and realize that there’s nothing more for you to busy yourself with. You never know the right thing to say or do, or how to help. So you sit and speak quietly of nothing and everything. You tell him about your day, of his siblings, and more importantly, of his beloved squad. You wet his lips and wash his face. You rub some of your own sweetly-scented lotion into his dry skin. You grab a brush and wrangle the tangles out of his long, auburn hair.

You even push the door to his room shut – after all, there isn’t anyone around to worry about propriety, not anymore – and you try out some verses of your song magic, as futile as it is. Your grimoire is pathetically small, with more blank pages than filled ones, a testament to how unskilled you are, and how much further you have to go.

But still, you sing with all your might, singing of the mushroomy earth and pine sap of the outdoors, the warm sunshine and the silvery moonlight, the licorice darkness and the sugary light. You sing of how good life is, willing him to remember, willing him to continue clinging to life.

Please. Please. Please.

You think your hands glow, warmth finally seeping through and warming fingers chilled to the bone.

Exhausted, you have to pause to draw a breath, and look at the bed hopefully. Nothing. No movement whatsoever.

“If – If you wake up,” You say, gathering your resolve, and reaching out to hold onto his hand, “I’ll practice my magic. I’ll – I’ll work hard. I’ll become strong. And I won’t cry anymore. Please.”

You glance at Fuegoleon’s placid face. Nothing. Not even a wrinkle on his cheek. A ghost of a smile.

Tears flowing freely now – even though you’d just promised him that you wouldn’t cry anymore – they flow down your cheeks unceasingly, refusing to stop or slow. The quiet room is filled with a deep piercing grief, and for the first time since you’d gotten the news of his injury, you weep without abandon for all that you’ve lost.