Love You 5 Ever

Check mpost!! She/Her!! I'm >18, my >18 content is tagged, not an >18 exclusive account. If you're here to only enjoy sfw content block #twistedsmut

[twistedpink]

➤ エクスタシーは神であるᵎᵎ

⟢ Most dividers/graphics are by @cursed-carmine, @cafekitsune, or @saradika-graphics

Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignyhide, and Diasomnia

Paswg! Events! Rules! Taglist

Requests are currently OPEN!

[twistedpink]

Bitter!Idia closely following your compilation-worthy breakup takes rejection as a challenge to become worse—Leaner, Meaner, and no less scathing with his digital nukes—After all, why change? You loved him enough to live with his flaws, once. You'll adapt.

He review-bombs so hard you start to believe he's actually made friends to keep a constant barrage, until you think better of it (ask Ortho, sobbing) and realize that he's rigged a bot mine to passively reap hate comments until you're fired at every turn, blacklisted, and nearly stoned in the street; if only there were someplace isolated enough for you to get a job with people that don't hate you,, Hmmmm,,

The toxic gossip train is fueled limitlessly for years after graduation; spending long, lonely nights thinking of you and the ways he can cause grief. Not like he cares to spend time on you, or anything!!. But there comes a time where your resume lands on a distant desk, one under the patronage of a Shroud shell company, and he's sent into a manic spree of diagrams and algorithms, your socials open on a monitor across the room; how can he best poke the bear that is his destitute, still-super-hot ex situationship? How can he be a part of you again? When will you let him in??

You receive a call days later, hopping in excitement despite the morning rush's crowd following a meagre grocery trip, unknowing to the street cameras and ring doorbells capturing your image at every angle to be.. Reviewed by a concerned superior.

He just wants to take care of you :(

[anajudraws]

...😌

[twistedpink]

I MISS KABRUUU

[twistedpink]

More bitter!idia?

Here!!

[twistedpink]

Bitter!Idia closely following your compilation-worthy breakup takes rejection as a challenge to become worse—Leaner, Meaner, and no less scathing with his digital nukes—After all, why change? You loved him enough to live with his flaws, once. You'll adapt.

He review-bombs so hard you start to believe he's actually made friends to keep a constant barrage, until you think better of it (ask Ortho, sobbing) and realize that he's rigged a bot mine to passively reap hate comments until you're fired at every turn, blacklisted, and nearly stoned in the street; if only there were someplace isolated enough for you to get a job with people that don't hate you,, Hmmmm,,

The toxic gossip train is fueled limitlessly for years after graduation; spending long, lonely nights thinking of you and the ways he can cause grief. Not like he cares to spend time on you, or anything!!. But there comes a time where your resume lands on a distant desk, one under the patronage of a Shroud shell company, and he's sent into a manic spree of diagrams and algorithms, your socials open on a monitor across the room; how can he best poke the bear that is his destitute, still-super-hot ex situationship? How can he be a part of you again? When will you let him in??

You receive a call days later, hopping in excitement despite the morning rush's crowd following a meagre grocery trip, unknowing to the street cameras and ring doorbells capturing your image at every angle to be.. Reviewed by a concerned superior.

He just wants to take care of you :(

[sacred-portal]

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

Knight!Kurt x Princess!Reader…

Oh. Oh. Okay, hear me out.

When you go missing, there isn't a thing your father, the king, isn't willing to do in order to find you. Not a stone left unturned, not a soldier left resting, not a citizen left unaware — the princess is gone, abducted, and whoever finds her shall never know the time of need again, forever sheltered by the king's gratitude. But hours turned into days and those nearly stretched into weeks, and the princess' whereabouts remain a mystery.

Until one day, a stranger from the lands beyond comes through the great doors of the castle and stands before the king. Not a knight, nor a paladin, but a rogue, a loner who serves under nobody but his own code. He is of modest stature, and though his lean frame is woven of brawn, he could be mistaken for a squire rather than a full-fledged soldier: a blacksmith would have more width in the shoulders, and a common water carrier would overshadow him. Yet nobody in the court dares speak above a whisper, for the stranger's skin is as dark as midnight skies, and his eyes, the colour of snake venom, glow beneath his hood like two deceptive lanterns. In a voice thick with an outlandish accent, he swears to find the missing princess and bring her home safely. As he bows to the king in farewell, he turns on his heel and leaves as swiftly as night falls in winter. Only a dame gasps in the ringing silence — from under the stranger's cloak peeks out a long, coiling tail.

He finds you after two days of restless chase kept prisoner in an old tower, hidden by a sorcerer, and guarded savagely by a dozen low-life bandits. And he does so in time, too — had he shown mercy on his poor horse for even half a day, you would already be on a ship sailing to countries you've only heard of from your nursemaid's fairytales, not a princess anymore but a property, a trophy, a trinket worth a whole kingdom yet reduced to an odalisque. Oh, the shallow nature of men.

You don't expect anyone to find you, truly. Hope still lives within you, and you nurture it with all your might, clinging to its warmth like a pauper holding the flame of his last candle, but you know that even the brawn of twenty court knights is not enough to shatter the ploy of magic cast over the tower or your own self. A canary in a cage — that's what you are now, metaphorically as well as physically. Even your own father would never have recognized you! You weep, but no tears escape you, and all that is left of your voice rings in a joyful bird trill.

You sing-cry from dawn to nightfall, for that is the only thing your captors did not rob you of. You hear them laugh in the hallways, the pungent smell of hops and fermented honey creeping through the loose stones of the tower, and you know they celebrate their wit and future wealth traded for your freedom. Through an open window you watch the moon pour its silver milk into the thick darkness of the night and wish you could fly away. Even if you are to remain a bird for the rest of your short, miserable life — it is better to die in a hawk's claws than live as a slave to a cruel master!

The door creaks open, and your tiny heart spasms with dread. Have they come to take you already, in the middle of the night? You huddle in the far corner of the cage, ready to fight back against anyone who reaches out to you. At first you cannot see anyone, but the air shifts strangely in the room as if a ghost has slipped into the quiet and is floating through the shadows. And then two eyes blink open right in front of you — big, round, gleaming yellow like moonlight seeping through stained glass. A man is staring at you, the likes of whom you have never seen. Is he even a man or a creature? And what is he doing here? For anyone who passes by, this tower is the most ordinary. So much so that any interest in what it might hide fades unnaturally fast, driven away from the mind by a masking spell. So how come his mind is different?

The strange man opens your cage, prying the latch with a sharp, talon-like nail, and reaches his three-fingered hand towards you. It's huge, his palm, barely squeezing through the opening, and at once all the fight leaves your puny body with its brittle bird bones and minuscule beak. What could a mouse possibly have against a cat, let alone a tiger?

Yet when he gets hold of you, his grasp is gentle, barely disturbing your feathers. Carefully he pulls you out of the cage and holds you in the cup of his palm, finger stroking your rapidly heaving little chest.

"Poor thing," he says, and the sympathy in his young voice washes over you like the first rays of dawn. He sits you down on the windowsill, giving you all the time in the world to spread your wings and fly into the night, but you only look up at him, hoping that perhaps, guided by pure fortune, he realizes you are in dire need of help. The man only cocks his head. "Not much of a flyer, then? I presume you wouldn't have a clue where they keep a fair princess in here, hm? You see, I really need to save her."

So he came here for you! What a delight! If only your arms were not turned to wings — you would have thrown yourself on your savior's neck. But all you can do is chirp and bounce up and down in a senseless attempt to speak your truth. You are so scared the man will simply wave away the pesky bird and leave, yet he keeps looking at you as if sensing the desperation that is too great for such a tiny body beneath your silly dance. It takes some time but at last you notice the frayed edges of the parchment protruding from the inside pocket of his modest leather armor, and when he takes out the piece of paper and unfolds it, your own face is staring right back at you, framed by bold red letters.

You hop on your portrait's forehead a few urgent times and look up at your liberator with what you hope is the most eloquent gaze a canary's eyes are capable of. The man squints, as if struck by a thought, but then frowns, as if this thought were too far-fetched. Think, you beg of him as you lie down, wings spread to embrace the image of the missing princess, merging with it the best you can. Think.

And think he does. With a triumphant whip of his tail, the man scoops you up in his hands and puts you in one of his many pockets. The smell of warm fur and horse sweat clings to him — and it's a comforting, sun-basked aroma of the world he came from to take you back.

"Please excuse the less-than-ideal means of transportation, Your Highness, but first I need to get your fairness back."

«Getting back your fairness» takes merely a quarter of an hour. And the whole time your enigmatic savior laughs and outwits his opponents just as swiftly as he outmatches them in a sword fight. He's quicker than a cat, quieter than a whisper, and smarter than an old weasel, and you've never seen any man fight with such effortless grace before. Unfettered by bulky metal, he dances among the clumsy, simple-minded goons — your kidnappers — with an unconcern almost boyish, and when only the sorcerer is left standing, in the blink of an eye the man casts his own magic, which bears the breath of the other world, of brimstone and flames. Before you know it, the sorcerer's arms are bound by a strong tail, and you see a vulturous shine of a blade pressed to his throat.

You leave the tower on your feet, holding the hem of your ruined dress with one hand and gratefully clutching your unusual savior's arm with the other. He smiles at you with a dangerously charming grin and gives you his name. Kurt. And what a wonderful sound it makes upon leaving his dark lips. You never knew a symphony could consist of just a single note, but you think you are ready to listen to this one for the rest of your days. Kurt helps you onto his loyal steed and sits right behind you, his warm sturdy chest pressed against your back a little too close for what is deemed appropriate in a polite society, and it's a prayer in your head that the journey home takes a week, or maybe even two.

As you travel along the green hedges and rest under the shade of old yew trees, trunks crooked and scarred, you learn the taste of true freedom — and it's rich like hot pork fat and sour like a plucked wild apple, but sweeter than summer wine and even more intoxicating. While polishing his saber, Kurt tells you about distant, foreign lands: some filled with seas of sun-baked sand and some immersed in eternal slumber under centuries-old layers of snow. He tells you of songs in languages your throat and tongue could never follow and dances your teachers would be horrified to even hear about; of creatures so ancient there was nobody to give them names and people so different from you they might as well have been settlers from other fantastical worlds. And every tale he feeds you is wrapped in a heady passion of his voice — you watch his glistening, ale-soaked lips shape around another story (from which, of course, he emerged victorious), and when you lean in to taste his bravado for what it truly is, Kurt's confidence wavers only for a moment.

"We shouldn't, Your Highness." His hands rest atop your shoulders, gentle with hesitance. "I may be a rogue, but I wouldn't dare steal a princess's first kiss."

You cannot help the little laugh that escapes you. What a gentleman.

"You've already stolen much more from me, good sir." You tell him, and with a glint of triumph you notice his nostrils flare. "You've found a way into my mind, searched through all my thoughts, leaving them scattered and confused, and positively snatched any possibility of the marriage my father expects of me. My restful nights, my prayers, my very appetite for life as I knew it — you took them all. Please, at least let me have a memory."

Kurt exhales — sharp tang of alcohol and a touch of lemon balm from the roadside — and then his tongue sweeps flat against your lower lip, and the rustle of wind in the crown of the yew tree fades into against the sound of your breathing interlaced.

When the towers of your home castle rise against the sky, tall and pristine like polished lances, you pay little attention to their sun-drenched roofs: you cannot take your gaze off the dark elegancy of Kurt's fingers on the reins. Your mind is already made up — he will not ride away with a heavy purse and heartfelt farewell, not if you can help it. This man shall be yours even if you have to beg your father and kneel in your dress or proclaim you will never wear a bridal veil should he refuse. He and no one else shall be your guardian, your shadow, your lover — your personal rogue. After all, what proper princess doesn't have a loyal knight?

divider by @/firefly-graphics 

[twistedpink]

Top ten WORST trip sitters and three spots are reserved for the fates

[mox19]

Rugbert

[mevevi]

[twistedpink]

The life altering bimbofication of Malleus goes crazy because like. Yes he wants nothing more than to be human and vulnerable for you, to bare his stomach and think not of potential daggers. To be floaty and ignorant, to love you like a pet.

Despite himself, you fascinate him beyond words yet within the infinity of thought. He constantly thinks of and for you—likes and dislikes and what-ifs circling the torrent of his head until you kiss him,

And like the undoing of a spell, he's your dumb bunny once more 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

[twistedpink]

Hey so. Which generous pinkie wants to sent your pookie a ten pull.

WANTED UH UH 5k fic. Accepting a commission on miko's behalf

[twistedpink]

Can you write a reader who's polyamorous but keep it a secret. Just Reader trying to pick between Polyester or Polyurethane when they actually wants the both of them. How would Polybros react and how the relationship could work ?

. Essentially just Ester butting into your relationship because he's got nothing better to do. WALK WITH ME.

You've just sucked the life out of Ure—the smell of his body wash clinging to your face, some baby batter in your hair. As the only normal person in the apartment, you move to monopolize the bathroom; the only bathroom.

You'd have thought, being a good, normal brother would mean going out while your brother has a date—maybe even finding one yourself to occupy the time,, It's unlocked, a subtle steam reaching for you as a boneless Ure squeaks behind you before presumably falling into the best sleep of his life; you don't even have to step into the fog for GOD HIMSELF to open the door in a low-hanging towel.

Ester stands in the doorframe. Beautiful. Freshly washed. Now it's like one of those episode adds </3

*I feel as though it's a LOT less taking turns than what would be anticipated. It's just a group-hangout all the time; better to maximize their offtime, messing with you in tandem!!

*Many much unspoken pressure to open the relationship regardless of who your initial partner is. NOT ONLY because they're douchebags, but because they've adapted to human socials like fish to water, and know intimately what your greasy little tumblr features. They just want you to be happy!! (And.. Yk.. Full)

[parawaxart]

tfw your favourite guys pops out of your phone but he’s lowkey the same size as he was on the screen

[tuinendraws]

Having fun with his new design.

[twistedpink]

Jealous Maleanor x reader please please please please 🦐🥹😩🙇‍♀️🙈😋

Being queen comes with many things, all encompassing what she ought to be and do before she takes a backseat to mothering and all the delightful, compounding rules it comes baring. Every day you wake up beside her, you wonder just how the senate saw the fire in her eyes and thought they could extinguish it with words.

And every day, she burns brighter at your company across the room. Raverne acts as a physical anchor; cold hands against her knee as the two of them loiter conspiratorially in a shrouded corner of the ballroom. Her partners are just so talented, she can't imagine the world where she herself had taken to the art of negotiation, but that doesn't mean she has to like your engagement in it.

If your princess had her way, the three of you would shack up in a humble castle (yk.. In comparison to the capital, nothing to sneeze at) and spend forever playing in endless forest. She feels akin to a bird, at this point—she is not-quite-queen, and everyone this half of wonderland believes they can send orders above her head and they will be filled without her meddling to delay,,

She thinks of you, two of her greatest treasures, their maturity and the forced responsibility it guarantees as soft shapes are drawn by flexed claws against her thigh, and her broiling turns to a simmer.

You will have more time with them if you leave them to their business, urges inner Lilia, the ever-amicable—which does not rob her of taking eyefuls from across the room, and certainly not of fantasizing about all the parked carriages in reach exploding into flames, leaving your conversation partners to walk home. Just be patient, he urges, and her first instinct is to calm—

Before sauntering over, reluctant husband arm-in-arm as accomplice to rescue mission of the century. Nobody tells her to "calm down", least of all close friends with her best interest at heart (running a STRICT type b program). That man will pay for his injustice—after she acquires the arm candy to do it!!