Welcome to the shit show :)

There is no greater feeling, however, than all 7 Rulers of Hell asking for second helpings. You may be able to control them through your pact, but you can only taste true, unfettered power when all of the brothers ask for more of your food.

Beelzebub always gets seconds. That's a given. You learned early on that it's best to cook enough for a small army when he's home, and that will get you through dinner plus leftovers for lunch the next day if you're lucky.

But to have Asmodeus ask for another scoop when he's cleared his plate and left no crumbs? To have Lucifer put off work to grab a few more bites? That kind of power goes straight to your head.

Belphegor is drooling over the food instead of his pillow for once, and Satan actually put his book down to savor the meal. Leviathan is consuming every morsel without complaint and actually asked for more while Mammon's hatched an under-the-table deal to get you to save him some for later. You don't want his grimm, only his praise for your fantastic cooking.

would love going to the mall with modern au Law to shop for christmas presents for everyone, ! (heart pirates, strawhats, anyone you’d like to mention !) law lowkey knowing exactly what everyone would want cause that’s just who he is fr... stuff like hitting up the food court, getting stopped by vendors, add anything you’d like. just in desperate need of some sickening law fluff <\3 🎶 thank you!

a gift from me to you, sickening law fluff you say? you came to the right place (also thank you, i see you, and i adore you)

song: warm in december by samara joy

the shopping center is crowded. bodies on bodies on bodies. and law is miserable. he’s starting to sweat beneath all of his layers. his scarf beginning to strangle him with every corner you turn only to be met by more people.

“there has to be a better way of going about this,” he grumbles as you join the line for pretzels, excitedly rubbing your hands together as you look at the menu. his own hands full of bags. bags that he offered to carry, but still. he’s trying to maintain his christmas spirit so he doesn’t complain further.

“you don’t want pretzels?” you ask quickly, and he’s surprised you even heard him. “we can grab something else. the food court is nearby.”

“no, pretzels are fine,” he says, feeling a little bad at how quickly you went to accommodate him. his prickly disposition immediately softens. “there’s just a lot of people out today.”

the confession lightens the load on his chest. he feels better voicing it to you. especially because you like to listen.

“i know, love.” you touch his arm, rubbing his bicep reassuringly as you look back up at the menu. “but we only have a few more stores to hit and i promise we’ll be done.”

you angle your head towards him, puckering your lips, and he leans down swiftly to press a peck against them. never one to keep you waiting.

“ok,” you pull out your phone to check who’s left on the list to get gifts for, “shachi and cora are left.”

marriage was never a plan for roronoa zoro. he knew of the traditions, of the classic family image, but this had never once occurred as a longing wish or goal on his path to glory.

however, he'd lie if he said your encounter hadn't changed his perspective on the idea. before your appearance bloomed in his life as this immortal, unique and treasured flower, he was miles away from actually considering the mere thought of entering into mariage he once labeled as foolish.

yet, the closer he got to becoming the greatest swordsman, the more natural and obvious this perspective gradually became.

the signature scowl he'd offer the entire world held this impeccable use of hiding his deepest thoughts, ones playing in his mind more than he'd be willing to admit, but wandering like they owned the place. all and each of them revolving around you...

...and in usual zoro fashion, around very practical considerations.

"can i fight in a montsuki hakama?" "where do i put my swords during the ceremony?" "should sanji bake a cake?" "are vows mendatory, considering marriage is already a vow?"

not that he would not think of how striking you'd be looking in a white dress ; this was a scientific fact he did not have to think about at all.

this train of thoughts would go on everyday without you knowing, his heart keeping this secret close.

until one day, you joined your favorite swordsman at the table, his scowl deeper than usual. big, muscular arms crossed. your hand gently rested on his thigh, hoping your touch would soothe him.

and of course it did. the warmth of your palm brought him so much peace, that when your dulcet voice asked what was going on in his mind, he simply, and quite inadvertently, uttered :

"i was just thinking about what you'd prefer for me to wear at our wedding."

his sudden declaration struck you, and tainted your cheeks with a warm shade of pink.

because in all his considerations and all he thought about, from how natural and logical marriage was with you, zoro forgot the most important thing : proposal.

©himezoro!

(Clasping your shoulder gently)

The Operator is basically a cosmic demigod who has met with the Space Devil multiple times. They wear infected suits of armor like everyday clothing, switching them out as they please. They cannot die, or at least are extremely difficult to put down. They're an eternal immortal teenager whose collective anger toppled two nightmarish empires, and left a third empire half-leaderless. They and the Drifter destroy horrific "angels" born of the same tragedy that made them what they are, and in the back of their heads, they worry they could become angels as well.

The Drifter is equally eldritch, the same cosmic demigod trapped in the pages of a children's story for centuries or even millennia. They have grown without the influence of the Space Devil, but they faced thousands of deaths and more at the hands of a dimensional fisher king made to be their playtime friend. They escaped this mad storybook world through a little bit of help and their own fathomless willpower. They traveled throughout time at the behest of a deeply unethical mad scientist to save a city trapped in an eternal loop, befriending a growing number of people infected by the same disease that cultivates the very biomechanical armor they use at will. They can even romance one of these people, or more if they but reset the year, over and over and over again. Time is their plaything. They converse an infected guitar who is a shred of the infinite consciousnesses whom they both fight against and wear.