#dio x reader

▀▄▀▄▀▄ Diavolo/Vinegar Doppio ▀▄▀▄▀▄

꒰ ꒱ Diavolo is in his own personal hell. Yes, it’s simple enough to overcome: find you, entrap you. And overcoming it may lead to a greater purpose, a greater power that could be his.

꒰ ꒱ Why did it have to come at the cost of someone knowing his identity?

꒰ ꒱ Researches the phenomenon as best as possible. Every answer infuriates him.

꒰ ꒱ There is, however, a new concern: there was only one body. Did Doppio have a soulmate that was different from him?

꒰ ꒱ He lingers, semiconscious, behind his subordinate’s eyes, once the worming roots begin to take hold, seizing into his insides and the poor body cramping around them. Not in control, he doesn’t feel it as badly. Doppio is struggling, clutching a new “phone” and listening to his boss when the petals spill out his mouth.

꒰ ꒱ Admittedly, Doppio’s heart flutters a little at the idea of a soulmate. Unlike the Boss, he could enjoy it with no issues, he’s merely a lackey— though, he believes you would be put in danger by the virtue of his career. What if someone wanted to hurt you?

꒰ ꒱ (That’s another gripe Diavolo has; should someone target you, he needs Doppio, and cannot let you die, for any of your sakes.)

꒰ ꒱ It is with luck that the petals Diavolo and Doppio cough up are the same. But even luckier, when Doppio stumbles down the street, clutching a stitch in his side, that he bumps into you almost literally, carrying the same crumpled leaves.

꒰ ꒱ You’ll do. Diavolo can’t help the flood of relief he feels when Doppio gets to kiss you. And yet… it isn’t enough. The pain isn’t stopping.

꒰ ꒱ Why? He wasn’t wrong, was he? No, the pain was leaving, but… it hits him.

꒰ ꒱ Both souls have to make contact.

꒰ ꒱ At least you were cute. It would be annoying if not. But now, you’ve no idea of the danger encircling you.

꒰ ꒱ Diavolo prefers you don’t ask questions. The more docile and accepting you are, the better.

꒰ ꒱ He believes he can control you, at least to a degree. It’s by the kindness of Doppio, who takes the lead 90% of the time. He’s the one who enjoys the concept in the first place, Diavolo lets him have it. (And Doppio’s incredibly normal about it comparatively. Like you have an actual chance at a relationship with him, dates learning about each other, gentle kisses to ease the pain, presents that aren’t expensive but make you feel like “soulmate” has meaning.)

꒰ ꒱ Or Dia wants you wants you to believe, he lets Doppio have it. When you sleep, the dominant, darker personality watches you, letting his hand brush your cheek. He’d rather die than admit how you scrunch your nose is endearing.

꒰ ꒱ Resist at your own risk. Diavolo is emperor; yours too, and this situation is nothing more than fate’s trial.

Breathless, one after another, soft, needy, desperate pecks against your lips— pressure around your heart decreases, though the pained inhales of the man who holds you are unchanging. Your eyelids flutter. He doesn’t stop, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, feverish, and you shudder, the brick wall against you warm in midday sun.

“D-Doppio… are you—“

“Keep… keep your eyes closed.” His voice is strained. Hands tremble on your hips.

“I—“

“Just keep them closed!” He snaps. But that voice— it sounds less like him, deeper, raspier, and you seize up in fear and obey. What happened? He was clearly agonized, unable to stop himself, what was happening? He had to be your soulmate, you felt the relief, the pale pink petals with mottled black the same hue that you each saw clearly… there was no way—

Lips crash into yours again. But they feel rougher. Slightly thinner. Panic shoots through you, but this kiss was just as relieving, full of need, deep, hands that have to be larger than they just were pinning you in place to the brick alley wall.

You swoon, the roots’ hold loosening. And it seems they are for your mate too, whose kiss slowly becomes less intense, in relief.

He pulls back. Your kiss swollen lips are brushed by a thumb, but the power in that second voice keeps you from looking. There’s a sigh.

“Hey, you… you’re really my soulmate.”

Doppio’s voice returns. Hesitantly, you open an eye.

The pink haired man looks just the same as when he took your hand ten minutes ago, just a little more rumpled, a blush across freckled cheeks. He’s smiling gently.

You exhale, nodding. “Y-yeah. Do you… want to go to a cafe and chat?” You ask.

Beaming, he nods. “I have some spare time. Can we? I want to know more about you.”

He loops pinkies with you, and doesn’t seem to acknowledge at all what just happened— Asking about what just happened seems… unwise.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ Kars .𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ The Pillarman is somewhat pissed off, he’s distracted enough by the search for the stone of Aja and now there’s some… thing growing inside him? When did that begin?

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ He tries to get a sample to study it somehow, but can’t. Practically vivisects himself in the attempt. And tests on the petals he coughs up only confirm current knowledge. It infuriates him that he cannot do anything to research it, unless he gets another sample.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ And now that it’s activated, he’s on a manhunt.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ He enlists Esidisi and Wamuu to search for individuals exhibiting the disease, and it leaves you, your lonesome little figure clutching your sides and wincing when you walk, but still pushing to work, iris petals in your wake.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ Kars views this not as a personal test, but an opportunity to study, as annoying as it is. He dislikes the consistent pain of the plant’s growth, it’s a new phenomena that he can’t merely twist himself out of. There are exceedingly few of those.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ Very much hopes you understand your place: essentially a vaccine to him, indulging as he must to prevent the spread and discomfort each of you feel. Though…

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ Should you be interested in his mission, he would welcome assistance. And he has no qualms about keeping pets.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ Beautiful ones like you, too, can be indulged. Don’t you dare imply he’s indulging himself, drawing you onto his lap at any given opportunity, or cradling you close at night.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ You aren’t escaping in any lifetime.

He’s strong. That’s the first thing you register, as you go from casually walking home from the corner store humming to yourself to cradled in the biceps of a stranger.

Your mouth opens to scream, but you stop yourself with the realization of how your chest feels. It’s lighter. Pulling. As if magnetized to the man behind you, and your lips slam shut. He isn’t running away with you, but walks patiently, steadily, in the same direction as your apartment.

Your heart, ensnared in vines, struggles weakly. It hurts. It hurts horribly, this close to him too, and you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut against it. The chest of the large man— was he even a man?—rumbles.

“Patience, human.”

Answered that question. You tremble as he takes a detour, striding into a dark alley. Gravel skitters under your feet as he sets you down, and a large dumpster beside you blocks out most of the streetlamp. So much for romantic meetings.

But you can hardly be picky. Hacking, an indigo and yellow hued petal comes out and sticks to your shirt, your chest heaving as he pins you to the brick wall with a single hand. Your heart and mind race. But as he tilts up your chin, all attempts to rationalize cease.

He’s… otherworldly beautiful. The cut of his olive skin, red eyes like precious gems beneath strands of deep violet hair that peek from his black head wrap. Gazing at you with an expression so intense, your breath seizes in your chest.

“The antidote is a kiss. Correct?”

He’s practically demanding an answer of you, but didn’t he know already, if he had scooped you up like that? As you nod, he pushes his mouth against yours.

It’s hardly a kiss as much as it is a claim of ownership. Rough, despite his plush lips, the sharpness of his teeth scratching against your skin. The tightening in your chest dissipates. His must too, but the being kisses you still, the back of your skull scraping against the brick slightly, and you whine.

As he pulls back, a trail of saliva connects your lips. Panting, you look up, and your hand bunches in the fabric of your skirt.

Satisfaction, or relief, you expected in his expression. Not a burning curiosity. Fire in his eyes warms his smile, as sinister as sharp teeth are.

“How perfect. Come.”

˗ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ˗⚠︎ Kira Yoshikage ˗ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ˗⚠︎

✷ What do you mean he has to spend his life with a real person, that’s gross (I’m joking)

✷ But he is disturbed by the fact that it has started—like Diavolo, he could have had his soulmate spawn on the other half of the world, and he wouldn’t have to worry, but alas. Now he has to find you; and that’s the easiest part.

✷ He dislikes the discomfort of the plant immensely.

✷ But he’s excellent at stalking. After days of observation, no petals matching his, he continues, stoic, calm, relentless.

✷ He hates it. He needs nothing but what he’s already perfected the art of acquiring.

✷ At least he tells himself that. Though, as he grows older, he realizes as well that it’s more suspicious to not have a partner, even if it causes him chagrin. Ideally, it’s someone more of a decoration than anything else, someone who has no issue going off and doing their own thing that he can walk around outside with occasionally, have dinners with no conversation with, and, as an added benefit, ward off the pesky coworkers who flirted with him.

✷ It’s them who are annoyed when Kira, a single bead of perspiration from the twisting pain in his abdomen, catches sight of you, bending in two and cupping— a rather pretty hand— to your mouth, where petals fall out.

✷ You’re a mask to him, albeit one he must care for slightly. He cannot take your hands from you, or he’ll die too, and he’s a coward.

✷ An unassuming, supportive figure in his life he’ll gladly tolerate. So long as you don’t look into his hobbies.

“Excuse me.”

As you look up, a mint green handkerchief enters your vision. Your fingers slowly leave your lips, small, pale lavender blooms dripping from them, and embarrassedly you take the offering.

“I’m sorry, I—“

But there’s that tug. That one that you were told preludes the complete change your life would undergo, should you meet your soulmate. Your heart stutters when you look up.

Alarm bells chime in the back of your head. No, something was… wrong.

He’s handsome. High cheekbones, perfectly styled blond hair, broad shoulders. But he is barely smiling at you. In fact, his expression is almost eerily calm, just the corners of his mouth tilted up.

“You were coughing lavender, weren’t you?”

Wordlessly, you touch your lips and nod. His eyes flicker down to your hand for a moment, before meeting your eyes once again. His expression doesn’t warm, but there’s an odd… satisfaction to it now. You smile hesitantly.

“Do you feel it as well?”

He brushes a finger against his lip. When he pulls it away to show you, an identical bloom to that which you just spit up sits, crumpled and wet. Your stomach drops.

“May I?” He asks, quietly. “You must feel the pain too.”

You nod. His eyes flash.

A chorus of whispers is your background music, as his lips slant against yours.

You feel how his body relaxes before yours does. But the weight on your organs releases, the flower inside you curling in on itself in satisfaction, and you can’t help but relax as well.

He takes your hand in both of his.

As you part, your eyelids flutter. The department store worker draws circles on the back of your hand. And he speaks to you softly, in a voice that doesn’t quite sound warm enough to be human.

“My name is Yoshikage Kira. Would you please wait until my lunch, that we may talk?”

ᛪ༙𓂃✍︎ Enrico Pucci ᛪ༙𓂃✍︎

♱ One of the more accepting ones. As he’s come to terms with the unknowability of the world, and the movements of fate, he knows this is something he must accept as well. Yes, gravity pulled you two together. Though lord Dio had never written of it, he had the potential to discover it, expand upon it, and truly create Heaven for those who also found difficulty with their mate.

♱ The pain of it is merely a trial. Suffering from it now would bring glory, so long as he followed his doctrine.

♱ Pucci would search his memory for any detail of Dio’s experience with it. Though they have different means of control, their goals are ultimately the same.

♱ He would be much more pleased if you, as well, could find it as exciting and wondrous as he. That you share an interest in that which lies beyond this universe.

♱ If you didn’t he may be a little put off. But Pucci has a god complex. Provided you aren’t tied to that poisonous Joestar bloodline, he believes he can teach you.

♱ Even if you’re a prisoner he visits in the sick bay, hacking up petals and shivering in agony.

♱ If you catch his attention on the street, the vines in his chest arching to you, he feels it tenfold: just as fate brought him to Dio, so it brought you to him, to be embraced in holy light.

♱ He’s inexperienced in intimacy and romance, placing just one experimental, first kiss to your lips and sighing with you in relief of the pain.

♱ Walk by him, learn from him. At your awestruck expression, he feels a twinge of pleasure. Dio must have felt the same.

♱ You are his. God has ordained it so. May you invite mercy.

“If I may be so bold, my dear.”

Your spine is curled so intensely over yourself, you feel you might snap in half. But still, you manage to straighten enough on the bench, eyes widening at the man standing above you.

As if destiny were laughing at you, the sun creates a halo around the man’s head, and you barely make out his face at first. But it sharpens; a tawny complexion beautifully contrasted by white hair, dark eyes that are soft despite their vastness, both are set against a well built frame and… were those priests’ garments?

You feel blood come to your face and you turn away, covering your cheek and mouth, but a soft retch lets a white rose petal slip to your lap.

The priest coughs. In disbelief, you look to him again, and with the same patient expression, he holds out his palm to you. On it— is a white rose petal, the same as yours.

Your stomach drops.

“Forgive me, father,” you murmur.

“It is not for me to forgive. Only that which is above us. Though,” he adds, and kneels to be level with you, gazing at you with a feverish look that makes you shudder. “If God has placed us before each other, I must admit, I seek his will.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Please,” you say, softly.

“Forgive me, my Lord. I am not familiar with this.” That is all he says, before he kisses you.

It’s chaste. Awkward, in a cute way; how long had he been devoted to his cause, was this his first kiss? But you don’t want to make fun of him. His lips are soft. That plant inside of you releases its hold, and as he pulls back, each of you exhale.

Shame and confusion spin in your head. But the priest seems satisfied, letting his fingers trail along your temple. His eyes are obsidian.

“Let us walk. I would like to know more about you.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻* Funny Valentine ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*

=★= Way too into it for his and your own good.

=★= Through taking charge of this flower, and furthermore the one attached to the other side of it, he asserts his power once more over his world and those who would seek to harm him.

=★= And he fully intends on using all the resources he has available to him to find you.

=★= After getting to what is, by any means, essentially the throne of America (and eliminating all perishing versions of him via D4C), he’s displeased with the pain he has to deal with. But after an experimental swap with another dimension’s Valentine led to the growth of the plant in his chest, Funny executed him and set out to do what he should have in the first place.

=★= Ideally you share his mania. Or at the very least, you can appreciate his grand vision for America. No matter if you don’t.

=★= He might be able to convince you, but if you don’t bend, he has no qualms about marrying you by force. The discovery of the President’s soulmate is a grand occasion, after all.

=★= I doubt he’s out there seeking you himself, rather having his cronies match his petals to those sick on the street. You’re swept up without warning and brought before the president in a panic.

=★= Play along so he doesn’t have to hurt you. You don’t need to get a scar on that pretty face.

You can’t get a word in, Blackmore’s expression covered by a mask as he pulls you along by the wrist, murmuring to himself. Just an hour ago, you were walking to the apothecary, and suddenly you were now in one of the most terrifyingly secure buildings in the nation. No reason given. Merely the iron grip of the man striding in front of you, and a promise of pain if you didn’t obey.

Flanking you, guards in deep blue with silver insignias and buttons that gleam like stars refuse to answer your babbling questions, or even really acknowledge you, even when Blackmore stops and almost crashes you into the closed, ivory painted doors. He doesn’t even look at you when he knocks.

“President, si~iiir. I have them.”

“Bring them in and leave.”

Your lips part, but you get nothing out— Cramps wrack your body, a lurching in your chest, and you all but fall into the luxuriously trimmed room as the doors creak open. Bent nearly in two, your whole body trembles as you cough, tickling in your throat as fuchsia petals drop to the floor like blood. A hand takes the one pressed to your mouth and pulls you into a kiss.

Shock turns to utter relief. His touch is dominating, one hand on the small of your back, the other clasping your hand in his gloved one, and he half moans, half sighs into your mouth. You melt in the command of him— his embrace, his touch suffocating.

When he finally pulls back, your eyes widen.

“M-Mr. President?” You whisper.

Golden curls, sure, but his face was…. Different. More carved, handsome, the blue eyes stoic and rimmed with thick lashes, not piggy like you’d seen in newspapers. He gazes at you almost impassively, trailing his fingers along your spine. You shudder.

“Soulmates… inescapable, it seems.” Valentine sighs, and his breath grazes your neck.

“No matter. You’re cuter than Scarlet.”

‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧— Dio Brando/DIO ⋆ ˖ ⏱︎.ᐟ

⏱︎ Brando (P1 Dio) is initially quite, quite annoyed by it. Young Dio’s egomania is matched by his narcissism, untempered by decades of plotting. What he seeks to do, he seeks it immediately. When he starts to taste florals and the roots take hold in his gut, it’s a delay that he cannot stand.

⏱︎ Not to mention how much it irks him that, despite his efforts, he is still, inexplicably tied to humanity. But it hits him, scratching his forehead with a claw— was this the true destiny of the mask?

⏱︎ Once older, he’s less irritated about the concept. His understanding of fate has matured; and so has his power. The pain he feels is merely a temporary fixture, nothing more.

⏱︎ Nothing compares to decades at the bottom of the sea.

⏱︎ Still, regrettably, it ties him to humanity. But this may be the means he completely, and totally dominates it.

⏱︎ By turning you as well, or managing to keep you submissive? Perhaps both. DIO believes he can do the latter without the former. He’s charmed countless beings to kneel to him. If you were bound to him, you ought to attempt to make him happy.

⏱︎ Brando’s ghouls seek you out, monstrous and utterly terrifying. Anyone who isn’t spitting blood red blossoms is fair game for them to devour.

⏱︎ Likewise, DIO’s minions search for you like heat seeking missiles; Pet Shop’s ability to get a literal bird’s eye view means you couldn’t hope to escape, if you even knew you were being looked for.

⏱︎ Dio Brando, however, leaves trails of carnage in his wake.

⏱︎ Aware of the danger, you hide as best you can. Your heart is seized by the terror of this invading swarm, more so once you realize that you’re the one they’re looking for.

⏱︎ But you can’t hide long. You will be brought before the vampire, on your knees, whether in the damp chill of Windknight’s Lot or the lingering heat of Cairo, and gaze upon your new lord.

⏱︎ Preferably with admiration. Though you would be wise to infuse that with fear.

⏱︎ He could be a doting mate— kisses that steal the pain, and your breath, away, dripping in gold and silk. But he has no hesitation about chaining you up if you get unruly.

⏱︎ Gods can be as loving as they are vicious. Let your adoration bloom.

Trembling, on your knees on cold marble— those that brought you here were horrifically powerful, who on earth could they have brought you to? Was this truly how you’d meet your soulmate?

“Finally. Here you are.”

You freeze at the deep, satisfied voice. It echoes in the empty foyer, the beings who tossed you in here having quickly dispersed. But you don’t want to look up. In all honesty, you fear you may cry, if you do. Only something monstrous, and otherworldly powerful— or someone who fancied themselves as such— could do this, commanding the ones who caught you, they’d all had such strange abilities. Stranger still, the near silent step of the man who, to your horror, the vines in your chest reach to eagerly.

He hums. In the dim light, you barely make out a shock of halo-like gold hair, pearlescent skin. Beautiful. And certainly not human.

Not with the way he pulls you to your feet in one swift move.

Your cry is muffled by his mouth, shuddering at the shameful relief that spreads through your body from the touch of him. And he too, must get that rush of ecstasy from the release of his own flower’s hold on his insides. That he had it in the first place, fate was playing a cruel joke on you, entangling you with such a being.

He nips you sharply. You yelp.

Chuckling softly, his tongue flickers out to lick away the drop of blood from where your kiss swollen lip was broken, and you tremble in his grasp.

“I look forward to your serving me. My little mate.”

.ᐟ𒁂𓄧༝ Diego Brando .ᐟ𒁂𓄧༝

𓆌 It’s a distraction to him at best and an annoyance at most. What really ticks him off is that he’s kind of got no time for it (similar to Dio Brando).

𓆌 And he’s not happy he can’t just get rid of you either. Whereas his first wife was a means to an end, you are an intervention from forces that he has been lucky to evade for years. So now, of course, that he’s finally made a name for himself, and begun to cement in a legacy of victory, there is the unfortunate obstacle of you he cannot merely leap over.

𓆌 Upon reconsideration though, he does appreciate the idea that having you will prevent others from bothering him. The attention of a crowd of cute girls made other jockeys jealous, sure, but that’s not his goal. And having a single spouse— his soulmate, no less— not only endears him to the grander populace, but eliminates pesky distractions such as aging millionaires begging him to look at their daughters.

𓆌 You’ll be well taken care of. Just don’t bother him. And let him kiss you whenever he wants, he just needs an inch of relief. The more he tastes you, the more he feels a deep, intense desire to control you. Not only so he doesn’t die, but so you never consider leaving in the first place.

𓆌 More devoted than he’d let you believe. The moment he tastes you, feels the ecstasy you bring, he’s addicted.

𓆌 The pain is nothing to him. His mother dealt with worse for him. So too he would tolerate this, in order to preserve his dignity.

𓆌 Minute azure petals drop from your lips, which he only catches out of the side of his eye— the tendrils in his chest reaching for you on the sidelines, confirming it. Yes. This was it.

𓆌 He breaks from the winner’s circle, to the annoyance of Johnny, and bewilderment of the judges, until he hops down from his horse, and takes your hand in his.

“And our immortal winner Diego— Diego?”

Your eyes widen at the man dressed in teal, bent in half and coughing. His fellow medaling jockeys stare at him in bewilderment, Johnny Joestar’s eyes narrowing as Brando straightens, and looks directly towards… you.

Your heart pounds. No way.

But as he trots away from the flower decked podium, his eyes are locked onto you. The same blue as his uniform. The same blue as—

He slides from his horse in one smooth motion, and meets your gaze.

For a moment, you shudder. There’s nothing behind those irises. No warmth, or excitement. Even as he takes your hand in his gloved one, and pulls you to his lips.

The tendrils around your heart relax. They must for him too, as he sighs into your mouth, pressing one more peck to you before pulling back.

Blood rushes to your face in shock. He smiles— his incisors are sharp.

And the announcer cries out, to a roaring crowd that you nearly swoon to,

Stand: Sweet Lady

Ability: Causes the target to see multiple illusions of the user, one of which is the Stand itself.

“And what about—“

“You are on your second strike.”

Abruptly, you shut your mouth mid sentence and glare at the book covering your master’s face. The hardcover tome’s threads are fraying at the sewn spine, the color somewhere between crimson and deep wine, and impossible to tell in the dim candlelight from the golden chandelier overhead. Black nails more akin to talons tap on the faded cover. A shock of golden hair blooms behind his head like sunflower petals— ironic, and you cross your arms, sticking out your hip with a pout.

“But my lord Dio, it’s true! We haven’t even considered adding any modern technology to the mansion. Telence refuses to share his TV, and it would certainly motivate meeeee to know there’s the potential of a little break,” you protest. “Even if all we get are local channels, I could rent a video or two.”

“Lacking in motivation?” He asks. His cold, amused voice trickles down your shoulders, stiffening you just slightly. “How bold.”

Okay, maybe not the best choice of words. You press your lips together, and shift on your feet. “Well, not quite what I meant, but almost-- I just think we’ve all been working preeeetty damn hard. I even incinerated the remains of those stupid Speedwagon goons so they wouldn’t get found without you asking. My lord,” you add sarcastically at the end. His fingers tense on the cover.

Mischief lightening your chest, you sway a little closer. The thin dress is really a slip more than anything, the lace trimmed neckline low enough to hint at the chest your lord adored beneath. It barely reaches your mid thigh either— sometimes it made chilly nights unbearable, but a robe could always be secured. Or, if you were lucky, as you hope for now… your lord could be persuaded to hold you in his marble-like arms.

As you kneel, propping your arms up on the chair arm, you catch a glimpse of his expression. Cool. Controlled. On such a beautiful face, god himself gave him the name, it seemed. The seam where his head ended and the body of Jonathan Joestar began is pinkish, but no longer raised.

Without realizing, your fingers are stretching towards it. You were curious— how did the skin feel?

“Y/N.”

“Yes, my lord?” You ask, letting your hand hover next to his neck. Dio’s nail drags on the exterior of the book.

“I believe I have tolerated enough of you. Vanilla?”

“W--Oi!” you yelp, much more surprised than you would have liked, the man your lord called for wrapping a single arm around you and scooping you up like you weigh nothing, swiftly turning around and escorting you out, despite how you kick at his shins and wiggle like a pissed off cat. As he steps outside of the cool, extra dark room, you’re set down and the massive doors close behind you.

Whirling around, you glare at the tall, violet clad man who stares down at you with an icy conviction. Dark brown hair curled just at the tips, a gentle wave in his hair-- he was quite pretty, especially when the purple highlighted his cooler skintones. But now, he’s not pretty, and he’s not at all who you want to see. And there’s a vein throbbing in his temple that you mayyyyy have a hunch as to the reason for.

“Vanilla, I was talking with our lord!”

“Oh? He seemed quite happy conversing with you.” His voice is flat. You sigh, rubbing your temple.

“Listen, I get it--”

“I don’t think you do. If I catch hide or hair of you near this door until he departs, I will not hesitate to swallow your ankle. You don’t need one foot to do what he desires of you.”

Asshole. Vanilla wasn’t formally part of the harem, but the way he sucked lord Dio’s dick you wouldn’t put it past your lord to be enjoying it when he wasn’t scooping up you or one of the other scantily dressed gals that milled about their posts in a blood-loss haze. Bloodlust and your overall mischievous nature had piqued the vampire’s interest, after you nearly bit his thumb when he tried too quickly to invite you into his chambers. Months later, healed from that virus latent in the arrow, and utterly spellbound by your god’s invitation to serve, you found yourself among the lucky… really maybe two, you hadn’t paid attention in a minute-- with a Stand and not drained dry after the second encounter. Less and less bloodbags got a second turn.

Admittedly, it made you smug. Mornings after relieving lord Dio spent lounging on silk cushions, stretching like a cat, shivering with the soreness of your muscles and the memories of how he manipulated your body to his own benefit-- maybe you were only a cute toy, but at least you were cute. Vanilla sure wasn’t. You stick your tongue out at him.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll bug off for now. But you have to admit as well, Vanilla, you’ve been putting in overtime around here-- not saying that it isn’t what we should be doing,” you snap, as his lips part and he looks at you with a scowl. Yeesh. “But that our lord has hardly entreated us to anything since we’ve amped up our efforts.”

“Are you working only to be rewarded? I don’t believe Lord Dio would find that satisfactory for a reasoning to stay.”

Your nails scratch into your palms; clenching your fists, you take a deep breath. “I’m teasing. It’s really not that serious.”

“And you think that he has the bandwidth for such distractions,” Vanilla replies, dry, and shakes his head. “Just stay away.”

Stay away, yeah? Chrissakes, were you a dog or something? You scratch your temple and sigh, checking your nails. Ugh, you needed to paint them again. They were chipping awful and you didn’t really care to beg Dio for another salon appointment. “Yeah, sure. I need to get rid of some Speedwagon Foundation fucks anyway before the sun sets, but I’ll be back in plenty of time, mmkay?” You say, and roll your shoulders as you pivot towards your lord’s room, where the shred of your former wardrobe existed to fool the masses. “If he doesn’t request me, I’ll be pissed.”

“As if you’re special.”

The sentence sends a shock of pain through your heart, down your limbs, twinging awfully. You’d sock him, if you could. But instead, you hmmph and toss your hair back, striding away.

“And you’re so much better. I’ll be back later.”

“Don’t bother. You’re merely infuriating him at the moment.”

You flip him off behind your shoulder. But you can’t help the sting of his words, biting the inside of your cheek and striding off. Fuck him. You just needed to remind Dio of how effective his favorite little treat was.

You were, right…? Anxiety nibbles at the insides of your stomach, but you shake your head.

One by one the others had shrivelled up, been cast aside to garbage, dried into husks that were little but fertilizer. The taste grew dull. They couldn’t satisfy him in bed. Or they let the Foundation, and that band of idiots led by Joseph Joestar, get too close.

Those ones though, they had failed over and over. You hadn’t. There were maybe two times that your target nearly made it to the hospital, but you met them there. Sloppy, but still done. Right?

Sighing, you throw open the doors to your chambers.

Maybe you had been acting a little spoiled lately, but you couldn’t help it. It had been a while since he needed you for anything besides killing, and while you didn’t mind it, you didn’t want to just touch yourself. It was boring.

Though, you muse, as you parse through the hanging dresses, suits, and shorts, that punishment had been rather fun… you shiver at the memory, on bruised knees, arms bound behind your back with rope as Dio fucked your mouth viciously. His thick cock stretching your jaw to its limit, the cruel timbre of his laugh when tears flowed freely down your cheeks and you struggled to breathe, especially when he pinched your nose shut— that was a fun kind of mean, not like now, you pout, and select a lilac linen dress and violet shawl.

These fucks should be pretty easy to dispose of. No one in the Foundation possessed a Stand, and with Sweet Lady, you could probably knock them out in one clean hour.

Hm. Maybe you should have bugged Dio for the salon trip anyway…. Or, you could just go and have him reimburse you. You tap a chipped nail to your chin in thought.

Shimmying out of your slip, you slide on the equally airy ensemble, reaching into the lacquered drawer of the vanity for the bra that matched your deep red underwear. Sandals then, and…. How did you want to do your makeup?

You look in the mirror. Something soft would probably suit this look, maybe a sharper eyeliner. But what about lipstick?

An idea pops into your head, and you grin. Well, wouldn’t the best person to ask be your master? He was the one who bought it for you, of course.

Humming, you scoop up three equally good choices and practically skip through your door— nearly colliding with someone and stumbling back before they take hold of your wrist.

“Hey, wat— ah, Y/N?”

You look up, and smile. “Hol Horse! It’s been a minute.”

The blond gunslinger lets go of your wrist, letting his fingers trail over your palm as he reflects your expression. “Too long, since I’ve seen yer face, cutie.”

“Don’t let Dio hear you say that. Or maybe. Doesn’t seem like he’d care,” you think aloud, groaning. Hol Horse chuckles, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Aw come now, if anything I’m complimenting his taste,” he teases, and pinches your cheek. You shake your head, laughing and giving him a playful shove.

“Are you coming back with good news?”

His expression flickers for a second, but he puts the easy grin back on. “Who do ya think I am, baby? The Joestars are currently eating dust in Pakistan. Wouldn’t be surprised if they just gave up there.”

You roll your eyes. After enough times, you were pretty sure you had a read on when he was hamming it up for his own benefit, especially because if Dio wasn’t satisfied, you would hear about it later— or at least feel how pissed off he was.

He clucks his tongue. “Don’t you roll yer eyes at me.”

“Then don’t you lie to me,” you counter, rolling the lipstick tubes over each other in your palm. His eyes drop to them— and the sweetheart neckline of your dress.

“Still shredding Foundation folks?” He asks.

You nod, and perk. “I actually was just going to ask lord Dio about the shade of lipstick he thought would be best, but if Vanilla is still in front of the door….”

“Did Dio kick ya poor little self out again?”

“I was just asking for a TV!” You protest, and he laughs.

“Sure ya were.”

“Anyways, you can save me the steps. Which one of these looks like it’ll suit me more? And this outfit.” You do a little twirl for him, and he nods appreciatively.

“Do that again, didn’t see it too well.”

You stick out your tongue at him. “Pervert. You just want to see my ass.”

“Can ya blame me, cutie? Hell, if ya weren’t Dio’s property, I’d steal you up myself,” he says, voice tapering into a low whisper. Natural born flirt. Giggling, you shake your head.

“If you weren’t scared, you would try it now.”

“Strike three.”

Shit.

Both you and Hol Horse freeze at the quiet, barely contained tone that resonates from the spot about a yard away from you. Fingers tightening around the lipsticks, you turn your head just slightly, and immediately shrink in on yourself a little, heart pounding.

That expression… you forgot it existed, he wore it so rarely. Corners of his mouth tilted up just enough, only in his eyes, there wasn’t a hint of mirth— only cold, calculated fury.

“I like your confidence, Hol Horse. That you could even begin to satisfy this little whore.”

Your gaze snaps to the ground, clasping your palms together. Gods, what could you say? Nothing comes to mind, no good excuse, no explanation, and worst of all, no reason why he wouldn’t just kill you.

Dio’s hand settles firmly on the base of your spine. Two sharp nails scratch you slightly through the fabric. You flinch.

He speaks softly. “Stay here. If you think that you can handle all that which you hear from inside, be my guest, and try to take what is mine.”

Your stomach drops. No, he couldn’t mean—

But you only get a brief look at Hol Horse’s stunned, reddened face before you’re shoved into yours and your lord’s room, falling to your knees, and swallowed in an even more oppressive darkness than that of the hall.

You can’t even hear. His footsteps on the marble floor are muffled by the roaring of blood in your ears, your hands trembling on your lap. Lips part, but nothing falls out, not even a trembling apology. Gods, the anticipation was killing you.

“You have been in quite the state today,” he murmurs.

You swallow. In front of you, he steps, his silk slippered feet barely visible in the candlelight.

“Desiring my attention so much, you were willing to die for it?”

A tear slides down your cheek.

“Speak,” he commands.

“I-I…” you stammer, and he raises one foot.

Instinctively you flinch, but he only uses it to tilt your chin up.

His eyes glow, fiery coals. The impressive planes of his muscles highlighted in the low light, cut as precisely as David. Pale skin glimmers, almost giving the illusion of iridescence.

Swallowing again, you start, “I’m s-sorry.”

“Mm? What was that?”

“P-Please, forgive me Lord Dio!” You cry, as he sets his foot back down and your head drops, rushing, feverish with worry now— say something, idiot!

“I w-went too far, I would never offer myself to anyone else.”

“Is that so?”

Dio’s voice deepens, sending shivers all down your body. You nod fervently. He hums, barely audible, and circles back behind you.

“Perhaps I could entertain your apology. But it doesn’t come without punishment,” he whispers. “You have greatly insulted me.”

“Lord Dio, I will do anything to right my mistake,” you say softly. Your neck bends forward so shsrply, it’s sure to be stiff.

“And you will, indeed.”

He grabs you by an arm, pulling you up roughly so you almost fall. All but throwing you towards the large, luxurious canopy bed, where he stops you before you can fall onto it, feet nearly slipping. One claw pricks at the base of your neck.

“I bought this for you, didn’t I?”

Before you can answer, time stutters.

In shreds, the fabric falls around your feet, and you yelp. Without acknowledging it, a finger trails around the hip band of your underwear.

“And this. Yet you attempt to seduce others in it.”

You shake your head fervently, but he tuts.

“Do not misunderstand me. Your beautiful body…” Dio slides a hand up to your wrist, pressing it to the post of the bed. In a swift movement, he procures a satin strand from somewhere and wraps you to the wood, tightly, bringing your other wrist to it as well to secure you. The carvings push into your skin uncomfortably, and as you tug, they only seem to get tighter. “Is an asset to dispose of those meddling fools. But you need remember who it belongs to.

“The flesh right here,” he continues, and rips through the side of your underwear cleanly, making you squirm, “Would look quite beautiful with my name tattooed on it. Or even branded on it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Your mouth goes dry. Imagining the searing, burning pain of the glowing iron, the same color as his eyes, makes you whimper, hands shakily locking around the post.

“At a later date, perhaps I’ll consider it. But for now, little one,” Dio purrs. “Arch your back.”

The world stutters again, and your bra joins your underwear on the floor. Exposed fully to the chill of the room, your hairs raise, nipples perking and you shift uncomfortably back and forth before doing as he says. Your spine curls. Like an invitation, your ass is presented to him, legs spread just slightly, exposing the slightest bit of that wet space between your thighs. You shiver.

He lets his nail scratch your hip. Your breath hitches as he digs in a little.

“This will suffice.”

In a sharp, swift movement, he tears down the skin, ripping it open as easily as a knife through butter.

You cry out. It skips, stutters, again and again; As his Stand activates, you feel your skin throb where he carves into you with his bare hands, some kind of pattern-- blood trickles down your side from thin, precise, painful scratches. Whimpering from the pain, in your foggy head you realize what he must have done.

“Mm… maybe this was the answer all along. I’ll keep these long,” he murmurs, satisfied, and one hand wraps around your thigh.

You shudder; his tongue flicks out and licks across the carving of his name-- Dio-- behind your right hip.

Tears burn your eyes. Both at the pain, and the absolute shame of how your clit throbs and your arousal slickens you. He’d never done this.

“Keep the arch,” he commands.

Against your thigh, something tickles. You freeze.

“How many, do you think you deserve?”

Swallowing, your mind rushes. Lust and pain fog your head, your palms growing sweaty against the post, but if you didn’t give an answer, it would be worse. Licking your lips, you half say, half squeak, “A-at least… thirty, my lord. F-Forty.”

The crop smacks against the inside of your legs sharply, and you almost jump.

“How humble. It’s a better look on you,” Dio coos, and pulls back his arm, before another crack leaves a stinging red mark on your behind, pulling a soft cry from you. “Accept it all.”

Your hands shake. If you had nails as sharp as your lord’s you’d be shredding the post. But you stand, helpless, on legs beginning to buckle as he strikes, over, and over, across the soft flesh of your upper thighs and backside: the skin warming, reddening, the sharp pop of at least two small bruises. Pacing himself erratically, before becoming achingly even. You moan, eyelids fluttering with ecstasy at the mingling pleasure and pain. All the while, sweet words echo dimly in your head.

Finally, it stops. The thing trails along your quivering thigh, but it doesn’t raise against you again. You exhale.

Instead you feel his large hand cup your behind, the thumb trailing down to your slick, sensitive pussy. A strangled sound escapes you.

“There it is… my little whore.” He sighs, brushing his thumb across your wet folds, and it takes everything in you not to buck back into his hand. In your daze, you barely notice as Dio kisses the tender, abused skin and deftly undoes the satin tie.

A hand on your hip, he lightly shoves you forward onto your hands and knees, trembling. But your hands— damn they’re too sweaty, the bedsheets slick and silky, and when your lord’s hand finds its way to your neck, you land face first onto the mattress. Sucking in a breath, it hitches when you feel the tip of his leaking cock against your hole.

“Stay still. And maybe I’ll let you cum,” he murmurs, and snaps his hips into yours.

Letting out a choked scream, you shake, gripping into the sheets.

Dio sighs, letting a hand slide down to your untouched clit, arching the finger perfectly to avoid hurting you to rub perfect little circles that drag out a moan. You twitch, clenching around his length stretching you so deliciously, every time he took you.

“What a pathetic little slut you are. Perhaps punishment doesn’t work on you, if you’re this wet,” he whispers.

Your eyes roll back. You can’t think.

He begins with only two soft, shallow thrusts, before setting a breakneck pace, the force of him pushing into your pussy jolting you forward, and you’re all but a toy in his arms.

Your breaths come shallow, punctuated by the squelch of his pelvis meeting your ass. Fuck, it was deep, it stretched you so good— the slight burn ebbing as he teased at your most sensitive spot, letting you feel every ridge of his finger. His cock made you feel damn near drunk by itself.

You’re teetering on the edge. That knot tightens in your stomach; you grip into the sheets tighter. But he slows again, laughing as you let out a loud whine.

“Oh? What is it? I told you only maybe, I’d let you cum.”

He speeds up and slows down his touch seemingly at random, getting you just at the peak before dragging you back down, all the while bullying your poor cunt, your arousal mingling with sweat on your thighs. You sob, gasping for breath, the stinging pain of your ass and the cut of his name sending prickles of pain-pleasure down your body. So much. It’s so mean, meaner than ever. His hipbones grind against the abused flesh of your ass.

Dio leans in, and nips your ear, not pausing his thrusts for one second. “Answer me loud and clear. Don’t let Hol Horse miss a moment,” he says, soft, commanding, lined with cruel amusement.

Your eyes widen.

You’d completely forgot. His words. Before you went into the room—

Stay here. If you think that you can handle all that which you hear from inside, be my guest, and try to take what is mine.

Tears distort your vision, letting your body fall limp as he begins that perfect rhythm around your clit. Your audience, you completely forgot.

Did it even matter? You were his. Dio’s. You didn’t need anything beyond this room. Nothing else.

“Who do you belong to, little morsel?” He thrusts into you, and you choke on your words.

“Y-you… my lord Dio…”

“I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Y…YOU!” The word is torn from you in a scream, the tip of his length scraping against your soft, sensitive inner walls, and your voice trembles when you say, “My l-lord Dio, I belong t-to you, p-please forgive meee…”

He chuckles, keeping steady on your clit. “Very good. What should you say?”

The words surface in your head, and blood rushes to your face, shamefully sobbing, “T…thank you… thank you for your grace…my… my Lord… please, can I cum?”

“You can do better,” he tuts, and begins to slow once more before you panic, and babble—

“Please, please, please,” you squeak, you couldn’t stand it, the drag of his thick cock splitting you open, the slickness between your thighs, the slippery sheets, the sting of his punishment on your back, all too much, you beg in his arms as Dio, your god, slides his hand into your neck.

“Very good.”

And he swipes his finger again just over your abused clit, your eyes rolling back when you finally cum, clenching around his dick bullying the deepest part of you. Lightheaded as he feeds, you writhe, weakening. Your clit pulses as he thrusts harder, again, again, hips beginning to stutter as he hisses.

You whimper at the feeling— the shaft twitching and pumping, thick ropes of his cum filling your insides and forming a white ring around the base of his dick. As he withdraws, dragging a nail along your spine, you feel his seed drip from your entrance when you clench around nothing.

His hand still sinks into the flesh of your neck, and you start to feel faint. Black spots dance in your vision. Eyelids flutter. This was… the furthest.

He wasn’t kidding. He was done.

You exhale.

But before self pity can breach the fucked-out haze he put you in, Dio retracts his hand, and lets you fall to the mattress.

A rattling breath leaves you. Taking another deep breath, slowly, steadily, you right your disoriented body. Still… the blood loss… you feel unbearably fatigued.

“Y/N.”

You tense. But there’s no impact, or swipe. Instead, his hand drifts across your back.

“In your dithering today, did you even notice?” He asks.

Notice? It takes a lot of concentration to, but you frown. What had been different? Or—

You blink. Oh.

“C… Cassandra…” you recall the name of the other remaining member of the harem weakly. Your heart pounds like a drum, thrumming throughout your whole body. “She… wasn’t around…”

“She bored me.” Dio speaks of her so casually, it sends shivers down your clammy spine. “Simply could not throw away her past convictions.”

Your gut curls as he spreads a cooling palm across your backside, stretching and arching a little into his touch, like a cat. Despite how sinister he sounds, you can’t help but relax in your post orgasm bliss. Not that his hand stroking your tender skin is helping you stay lucid.

“But you, my little one,” he murmurs, drawing nonsense patterns on the back of your hand. “You are relentless. Watch how it manifests. But stay so. I quite adore it about you.”

In spite of it all, your heart flutters. “Y-yes, my lord.”

Dimly, the reason for all this surfaces in your head. You protest, “My lord… my targets—“

“Mm?” He asks, sounding bored. “I reassigned the job.”

Oh. You nod slowly, and shift up to your elbows, wincing.

Then, you feel your face go warm with the other realization. “Erm… my lord, what about… Hol Horse?”

“Hm.” Dio muses as if he hadn’t even remembered that the man was there, even after forcing you to. Rude, you think dimly. Then, he points his head toward the door.

“Hol Horse.”

His commanding tone echoes in the stone room, in every crevice of elaborate stone sconces, curling under the wooden posted bed and settling on the woven rugs. Then, there’s a loud throat clearing.

“Yes, sir?” He calls. You swear you aren’t making up how heavy his voice sounds.

“I believe we have come to an understanding. Haven’t we?”

There’s a pause, where you wish you could shrink into the mattress and disappear. Cripes, you wanted to curl up and die.

“Yessir. I’ll be… around, if you need me,” he says in a strained voice, and then, the abrupt jingle of his spurs when he stomps off. You sigh, pushing out all your breath.

“Hmph.”

“He’s… such a faker,” you mutter. Dio chuckles.

“Is that so?”

“Thinks he’s way more tough than ‘e is,” you mumble. Sleep threatens to take you. Your whole body feels heavy. Your lord doesn’t seem to mind. His golden hair tickles your cheek as he kisses behind your ear.

“You have a more important job tomorrow. Rest for now.”

“Yes, my lord,” you whisper. Laying down on your tummy, you roll over on your side, and smile faintly as the blanket is pulled up over you. “Thank you.”

“Your god will always forgive you, my dear,” Dio says softly. His breath, cool, tickles your ear once more with words that stir your stomach with fear and arousal.

⚰︎Whereas he must wait, observe to strike at the perfect moment, you slowly entrap Jonathan in silk— soft and delicate, strength unrealized until it’s too late.

⚰︎The too perfect smile. How demure you are, socializing just enough with the other ladies of your class to avoid suspicion, but rarely coming to lower-brow events unless Jonathan is there.

⚰︎But the way your waist tenses when the Joestar touches it. A twitch of your eye when he kisses your hand, utterly unaware of the seething hatred that stirs beneath the surface.

⚰︎He’s looking in a mirror. And he cannot help his own amusement.

⚰︎Was Jonathan truly so blind, so ignorant as to believe everyone had pure white intentions?

⚰︎But there is a part of him irritated at someone else competing in what is his destiny alone, to crush Jonathan Joestar and ascend beyond.

⚰︎Especially a woman.

⚰︎As I mentioned, there’s a multitude of ways you can grow close to Jonathan that he can’t. You have no foul history with the man either— and once he watches you tearfully cling to the broad man’s arm after not seeing him in so long, he decides that he can’t sit back anymore.

⚰︎If your plan is to kill Jonathan, you would be forced to be creative: just like him, Dio muses. Did you share his knowledge of poison? Or perhaps you would hire an assassin, claiming the money was spent on a new gown. Someone could snipe him from far enough away. Maybe you wished to visit a seaside cliff, and he would get just too close to the edge…. No, he couldn’t have you marrying him.

⚰︎It’s as he decides so that he begins to put his eye on you, rather closely; joining you and Jonathan in your ventures, hovering from the outside along street corners.

⚰︎As he does, he finds your cunning less and less irritable… and more endearing.

⚰︎Late nights alone, Dio finds his mind straying to you with a cruel laugh, as he trails a hand on his chest, imagining it’s yours. Would you let him touch you, or see him as a threat to your soon to be livelihood? He’d love the challenge.

⚰︎Someone as vicious and unrelenting as him. Who appreciated elegance and strength. No, you had no clue of the strength he could exercise over you, or, if he so chose… to embolden you with.

⚰︎He begins courting you, to Jonathan’s dismay and your annoyance.

⚰︎The adoptive son of George Joestar, you could tell, had no fair intentions regarding his “brother”. The sickly sweet sap he was.

⚰︎”Such a good man”, your friends whispered, with thinly veiled envy. Too good for his own good.

⚰︎That was where you and Dio confronted each other.

‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧—

“May I have this dance?”

Under thick lashes you glance up from your glass at the precise thorn in your side that you’d been digging out forever. Yet no matter how you bled from the effort, Dio Brando wormed his way further in, until he had the absolute audacity to hold his hand out to you now, smiling easily. Behind him, your escort— your prize, Jonathan— was talking to some of George’s friends. Your eyes narrow.

“Forgive me, Dio, but I’m in attendance with your brother— would it not look rather poor on your part to steal me while his back is turned?” You ask softly, folding your hands over your lap. With a bit of smug satisfaction you hope doesn’t show, his facade cracks just a tiny bit, annoyance flickering in his eyes.

“I would hardly call it stealing, when he’s left you so ripe for the taking. Though, YOU wouldn’t want to be seen with anyone worth less than him, would you? How convenient, that we ARE brothers.” He smiles. “And we quite like my brother, don’t we?”

Catching his meaning, you inhale and place one silk gloved hand in his. Damn his proficiency at social chess. And damn him for picking up on your plan, as the angelic figure places his hand firmly on your back and holds your hand so tight you hiss.

He smiles. “Now, my dear—“ he purrs, and spins you so your back is facing the corner of the room, and his completely shields you from Jonathan’s view. Orange eyes flash, deeper, darker in the shadow of the chandelier’s light.

“Do tell me what it is so that you adore about Jonathan Joestar.”

‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧—

⚰︎The man whispers sweet, sinister words to you. Tales of ghosts and blood, as he slides his hand under your chemise during one of many late night meetings.

⚰︎Not the gold of mortals, but the water of life was his true goal. You could drink of it with him, so long as you kept Jonathan docile and informed Dio of any progress he made on researching the mask.

⚰︎After forcing him to swear on the grave of his mother, you enact your plot.

⚰︎Innocent eyes and gentle touches, conversation where Jonathan gets to speak, with great enthusiasm and care, about what he’s been studying. You nod like a damn stooge, relaying your recon later to the devil in your bed trailing his lips down your neck.

⚰︎When he disappears, the mask gone with him, your heart stops dead. Maybe he would abandon you. If he did, what would you do?

‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧—

Pacing in your room, nibbling on nails, your head snaps to the window as a knock rings out on it.

In the low lamp light, the curves of his face are downright carved, a statue akin to David. You lose your breath as he smiles, exposing fangs that make your eyes widen. In his hand, the gray stone mask sits heavy. A prize promising eternity.

“Will you allow me, dearest?”

‧˚꒰🍷꒱༘‧—

⚰︎Ethereal, beautiful as an angel, yet no one could deny the demonic nature in you anymore— and neither could you, savoring the taste of blood for the first time.

⚰︎He watches with a scarlet tinged gaze. Proud. Adoring. You’re everything he needs.