#I have intense affection for hollow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fanaticsnail · 3 months

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My Favorite

(Image Source: Artist: Inpolariis)

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,114

Summary: Sir Crocodile has founded a league of highly trained assassins named "The Choirs" - all coded after the nine choirs of angelic influences. You are his favorite: his prized "Seraphim" who's ferocious brutality is only outmatched by your incredible beauty. Not truly knowing if your affection is all an act to continue being paid a wage in berry, he has not made a move of his own aside from calling upon you to sit on his knee of an evening, and have you utter praises into his ear. It is only when the two other members of the Cross-Guild begin flirting does he find his limit being tested. Will he bend, or will he break?

Themes: Boss!Crocodile x Assassin!Reader, lap princess, Croc is in love with you, begrudgingly in love, mutual pining, “I don’t want to fix him, I want to make him worse”, wealth, Cross-Guild dynamics, partial Buggy x Reader, partial Mihawk x Reader, sign language, afab!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to the wonderful @discordantwritings who wrote a beautiful Benn Beckman fic recently. I had to return the favor with some Cross-Guild content, although it became quickly a Sir Crocodile fic. Based on this prompt, because it has a hold over my very soul.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine @cinnbar-bun @writingmysanity @gingernut1314

The broad right hand of the brutish Sir Crocodile massaged his temples beneath his thumb and index finger. He began rotating them in an attempt to rid the swelling migraine caused by the crackled whines pouring from the lips of his clown companion. Barely paying attention to the whinging words strung into messy sentences, his ears pricked and spine tingled at the knowledge there was another presence within the hollow chambers of the Cross-Guild meeting space.

Bringing his hand away from his temple, his smirk broke the displeased position of his lips, as his eyes rose to meet with the yellow hue of the gaze of the swordsman. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, no longer processing Buggy’s words as he attempted to locate the source responsible for the expression change of the larger gentleman in front of him.

“-And I wasn’t the one responsible for that screw up, so I shouldn’t be the one paying for it. Really it should go to the one with the most berry. Who was it again? Between the reptile and the hawk, who has the most-.” Buggy’s voice halted as the shadows split to reveal your presence, stalking closer to the largest man in the room with an aura of silent danger.

Mihawk reached for the hilt of Yoru, ready to strike your approaching silhouette: armored and cloaked in the darkest black to blend within smoke and shadow. Your hood concealed your face, your facial mask shieling all but the intensity of your eyes smeared in darkened war paint. You made no sound; no tap, no whisper as you wordlessly approached Sir Crocodile.

“Returned so soon, my Seraphim,” his voice purred, leaning back in his chair while placing a thick cigar between his teeth, “Did all go according to plan?” You wordlessly bent your knee, bowing your head to the large gentleman to whom you entrusted your implicit loyalty. His smile drew further up his scarred face, the purple hue of his eyes dancing with a dangerous twinkle at your wordless confirmation.

“Good,” his voice praised you, reaching for his lighter lying atop the table. You rose to your feet, quickly reaching for the golden object, flicking open the lid and igniting the flint to spark its flame. Sir Crocodile leant forward, holding his eyes firmly on yours as your concentration was fixed on the task of lighting the tip of his cigar.

He narrowed his eyes, noticing a small smear of red atop the darkened warpaint and streaking down your face mask and onto your leather breastplate. He sighed, reaching into his left hand breast pocket and fishing out a silver handkerchief and passed it to you within his index and middle fingers.

“Is it yours?” he asked, gesturing to the blood congealed and spattered against your uniform.

“No, sir,” you whispered with no vocal tone depicted within your silence. He hummed in response, narrowing his eyes as he scanned your body further.

“Are you unharmed and unmarked?” he asked, his left brow raising in question. You stiffened your shoulders, arching your chin within the air and confirmed with a simple utterance of: “Yes, sir.”

“Very good, my Seraphim,” he complimented further, inhaling a deep lungful of the nicotine laden cigar smoke, exhaling through his nose. Buggy did not know what to make of this interaction, feeling completely and utterly ignored as Mihawk and Sir Crocodile’s eyes and attention remained fixed on your statuesque figure clad in cloak, leather and dark plated armor.

Leaning forward, Sir Crocodile ushered you to stoop forward to receive the next whisper of a command parting from his lips for your ears alone.

“I have laid out a new uniform for you to wear,” he uttered intimately, reaching up his left hand with his golden hook threatening to touch your shoulder. “See to it you are bathed, perfumed and clad in the ensemble within the hour,” the tip of his hook brushed with the rivets of your shoulder plate, dragging down your bicep to the inner crevice of your elbow, “And I will have you sat as my trophy upon my knee for the evening, my Seraphim.”

At that final utterance, he withdrew his hook from your arm and focussed once more on your eyes now depicting a darkness within usually withheld for victims beneath your concealed daggers.

Bowing to your boss, eyes now closed, you rose from your deep and respectful stoop and paid no mind to glance at the other two members of the meeting space. If Sir Crocodile found no reason to introduce you to these men, you did not deem them important enough to care who they were. Silence followed you as you trailed outside of the room, resubmerging yourself within the shadows and hastily making your way to the suite gifted to you by your boss.

“Baroque Works employee, Crocodile?” Mihawk uttered, his eyes fixed on the exit you withdrew from.

“A thing of the past, Hawk,” His smirk not leaving his face for each deep inhale of his cigar, “I no longer put my faith in an amassment of bounty hunters to get their hands dirty for my berry.” He took the butt of his cigar from his teeth and pushed the ignited end against the glass tray with his thumb. “No, my faith is no longer spread to the many, but to the few.”

“How many o’ them you got?” Buggy’s nasally voice chimed in, his brow furrowing and lips curling back in an uneasy smile, “Like twenty or thirty?”

“I have nine,” he confessed, eyes now bored with the conversation and lip curling down into an arrogant snarl, “And that one,” he gestured to the door with his chin, “Is my favorite.”

“Why?” Buggy asked, his voice cracking in a small apprehensive whine at the end of his question, “What does that one do that the others don’t?” Sir Crocodile’s lips curled into a darkened grin, his teeth revealed in the light.

“You will see.”

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After bathing and cleaning yourself of the debris and carnage of the last assignment, you glanced at yourself in your large, ornate mirror. Looking over the new uniform set aside by your boss as it clung to your body, you couldn’t help the pull of a shy smile at the corner of your lips.

Of all of “The Choirs” founded and financed by Sir Crocodile, it was no illusion that you were absolutely and without a doubt his favorite. Your titles held your specialist skills as covert assassins within your roles; each skilled with a unique ability to complete your tasks to the utmost quality.

Principalitie, Archangel, and Angel were charged with gathering information and relaying it from a great distance. They were to look like civilians; innocent and coy with the ability to blend into a crowd seamlessly.

The Devil-Fruit users; Dominion, Virtue, and Power, were charged with carrying out tyrannical punishment and wrath without care for the casualties they caused under the utterance of a single command from your hook-handed leader.

Cherubim and Ophanim, the two of the higher in the chain of command, followed your explicit instruction in covert operations taken either together or separately. They were your trusted confidants, you could even call them your friends if it were not too bold to say so.

You, his ‘Seraphim’, were silent and embraced by shadows with such flawless success that it was rumored you were born in them. You were lethal with your daggers, your skill with a blade a sight to behold before life was drained from your intended target. The last thing they saw as their breath was claimed by your hand, was the ferocity in your blown pupils and lengthy eyelashes beneath the dark warpaint smeared atop your eyelids.

Glancing over your features once more, the pale white of the dress held stark contrast to the dark armor you adorned almost an hour prior. While your armor kept all of your features hidden to the world around you, the anonymity shielding you from emphasis on your features; this dress left little to the imagination.

The deep hook of the backless dress clung low to your hips in an ovular shape, bodice dipping down to above your navel with a thin band of fabric dancing above your cleavage to suture the bust shut with barely any support. The length of the dress halted little below your hip bone on the left-hand side, the right hand side down to the ball of your ankle to allow for the straps of your gold heels to be revealed with each step you took against the floor.

Your mind begins to wander the longer you stare at yourself in the mirror. This was the most provocative and scandalous item your boss had ever asked you to don. You almost allowed yourself to rush to the conclusion that your boss harbored more than simple favoritism for you, you assumed you were wearing this ensemble to impress a guest with your presence on his lap.

Silence was nearly impossible with the gold-dipped base of your heeled shoes. Each step you took after exiting your suite echoed in a foreign clack that you were unaccustomed to creating with your foot-falls.

Immediately upon entering the large celebratory area of Sir Crocodiles casino, you scanned the perimeter of the room for your boss to begin your new role for the night: the princess sitting upon his knee and doting on him with small caresses and whispers of praise within his ear. This was not a role you were exposed to often, but one you did well enough for him to continue asking for you after the first night you played it.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you did not harbor affection for your boss. Nothing ever transpired between you after you had finished this role for the nights he asked you to fulfill. No brush of lips meeting yours, no writhing while sprawled out beneath him against the green fuzz of the gamblers table. He would bow his head in gratitude to you, his eyes blinking shut out of respect, and dismissing you without a further word.

Adoration, respect, loyalty, and your wage is what bound you to that man. At each moment he spent with you on his lap, or performing a deadly task for him, your desire grew. You knew, without a semblance of a doubt, that you would cast aside your wage with an instant for the luxury of remaining by his side. You loved him, and it was the only thing that truly frightened you.

After concluding your brief scan of the room, you noticed Sir Crocodile was yet to make an appearance to darken the tables with his brutish figure. However, you smiled upon meeting the eyes of ‘Ophanim’ dressed in a simple waiter's uniform, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows and shaking a steel container filled with ice, syrups and hard liquor. She shot you a wink, gesturing with her chin to wait with her at the bar.

An honest smile sprung to your lips as you grasped the barstool within your hands, taking a seat atop it and hooking your left knee over your right; the slit of your dress revealing the entirety of your left leg to your thigh.

Immediately as you began to open your mouth to converse with your fellow “Choir” about her latest mission, your eyes were thrust into an amassment of lengthy cerulean hair. The person seemed to ignore you as their voice informed your friend of his order of a fruit-forward and harsh liquor cocktail with an insane amount of complex ingredients. The products he asked for sounded as if it would split and separate, with the immediate souring of creamy liquid with the acidic elements.

Grimacing with your lips curled in disgust, the individual turned to meet your disapproving gaze: his eyes widening and breath hitching in his throat. A large, rotund red nose lay central to his features, his dark vest cinching his waist beneath a white shirt and dark trousers. He looked as if he was not comfortable wearing the assortment, as if it was a mask he was given to wear akin to your arrangement set aside by your boss.

“You are fucking gorgeous,” he stumbled over his words, the syllables falling from his lips quicker than he could silence them within. Immediately your grimace upturned into a smile, forcing a laugh to flee from you at his unbridled compliment. You arched your left brow up, leaning in close to the individual in front of you and tightening his dark tie with your right hand.

“You are very easy to look at, yourself,” you purred in return, assuming your flirtatious role with ease. You darted your gaze between his two teal eyes, a coy smile now pursing your lips together innocently, “And who might you be, bright eyes?” Your question had his heart swelling, his cheeks filling with a boyish fluster.

“B-Buggy,” he wheezed, gulping back his words and grunting out a small cough to mask his uneasiness. “Captain Buggy D Clown,” he attempted to meet his elbow atop the bar, missing the polished wood entirely and instead stumbling under the uneven distribution of his weight. As air met his elbow with the heel of his palm capturing his chin, he flew his head down and met it against the wood with a harsh thump.

Wincing in empathy, you immediately reached forward and claimed his cheeks within your palms and raised him back up to his former stature. You brushed his shoulders, readjusted his collar and checked over the rising swell atop his left temple.

“Honey, can we get some ice please?” you asked your colleague who attempted to halt her laugh behind her palm, nodding as she retrieved the frosty cubes and placed them within a checkered tea towel. She passed it to you and shook her head, you nodding your thanks at her for the object and immediately reaching for the blunt-force trauma the blue-haired clown brought upon himself.

“Are you alright Captain Buggy?” You asked him, holding your hand against the towel and pressing it firmly against the rising bruise. He clasped his left hand around your right, leaning into the touch you were providing him and closing his eyes.

“I like the way your tongue makes my name sound,” he confessed in a breathy gasp. You again found yourself laughing at his words, the melodic ring of your voice stirring something dangerous within the purple hues of Sir Crocodile’s eyes. He continued watching your interaction with Buggy from his place darkening the threshold of the entrance to his casino.

“What happened, Clown?” A voice called behind him, the curve of a pale shirt clinging to the back of a dark-haired individual you could barely see. Buggy apprehensively turned away from you and lulled his head towards the man with a snarling expression.

“It’s her fault,” he gestured to you with his thumb, “She was sittin’ on that chair all innocent-like, as if she doesn’t look like walking sex.”

“Hardly walking if she’s sitting,” the man called over in a bored and disinterested tone, without sparing so much as a glance in your direction. You found him intriguing, but you decided to match his energy and remain aloof to his comments yourself.

Turning away from the two men beside you, you began moving your hands in a flurry of wordless gestures to your coworker as discreetly as you could.

‘Where is he?” you asked her, watching her hands flicker in response as she continued to attempt to uphold her own persona as bartender.

“Approaching slowly,” she managed to signal to you, before she placed a glass of wine in front of the broody aloof gentleman beside the clown. The corner of his lips ticked at the corner, a whisper of gratitude depicted on his face as he turned to face you with the crystal glass rising upwards.

The small widening of his honey-coloured eyes told you all you needed to know within his gaze. Your head cocked to the side, your eyes wide and feigning innocence to the best of your abilities.

“My, my,” he commented, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body from your decorated toes to the follicles of your styled hair, “I do see why you would be the cause for such a stumble.” He expertly brushed the blue-haired man away from you, extending his right hand forward to seek out your own and collecting your four fingers within his grip.

He raised your hand to his lips, his mustache tickling the knobbed joints of your knuckles before his lips brushed against your flesh. Your eyes turned sultry, not once either of you breaking your eye contact against one another.

Unable to control the rapidity of the thump within his chest and the dry lump forming in his throat, Sir Crocodile began a stalking approach towards you. How dare they fawn over you. You: his favorite of his Choirs. His angelic muse and harbinger of brutality.

He knew you would make heads turn with the uniform he laid out for you, but he did not anticipate the primal urge swelling beneath him to pull you into himself and shield you away from their eyes. He wanted you all for himself, in any capacity you were willing to give it to him. He didn’t care that you were paid berry to serve him, it felt real enough for him.

“Dracule Mihawk,” he uttered against your flesh, withdrawing from his stoop and arching his back to puff his barely shielded chest to you, “And you are, my darling?” Before you could answer with your name, you felt a warm graze dancing up your spine. His breath tickled against your skin, tingling your spine beneath his lips as they pressed intent and longing to your flesh.

On any other occasion, you may have been alarmed by such attention from an individual without seeing their face. The cologne dancing with the whisper of his last cigar floated with each kiss against your skin, informing you exactly who was giving you such a touch.

He had never offered you this unbridled affection in the past, not allowing himself to give into his craving for you, and you not willing to test your place serving under him. This touch felt natural, his lips continuing to press into you, as you continued to hold your gaze on the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of you.

Sir Crocodile’s lips found your left shoulder, his purple eyes pulling the swordsman’s attention away from you to meet with your boss as he continued to map his lips up your neck to your jaw. His left forearm circled around your front, the golden hook firmly secured against his wrist collecting your chin beneath the smooth surface. He turned your attention away from Mihawk to look into his eyes through lowered eyelashes.

He leant forward, drawing your lips against his by the gentle tilt of his hook against your chin. Darting his tongue out to stroke yours, his nose brushed against your own as he circled his jaw to deepen the embrace. Your hands clutched the base of the stool you were sat atop to anchor yourself down for fear of floating to the roof. The hum of his lips in joy had a small moan pull from your lips the longer he was joined against you.

You felt his right hand brush against your bicep, curling his firm grip around it as he pushed his chest flush with your own with a gentle turn of your body. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes immediately falling to your rapidly swelling and kiss-bruised lips, slightly smudged paint falling below the perimeter of your bottom lip. Tapping your chin with his hook, your eyes darted from your own gaze against his lips to meet with his purple eyes.

“My Seraphim,” the rumble of his voice and the small smirk of his lips had your attention hyper fixed and hanging on his every word. You held your gaze firmly affixed to his, watching as he turned away from you and greeted the men in front of you with the nod of his head and the small utterance of their names.

“Mihawk,” the rumble of his voice rubbing within his throat had your spine tingle with anticipation, “Buggy.” He turned back to meet your orbs that had not yet broken from his face, but raked your gaze over his face with half-lidded lashes. Your eyes continued to float in a daze against his lips and flittering back up to meet his gaze.

He extended his right hand in a gesture for you to take it, you reacting immediately by placing your hand within his larger palm to encircle his digits around it. You allowed him to pull you away from your former position atop the barstool, your heels clicking against the floor as he escorted you to the desired table for the night. Now in the shroud of seclusion, he leaned down and uttered a small apology in your ear.

“Forgive me,” he began, taking his seat within the plush armchair and patting his left knee with his right. Without hesitation, you gracefully placed yourself atop his thigh with the small flick of your hair, crossing your left knee over your right and arching your back.

“What sins am I forgiving, sir?” you asked him, feeling the dangerous caress of his hook brushing against your spine and collecting a small portion of your hair within its curvature. Your boss took in a deep breath through his nose, expanding his broad chest beneath his suit jacket. His exhale had a small quake to it, his eyes closing as he basked under your attention.

You reached your hands and began to dance your fingertips against the hem of his collar. Although this was a routine you had practiced with him over man a night on his lap, this touch felt almost forbidden as his brows furrowed.

“I should not have kissed you like that,” he uttered in a voice below a hushed whisper, “You deserve better than something so public. I desire you-... -for you to be treated as a seraphim I know you to be.” His vocal catch had your attention completely focussed on every word, your body leaning itself further as your hands halted their movement.

“I am not a seraphim, sir,” your lips were now almost brushing with the shell of his ear, your hypnotic perfume, intoxicating and mesmerizing the larger gentleman the longer your presence remained atop his lap. He angled his head away from you, exposing the side of his neck to reveal the rapidity of his heartbeat displayed against his pulse.

“And what are you, if not a seraphim,” he whispered darkly, allowing to be disarmed by your presence as he leant into your touch, yet away from the descent of your lips upon his ear.

“I am your seraphim,” you confessed as your lips grazed against the sensitive flesh of his cheek, his dark hair tickling against your eyes.

Sir Crocodile was glad he had withdrawn you to a secluded portion of his casino at this moment. He truly did not desire for the other two members of the Cross-Guild to notice how much of a grip you truly had around his heart, but refused to break away from your display of unrestrained physical affection. He knit his brows together, furthering their descent down his face as he processed your words.

“Because I pay you to be,” he uttered, leaning away from your touch and forcing the mask of his arrogance back onto his features. He dropped the hook from your hair, reaching his right hand into his left breast pocket to locate a thick cigar and his golden lighter. Placing the bitten end between his teeth and clamping down on it, he drew the flame up to his lips and attempted to ignite the end.

“I will return my wage to you,” you uttered quietly after swiping the golden lighter from his hand and reigniting the flame, “I have no need for it when you take care of me so well.” His eyes held an aloof boredom to his expression, refusing to meet with your face as you lit his cigar for him.

“And if my wealth was taken from me?” He questioned before inhaling the smoke from his cigar, exhaling it away from your face, “If I was to go to prison once more, what then?” Your eyes narrowed, your lip curling up to reveal your displeasure at the question.

“I would claw tooth and nail to free you from your confinement, sir,” you confessed, reaching your left hand forward and collecting his chin beneath your thumb and index finger, turning his jaw for his eyes to meet with yours once more, “And although living in luxury is a welcome experience, I would stand by you regardless.” His eyes depicted his craving for your words to be true, although not believing it yourself.

He began to open his mouth to speak, silenced by your words cutting through the air like your daggers meeting with the jugular of your foe.

“You have my loyalty, my blades, and my body at your disposal,” you leant forward further, darting your eyes between focusing on each of his. “Should you order me to jump, I will ask how high. Should you ask me to kneel, I will fall to my knees,” you continued, your grip holding more firmly against his chin, “Should you wordlessly aim your finger at an enemy, I would be a channel of your wrath as I claim their lives for you.”

Allowing a few moments of thick silence to swell between you, you felt the scrape of his hook trailing itself against your spine, hovering over the soft point of your rib and pressing his point firmly into your flesh.

“While your words are as beautiful as you are,” he whispered, looking down at the plunging neck of your dress and back up into your eyes, “They are as decorated by the impact of my wealth as your body is in that dress.” You narrowed your eyes at his comment, taking the expression as a challenge.

Shrugging away from the point of his hook, you rose to your feet between his legs and slowly drew your hands up to the thin straps on your shoulders. You hooked your thumbs beneath the material and began to slowly slip the material over your shoulders and down your biceps. Sir Crocodile’s eyes widened, immediately reaching his right hand and left forearm to halt your hands from revealing more of your flesh to him.

“What are you doing?” His growl should’ve had your actions stuttering in any other setting, but his rasp had your heart beating in desire in place of fear.

“I have already informed you that I will be returning my wage to you,” you cocked your head to the side, arching your back towards him and looking down at him under your lustful expression, “Why not start with the dress you claim to despise so much.” The rise of his fluster depicted in his eyes at your words had a smirk drawing up to decorate your lips.

“What has someone like me done to deserve such devotion from you, my seraphim?” he whispered, his right hand elevating the strap of your left shoulder and securing it firmly in its prior place. You followed suit with your right strap, securing it firmly against your shoulder and leaning further into his welcome embrace.

He leant his torso closer to you, his broad forearms circling over your own with his fingertips brushing against your skin. You began to open your mouth, confessing your adoration for your boss further upon the tip of your tongue before crudely interrupted by the presence of the blue-haired clown followed behind by the broody gentleman from earlier.

“Are we playin’ cards yet, Croco?” Buggy’s voice hitched as he met with an intimate moment shared between you and Sir Crocodile. Your boss’ hands caressed your skin, pulling you against his torso as he aimed his disapproving gaze over your right shoulder.

He growled at the interruption, his voice holding more feral animosity than he felt he should. You drew your hand up to claim his cheek in the palm of your right hand, looking down at him with your eyes holding your unspoken answer of lustful adoration at him. His breath hitched as his gaze met with yours, prompting his right hand to grasp the flesh of your back firmer within his spread fingertips.

“I recall you having barely enough berry to survive the last time we played, Clown,” Mihawk’s aloof tone called from beside him. Neither you nor Sir Crocodile paid either man any mind, too wrapped up in the intimate moment you were sharing holding one another.

You removed the cigar from Crocodile’s teeth in your left hand, stooping forward and claiming his lips beneath your own. Your nose brushed against his, the kiss as hastily departing in severance of the connection as it did in its descent. He arched his chin up, chasing your retreat with his eyes closed.

“Shall I get the table ready, sir?” You asked him in a subtle whisper, relishing in the small hum of pleasure falling from the lips of your boss. His eyes split slowly open, remaining half-lidded as he lulled his head on his neck to glance at you. The silver mark splitting his face danced in the illuminance of the soft bar light, his striking features appearing more chiseled under its glow.

“Please,” he spoke slowly, his tongue darting out and danced as the ‘L’ passed his lips. You raked his hair back over his scalp, replacing the fallen strands in their rightful place, while leaning down once more with a smirk.

“Right away, sir,” you purred at him while returning his cigar to his teeth, watching as he bit the tip with a small snarl. Turning and walking away to collect several items to place atop the green felt for your boss to engage in a game of cards with his two unlikely colleagues, eyes fixed on your back as you exited the secluded area.

“Who is she?” Buggy’s shocked voice cracked out the stuttered question also plaguing Mihawk’s mind. Sir Crocodile relaxed in his chair, inhaling the cigar smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it. Upon it exiting from his lungs, he confessed the place you held within his heart with the utterance of two words.

“My favorite.”

#one piece #x reader #opla fic #opla #one piece live action #buggy #mihawk #captain buggy #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #op sir crocodile x reader #op sir crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #cross guild #cross guild x reader #sir crocodile wins #boss x employee

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chibsandchill · 3 months

Text

See me

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Felix x AFAB!Reader

Summary: Each room in Saltburn is bursting at the seam with memories with you, and Felix remembers some of his favorite moments as he makes his way to his prize.

Warnings: Felix, Mentions and descriptions of acts of violence and murder, NSFW content, MDNI, 18+, unreliable narrator (Felix), toxic relationship, obsessive tendencies, grammatical and spelling errors, p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), Felix is a creep, themes of violence - self-harm and equivalent themes are prevalent through the imagine, some parts of their dynamic takes inspiration from Hannigram but with my spin on obsession

I am not responsible for your media consumption. Read the tags.

MDNI

Masterlist

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It’s a cloudy day when Felix first saw you,

but with you came the sun,

warmth, empathy, love.

Oh, how he loved your heart. But, oh, how careless you were with it. It was a gift,

one meant for him,

from you.

Then why did you waste it on those beneath you? You chipped away at it to mend sobbing students, tore at it until it bled and thick scars rose like mountains. You took on their pain with a blindingly bright smile,

only Felix saw how their burdens weighed you down.

The sun was meant to warm, to burn from far away,

but they tore you down from your place in the sky so that they might leech your warmth until you are left barren. Their sorrows were cold as ice against you.

They stole you from him. Piece by piece they ripped at you with filthy nails. You became known on campus as someone who’d listen. Who wouldn’t judge. How could you when you felt their problems as if they were your own? The more they spoke those words dripping with poison, the more they tainted the very blood in your veins with their darkness.

‘Walk in their shoes’.

You didn’t need to. You could walk in their skin, feel their emotions as if they were yours. Heartbreak plagued you, sorrow fell on you like an ever present shadow. The death of a family not yours turned your face gray and your eyes misty.

Until Felix put a stop to it all. How could he stand by and watch it happen? The slow destruction of a bright star, who burned so bright that all envied it.

Jenny from history of art, Carl from math, Robert from physics, Matilda from psychology, Caroline, Jeremy, Han, Thomas, Harry, Derek, Henry, Linda, Nico, Mark, John, Hans, William, Frederic. All turned away at your door.

“Yes, I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll let her know.”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Oh, how they believed his lies. Sweet, sweet, Felix Catton wouldn’t lie to them. Surely not.

But lie, he did. It spewed from his lips like honey. All to have his sun beam at him again. To wash away the taint of the others from your skin, your heart, your eyes. He would have you look at him with soft, relaxed eyes.

Him. Him. Him. Him.

Your protector. Even if you didn’t know it yet.

“Felix.”

He hummed.

Your eyes are heavy with sleep when you look up at him, but the affection is hard to miss. It makes you glow. Felix curled his arm further around you, bringing you closer to him. But even then it is not close enough. He aches. It’s a want deeper than skin, deeper than bones or even his soul. It was as if his very being was made of want, of longing so intense he was blinded by it. If God was indeed real then he had created Felix with a thread laced with obsession, with love transcending all else.

Even thinking about you made his heart race, pound.

“Can I braid your hair?”

“‘Course.” He said against your skin.

As if you needed to ask. All of him was yours.

You try to sit up but Felix isn’t ready to break the contact yet. He feels like a battery, no matter how bizarre a comparison it is, constantly needing to be recharged so that he might survive when you part. He’s constantly cold without you, he feels empty; hollow. His hands are too light with the lack of you, he breathes too easy without the weight of you on his chest. If he could he’d carve his heart out so that you could carry it with you, for that was how he felt anyway. He’d gouge himself hollow so that he could fit you inside. Never to be parted again, joined together by shared blood, flesh and bone.

It’s not easy with his hold on you, but you manage to shift so that you sit in his lap instead. It’s not ideal if you mean to truly braid his hair but Felix won’t complain. He pushed his head into your touch when your fingers hover over him.

“Patience.” You half-heartedly scold him.

Your fingers weave through his hair, nails scratching just right against his scalp. With deft hands you untangle the mess you’d created during the night. There’s not much to braid but more than enough for you to wrap around your fingers and tug. The action pulls a low groan from his throat.

He grabs your hips. Felix wonders if you’ve noticed how he’s caged you in. You probably don’t, as sweet and trusting a being as you surely wouldn’t peel back his layers to gasp at the thriving darkness beneath. With you he was his truest self. Could you see him? Would you run if he were to cast off the layers? Let you see him?

Maybe you already could. You had seen the others. Even the empty ones, the ones who had gouged themselves hollow and shoved the essence of what they thought he wanted until it spilled from every hole in their body.

Felix wasn’t hollow. He was bursting at the seams with life, same as you. And yet you stayed. Surely you knew. You had to. You and he were one. Two pieces of a whole finally reunited.

He breaths in your scent, noses along your throat before allowing his head to rest in the crook of your neck. There’s a bruise there hidden on your shoulder blade. Late one night when you’d already fallen asleep he mouthed it into your skin with the moon as his witness,

only,

it had started to fade.

He’d have to do it again. Closer. Marking you under the cover of darkness wasn’t enough anymore. An unspoken claim didn’t satisfy him anymore. It wasn’t enough. He was beginning to think it never would be. He could bruise every inch of your skin with his love and his skin would still itch to do more – to prove himself more to you.

Just as his hands slide down to rest on the curve of your ass the scene slips through his fingers like sand.

He blinks it away. He’s standing in the driveway of Saltburn. Your favorite statue is left in shambles on the gravel with his blood splattered across the white marble.

“What the fuck.” Felix’s hand shakes and burns with pain. His knuckles are split open.

It had been a slip of a thought he had once when you first came to Saltburn and you’d taken to leaning on the statues, the furniture, walls, pillars. He’d wanted them all gone. He’d be your pillar. He wouldn’t crumble with age, would never make you think they stood strong only for the core to be riddled with holes from pests.

Felix was whole and strong, had made himself such,

for you.

He’d burnt the tendrils of influence his mother had dug into him since childhood. Torn the threads of her darkness right out of the tapestry. Oh, how she cried when she noticed. ‘Felix,’ she’d whispered, a rare show of emotion plastered across her face, ‘what have you done?’.

She shouldn’t have worried about what he had done. No, she should’ve worried about what he was going to do.

He watched you for weeks before approaching you. He noticed what made you laugh, what made you smile, frown, scowl. And so he took that too. Cut out the parts of himself that would drop the smile from your face and sewed on the parts that he lacked until he was left a patch-work version of perfecting befitting a Mary Shelley novel. Pus and blood seeped from the stitches. The sight was unseemly. So he waited until he’d perfected himself, until the stolen was assimilated, until it was like another Felix had never existed.

Felix throws the heavy doors open and the maids scurry away from his sight.

Duncan emerges from the pack. Even after all he’d seen, his adoration for Felix remained. “Welcome back, Felix.”

He nods.

And then he’s off.

The route he takes is reminiscent of your first tour of the mansion. He’s even nodding along as if hearing himself introduce it all. The staircase where he “fingered” his cousin. As if. Your face had reddened with equal parts jealousy and sheer disbelief of ‘what the fuck’.

One of the smaller sitting rooms. The green one. He fucking hates that room. But you love it. He went down on you for the first time there. Right on the couch with his granny’s ghost knocking down a shelf of antique plates over his head. The blood had driven you crazy.

The thought alone made him hard.

But this was also the first room you’d held him properly in. He’d been crying.

“What's wrong?” You ask when he threw the door open.

You’d been doing some summer reading for uni, but your fingers clutched the opening pages with strength that betrayed your pounding headache.

“Fucking Ollie.”

Your brows furrow “Oliver?”

Felix lay down on the couch with his head in your lap. You smell good. And you’re soft.

“Yeah.” He sigh. “He was lying to us this whole time. Turns out poor Oliver Quick has both a dad and mum who loves him. Even siblings! They live in a lovely house in a picture perfect neighborhood.”

‘I just need you to understand how much I fucking love you!’

As if there was even a sliver of Felix that didn’t belong to you, that didn’t scream out for you every second you were apart. Had Oliver not been paying attention? Could he not see the need that permated him? It ran so deep, was so all-consuming that he couldn’t contain it all. He breathed desire, cried longing, even fucking pissed envy. Envy even over the very air you breathed, the clothing that hugged you, the sheets for the audacity to imply he wasn’t enough to keep you warm.

You hum as your fingers drift down to cup his face.

“He was in love with me.”

“Isn’t everyone?” You joke.

Felix’s eyes opened (he hadn’t realized he closed them). “You love me?”

“Of course.” You trace a scar on his cheekbone.

“Say it.”

“I love you, Felix.”

Even that memory fades, but your words linger.

I love you, Felix.

You always linger. Your kisses burn his skin and he wishes it left a scar so that he could look upon it and relive it all.

The green room is abandoned quickly, and he’s off.

“A blue room!” You exclaim, and to Felix’s displeasure you let go of him to take it all in.

“Yeah. It’s… blue.”

“What? No ghosts? No artifacts?”

Felix shakes his head. “Nope. Just blue.”

Felix sees himself leaning against the door while you spin around the room. It’s like a movie, almost. Only it’s his memories and he can remember every second he’s ever spent in your presence. Including this one. And the next one.

The one where you’re on your knees.

You’re pressing soft kisses to the tip of his cock, pressing your love into every inch of skin you can find as if you wanted to stay there, to have your love replace the tar that ran through his veins.

It’s odd. He can almost feel the tingles left by your touch, but he’s untouched. Felix’s hands form fists at the sight. Was it possible to be jealous even of himself? The envy boiling in his stomach certainly said so. He would not share you even with himself.

Felix strides forward and sinks into the place his past self sits. He unbuckles his jeans and frees his cock from his underwear. If he were not so deep in madness he might’ve felt the cold of the room, but he was, and so he felt the warmth of your hands, the wetness of your mouth as you wrap your lips around his tip.

He moans. He didn’t know what he liked the most about it. The vulnerability, the act itself, your presence, or that it left you with a part of him inside you. You’d kneel in front of him for as long as it took, but Felix would not have you be uncomfortable and so he slid a pillow under your knees.

Your hands cup his balls. He twitches. You take more of him into you. It feels like heaven to have you wrap yourself around him. Wet, warm, silky heaven. All for him.

Him. Him. Him. Him. His.

You moan around him. It sends vibrations straight through him. It pulls a low groan straight from his chest, one that makes you moan. His pleasure is your pleasure, and your pleasure is his, and so the circle begins.

His eyes roll into the back of his head when you begin bobbing your head up and down. You slurp. Electricity runs down his spine. It’s wet. Sloppy. Saliva drips down your mouth as you press your nose into his abdomen.

Someone drops a plate somewhere in the house and the spell is broken. Not unlike a reflection in a lake is the memory distorted, wrong. You’re on your knees without the pillow. He’s standing above you, not sitting. Your knees are bruised and bleeding. You’re crying.

Some small part of him, one that he’d allowed to fester for far too long, enjoys the scene. Enjoys the submission, thrives in the knowledge that it is not only he that longs and wants and would press and press until nothing remains if only to bring you a sliver of happiness. You smile around his cock. It’s not the pain that brings you to tears.

This isn’t right. This isn’t him. It’s Elspeth messing with his head. It’s Oliver whispering his lies in his ear.

He wants to vomit. Why would they punish him so? To make him see you hurt,

to force him to see himself hurt you, brutalize you,

humiliate you.

Why, when he adored you, worshiped you. If there was a puddle he’d lay himself down to let you walk over him. He’d drown himself so that you would not have to dirty yourself. Like a tumor he’d performed surgery after surgery to remove what you didn’t like.

And you did the same.

The image is restored, but he’s already on his feet.

He would wait no longer.

Felix runs up the stairs but is forced to a halt by the moans coming from the king’s bedroom. Another memory? The door is already open.

“Tell me your vows again.”

You’ve got your legs up in the air behind you, head resting in your hands as you stare at him.

“Dear,” Felix turns around from where he stood by the window. Your name sounds like prayer on his lips. “I’ve never been alone. People have flocked to me since before I can remember. But they didn’t see me. But you… you, I let you see me. It’s a rare gift. And it’s one that I’ve never regretted giving you. I’ve never felt more loved than in your arms. Do I need to continue, Mrs Catton?”

You laugh.

“Come to bed, Felix.”

The memory changes before he can enjoy the sight of you in your wedding dress. The happiest day of his life. Gone in a blink.

You’re no longer on the bed. You’re in his arms, crying yet again. There’s blood on his shirt. No finger graces your finger. Felix closes his eyes. He knows this memory. KNows very well what he’d have to endure to get back to you.

“Y-you killed him!” You shudder.

Felix shushes you. “There was no other way.”

“There’s always another way.”

“Not this time."

Truly, there wasn’t. You saw much, but Oliver was so good at pretending to be someone else that he even fooled himself into believing his own lies. And so, you thought nothing of it when Oliver offered you his bottle of wine. Had no idea of the drugs that he’d shoved in there.

“Are you scared of me?” Felix asks you. His voice shakes. He remembers his own fear, how his stomach churned. He could write a thousand words and not even chip at the surface of the emotions he felt. A thrill at the thought of you finally seeing the deepest deepest parts of him? Disgust that he’d slipped and revealed a crack in his mask? Such fear that it clung to his very bones, stopped his lungs from working and had his own eyes water with tears? All true. And yet all of them are false. There wasn’t a single emotion he could place, they all blended together to form a concoction of heart-wrenching pain and fear.

The memory fades away. He doesn’t remember the rest. All he remembers is how it ended.

The headboard bangs against the wall with the force of his thrusts. His hands are cradling your face, kissing away the tears of pleasure. You push your legs up higher on his back where you’ve hitched them, your own hands pressing against his own face to bring him closer. He’s inside you but he’s not close enough.

Felix leans down to cover your whole body with his. You squeak at the change.

“Oh god,” you throw your head back with a moan.

He moves a deft finger down to press down on your clit. He experimented with pressure, directions, even spelled out his own name with your pleasure. Felix feels as though he’s on fire, but still he wants more. He wants to be closer. Closer. Closer. Closer.

You clench around his cock, and he stutters.

The love in your eyes makes him falter, before he drives into you faster than before. The bed squeaks, one hard thrust away from breaking. Fitting. So is he. Your right hand moved up his cheekbone, past his ear and to the back of his head. Your touch is gentle, barely-there pressure as you guide him down to slant your mouth over his. His heart aches with love, adoration, you. You’ve made it your home.

Yet again he is denied release as the memory is gone. The room is empty.

“Fuck.”

It’s not graceful the way he stalks out of the room. No more interruptions, he thinks.

The last door in the corridor. Yours. And his. Your marital chambers, as Duncan would call it. Old fashioned bastard.

He pushes it open without as much as a knock. And there you are.

“Felix!” You cross the room in seconds and then you’ve thrown yourself in his arms. “We missed you!”

Your rounded stomach presses into him. He rests his forehead on yours, pressing long, soft kisses against your lips, even as you giggle and try to move away. When you do, he chases after you. He’s not done. Never done.

His legs feel like jelly, his soul is on fire,

but he finally found you.

In a house full of memories and vengeful ghosts he found you.

And you saw him, as you always do, and he’s tugged back into bed with the comforting weight of you pressing him down into the mattress.

And he’s almost content.

Almost.

Taglist:

@fedyascoffin

#felix catton x reader #felix catton #felix catton x you #saltburn imagine #saltburn smut #saltburn x reader #saltburn #felix catton smut #felix catton imagine

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dyaz-stories · 4 months

Text

anywhere else is hollow || Cha Hyun-Su x Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings & tags: mostly fluff, some angst because it's sweet home, sharing a bed.

first one-shot · previous one-shot

A/N: Third entrance for @neohumanmonster's fandom event! The prompt was: Peaceful Pillowtalk. For context, reader and Hyun-Su were in high school together, reader was only there for a year before going to another high school, and therefore has no knowledge of the bullying which hyun-su was a victim of. this one-shot can be read independently (there's nothing intense plot-wise that requires having read the other parts), but I do recommend reading them for context.

Hyun-Su stays over at your place quite often now. Long gone are the days when he would drop by for no more than a couple of hours and flee the scene, as though he was scared that you spending time with him would make you despise him. Now he helps you out around the house, and, when he offers, the two of you go out on ‘dates’ around the city. It still makes you nervous, being out in the open, but Hyun-Su doesn’t hesitate anymore to take your hand in his and guide you through the empty streets.

When you’re both in your apartment, you can almost tell yourself you’re two college students living together. Almost. If it wasn’t for your blinds being always drawn to ensure no monsters could see you from outside, or your parents’ former room being turned into a laboratory by your dad before his disappearance, the illusion would be close to perfect. You do like the thought of it. Imagining you and Hyun-Su, sharing a place in a world where the Apocalypse hadn’t happened… It would be sweet.

That being said, despite your developing relationship, that you still haven’t put words on, Hyun-Su keeps sleeping on the sofa. You’d prepared a blanket and a pillow, ‘just in case’, in the very beginning, and that is where he still collapses every night. You’ve been waiting, hoping he would ask for another— arrangement, but he hasn’t said anything, and now you’re wondering if you should.

It isn’t always easy, being the one taking all the steps in the relationship. Makes you wonder if you’re pushing too much, too fast, makes you wonder how much he wants it. And yet, if he does want it but doesn’t dare to ask, how stupid would it be to lose that much time, when you never know how long you have?

“Um, Hyun-Su?” you say that night, as you’re about to leave for your room. He looks up at you with these beautiful dark eyes of his. “I was just thinking— you know you don’t have to sleep here, right?”

He blinks at you.

“Do you— are you asking me to leave?” he asks, and you immediately want to slap yourself. A few months ago, you think he’d have been half-way to the door already. Now, he sounds cautious and a little worried, but he doesn’t seem to have jumped to conclusions just yet.

“No,” you sigh, resisting the urge to bang your head against the door frame because, yeah, it makes sense he’d interpret it like that. “No, I just meant you could, uh—” you glance towards your room. “Just meant you have other options. Here. If you— if you want to.”

You don’t know why you’re so nervous all of sudden. You think a part of you cannot forget how beloved Hyun-Su was in high school, while you were— no one. If the world wasn’t ending, you don’t think he would have looked at you twice. So, sometimes, you wonder if he wants you the same way you want him. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t initiate much of your more intimate moments, and isn’t much of a talker in general.

Hyun-Su’s eyes slowly move to the open door to your room, then move back to you, going wide.

“Are you—” His voice cracks. “Are you sure?”

You nod, not really trusting yourself with words right now. You don’t want to sound desperate for affection, but you also don’t want, even for a second, to make it sound like it’s something you’re nonchalant about.

“Okay,” Hyun-Su mumbles. “Okay.”

He gets up from the couch, walks over to the door, where you’re still standing. You’re both quiet when you take his hand in yours and pull him towards the bed. It feels awkward, but you don’t have enough experience with this sort of thing to tell if that’s how it’s supposed to be.

For a while, you just stay laying on your back, staring at the ceiling, with Hyun-Su doing the same thing next to you. The atmosphere feels heavy, your whole body warm and tingling. This is all just so new to you. There have been lots of moments between the two of you, mostly spontaneous, just doing what felt right in the moment. This is different, probably because you asked, and you’re not sure what to do with it.

After a while, you roll over on your side, looking at Hyun-Su’s profile, until he turns his head to look at you. You press your lips together. Your mind is going into overdrive, trying to figure something to say — what do you even say in these circumstances? You’re drawing a blank. At least until Hyun-Su raises a hand and his fingers start slowly tracing your cheekbone, then your jaw.

You feel your breath catching in your throat, and your lips part as you do your best to keep yourself perfectly still. It’s like you’re finally being approached by a shy cat that you’re trying not to scare away.

Gently, he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asks, soft voice echoing in the dark.

Afraid of what? Of him? Of someone who touches you like you’re made of porcelain?

“No,” you answer.

For a while, there’s just the sound of the two of you breathing, and the feeling of his hand on your cheek.

“What if I hurt you?” he asks finally, voice weak and fragile.

“You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

You swallow. You know he can feel it.

“Yes, I do,” you whisper, and you genuinely believe it to be true.

Hyun-Su’s hand stills. You hear him breathe out, before there’s the sound of rustling and then the feeling of his lips on yours. As usual with him, the kiss is brief and soft, a simple press of his lips against your own. What follows isn’t usual, though, the way he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest, so he can put his chin on top of your head. It has your heart beating erratically, even if it’s not the first time he’s that close to you.

It’s just that that happens mostly when the two of you are kissing. The fact that he’s seeking that kind of closeness without that happening is a whole other kind of intimacy, one that almost makes you shiver.

“Is that okay too?” he checks. “You— said I didn’t need to ask, but…”

“It’s more than okay,” you answer, closing one arm around him however you can. “And I meant it when I said that.”

“I—” A sigh. “I don’t want to impose on you. Sometimes I— I feel like I need you too much.”

It becomes hard to breathe all of a sudden. Hyun-Su isn’t one for that kind of confession, not usually, but you desperately want to hear more. He keeps talking, and you feel his voice rumble through his chest and through you, while he plays with your hair distractedly.

“You’re so— independent. You look like you’re doing so well on your own, here. But it physically hurts to be away from you,” he mumbles into your hair. “But I— know what I am. I never want you to think you can’t— can’t push me away because you’re scared of that— that part of me.”

Your eyes sting, and you hold him a little tighter against you.

“I know who you are, too, Hyun-Su. And I don’t want to push you away.”

“Not now,” he admits. “But if one day—”

“Hyun-Su,” you call softly, trying to get his attention back on you instead of this distant, nebulous future. You live in a world where you may not know tomorrow, where a simple infection could be the end, not to mention the ever looming threat of monsterization taking you over. “I want you here. With me. I promise.”

Finally, you seem to be getting through to him. He relaxes into you, and his breathing turns deeper, more even.

“This feels nice,” he whispers after a while, and you smile against his skin.

“It does.”

You drift into sleep not long after that, you think, and for the first time in forever, you don’t wake throughout the night, startled by the smallest sound.

You just feel safe.

i hope you liked this one! i love developing reader and hyun-su's relationship through small steps, but just to let you know, we're getting closer to some smut taking place 👀 i hope people won't feel let down by that. i do think it would be out of character to write something super intense for them at that point so don't expect anything hardcore, but the 'porn with feelings' tag on ao3 is my shit so if you like that you might find something to enjoy in there! okay i think i'm done with this lil ramble.

Comments, whether here, in the tags or in a reblog, are greatly appreciated! interactions really motivate me and keep me writing :)

#hyun su x reader #cha hyun su x reader #sweet home #sweet home netflix #cha hyun su #sweet home x reader #sweet home season 2 #cha hyunsoo #cha hyunsoo x reader #hyunsoo x reader #sweet home imagine #sweet home fanfic #my writing

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rosedom · 1 month

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Well, I've got an idea. Like you could choose any genshin character of your choice. Imagine them sharing their insecurity, after sex, of being submissive, them feeling guilty for always being on the recieving end, feeling like they don't satisfy you enough, and the next time you both go at it, you're peppering them with kisses and praises 10x than before, reassuring and telling them just how good you feel having control over their body.

"an unnamed player has invited AETHER to play . . . the moon will yield to the sun, always

✦ㅤㅤ 【 CW 】 dom!amab!reader, sub!bottom!ftm!aether, reader's a service top thru & thru, post-coitus insecurities leading to: vaginal fingering, praise kink, (slight) dacryphilia, an absurd amount of pet names, prior creampie, creaming, implied aftercare .

A/N : i started this ages ago, but i only just recently got motivated to continue it . . . def got carried away—but when don't i, when i write abt aether? <(＿　＿)>

"do you want to watch, [PLAYER]? press KEEP READING to spectate the match."

The sun hides behind the clouds, and it is out of not only love for the creatures under the sky but out of an endearing bashfulness at the tail end of your intense gaze.

Your sun, your Aether is shy, here, tucking his face into the soft skin where your neck and shoulder meet, his blush warm against you. You must be his cloud, blanketing him in your warmth and keeping his from being wasted, from floating away into the surrounding air.

The blanket is tucked up tight around you both, cold tendrils of air trying to seep into the open spaces where it doesn't quite cocoon you both, a hollow gap that allows coldness to slither down your neck. Thankfully, Aether's breath keeps the space relatively warm, hotter-so when he buries himself further.

"Why're you hiding, sunshine?" you murmur, wrapping your arms tight around him and keeping him snug in your pillowy, cloud-like hold. "What's up?"

You ask, because normally he's not so bashful post-coitus. He shivers and weakly moans, sure, embarrassed at the way his cunt is puffy and you've left his legs shaking—but your cock is never so ruined.

Sometimes, when you're finished, you're still hard—hard because Aether came, and he came enough for the two of you.

Other times, you're soft, because you finally came; but it was only to make him feel good, better, filling him to the brim and thumbing at his messy cunt when you pull out.

Really, it is always Aether who is left melted in a puddle. You, at most, are a lil' sweaty, huffy-breathed as you smoothly move to clean him up, to bundle him in your arms—just like now—, and tell him how good he did.

He sniffles, shakes his head.

At the sound—the feeling of hot tears touching your skin—, you try and pull back, to see him eye-to-eye. But you should never look the sun in his face when he flares, and he only holds fast to your middle, keeps his nose firmly pressed to the side of your neck.

"Aether, honey—" you try, soft. What's wrong? is hidden beneath tufts of white, tufts of something sad.

Scratchy and quiet, he asks, "Am I really?"

"Are you really what?" You squeeze him, but the tender affection only serves to make his shoulders, bare still, quake more. Desperately, you tug the blanket back up to protect his shivers as he sniffs again, louder this time.

"Good."

"Of course you are! Honey, you're—"

He shakes his head again, dislodging the blanket some and forcing you to cut off your words, to tug the soft wool back up and swaddle him.

With a sharp intake of breath, a forced exhale, Aether finds his words. "I just—I don't feel like I don't... satisfy you, 's all."

"'That's all?' Ae—"

He shakes his head. "You don't even cum half as much as I do!"

"'Cause I like making you cum." At the words, Aether blushes like mad—or, at least, you assume he does based on the way his cheeks brand into your skin. "I like makin' you feel good."

"But..."

"But what, honey?" You soothe him with large, broad strokes across his knobby spine, each gentle protrusion smoothed over by your palm.

He sighs, the heavy exhale of breath washing over your neck and making involuntary goosebumps prickle at your skin. "Don't you get tired of it? I'm always—submissive. Always the same. Don't I bore you?"

Your heart hurts, at that. "Aeth," you start, slow n' soft. "I could never get tired of you. You—I love it, honey. I love how you give yourself to me like that, let me be in control. I wouldn't give that up for the world."

"I—"

"You're perfect for me. Do... do you not like it?"

"What? No! I love it—"

With a huffing laugh, you shake your head. "Then what's the problem?"

He doesn't answer.

"If someone... said something—"

"Nobody did—at least, not directly. I just—I overheard some guys at the bar, talking about how they're bored of their wives." Aether's thumbs absentmindedly rub at your back, at your spine, helping to make the tension leak out of you. "They were drunk, I think. I hope." (I hope, because he already feels terribly sorry for their wives, but for the men to be in their right minds, talking so awful about who they should love.)

"What were they sayin'?"

He shakes his head. "Stuff about how their wives just—lay there, when they're having... y'know. How their wives never even went down on them, and whatever.

It sounded a lot like me, 's all."

"Sunshine," you murmur. "You do blow me."

He squawks, punches lightly at your back. "That's...!"

You giggle. "'m only teasing, honey. I don't like seeing you so upset. But—" in a bid to soothe him, you run your fingers through his long hair, brushing through the tangles that accumulated earlier. "If I ever make you feel unsatisfied, that's a different story; but I love you, I love how you give yourself to me in bed. I know it's embarrassin', but, hell: I adore it. I get off on getting you off."

"But you don't get off half the time!"

You shake your head. "Physically? Sure. But I get off emotionally, every single time." You close your eyes and nuzzle into the crown of his head, burying yourself in the smell of his soft, honey-scented hair. (Where else would the pet name have come from?) "I don't... care, much, for getting anything back. You know this."

"I do."

Smiling, you murmur, "Just makin' sure. You sucking me off—I don't really care for that, most of the time." Laughing, "And God knows I don't want to be fucked. An orgasm doesn't do anything for me, honey. What does it for me—that's seeing you get off, seein' you get all the pleasure you deserve."

Aether groans. "You didn't have to put it that way."

"How'd you prefer I put it?" You tease your hands across his middle, his sides, making him erupt in small giggles as he pushes away from you. You manage to pin him down, spinning the two of you around until you've got him on his back and the blanket half off both of you. "Would you prefer I say how hot it is when you cum for me? How pretty you are when your cock twitches in my mouth? How much I love making you lose your voice? How—"

He yelps, smothering your lips with his hands. You laugh, pressing kisses to his palms as he calms down. "Horndog."

"Yeah," you say when you lean down to rub your noses together, a whisper of a kiss. "Your horndog."

The draft gets in the way of your kisses, forcing you to flop onto Aether and bring the blanket with you, the two of you swaddled up like two peas in a pod. He giggles at your antics, huffing in your face, before he goes limp and still in your hold.

You suppose, then, that it's alright for the sun to be hidden in the clouds—but only sometimes, and only so long as it comes out by the end of the day, to grace you in its glow. A ruddy-red blush blooms across his cheeks, again, just like it did earlier as he was flush to your hips, riding your cock.

The hot-over-warmth of the sun fits in your palms perfectly, and you're almost scared to touch it in fear of it snuffing out; but this is a fear you've long had, ever since you first laid with your sunshine.

"Aether." You push n' pull at him, soft and gentle, letting his limbs fall where you want them but making sure they're comfortable, not aching. He goes easily, sighing into your touch, making cute sounds and simply being so, so perfect in your arms. "God. You're perfect."

He doesn't talk, this time. Really, he rarely does; he much prefers quiet pleas, quiet sounds of pleasure that roll over you in hot, hot waves.

When your hand trails down his belly, following the path of his happy trail by feel alone, you simultaneously lean down and lick at the frantic bob of his Adam's apple. “Can I?” you ask, soft as his skin against your palm. The heat of his mons is emanating, but you're loath to go further, to return to the well-used mess of his cunt, before you’ve got the go-ahead.

You just had sex, after all. As much as you love him, as much as you want to smother him in pleasure and orgasm after orgasm, you don't want to overwhelm him. His cunt’ll be oversensitive, you know, but you want to prove to him how perfect he is to you, how much you love the submissiveness he seems so loathe to accept. He’s bare only inches from your wandering hand, and, you know, too, that he’ll be still slick as well.

“Yeah,” he whispers, tilts his hips up. His cockhead—thick and protruding, still swollen and sensitive from earlier—brushes your finger, and his breath cuts off in a sharp lil’ whimper.

“Easy, honey,” you soothe, sliding your finger off of him and instead taking to rubbing your pointer and middle across his labia, gentle against either side of his cunt. “Let me show you how much I adore you, yeah? I love this, Aeth.” You suckle at the tender skin beneath his ear before you lean back, only slightly, cupping his face with your free hand.

Your thumb rubs across his cheek, warm beneath your touch, and he whimpers again as he rests against you. “You don’t hafta—” he tries to convince you otherwise—convince you against the ache of his cunt, the way his body begs for more of your touch—, but you hush him and slide your thumb across the hot jut of his cock.

“But I want to, honey, believe me.” You move in gentle motions, stroking him enough to make pleasure jump up his spine without overwhelming him—not quite yet, that is. “God, my sweet boy. You're so hard, all for me, so perfect and ready and willing for me. Won’t you let me jerk you off, pretty thing?”

“Yes, please—” he whines, tucking his face into your hand as best he can amidst the molten lava spilling from his cunt. But when your finger jacks him just right, right under the hood of his cock, he arches forward into you, and he starts off with a meak, “I want—” before sharply quieting.

“No, no, none of that, Aeth,” you murmur, forcing his face straight to your own. You smile all soft at him, leaning forward to bump noses in a display of rather juvenile affection—one that never fails to make Aether giggle, even just a little. He huffs amidst it ‘til you continue, asking, “What do you want, darlin’? Anything you want, I'll give to you. All you hafta do is ask.

“Please ask me, honey. I’ll give you anything.” You seal the deal with a soft kiss, licking across his already kissed up, red lips. You've taken to soothingly rubbing you fingers up and down across his labia, these barely-there touches that stoke the flames of his arousal but do little to get him off. It's merely proof that you're there, that you'll never leave. (The touch is as much a reminder of your presence on him as the vestiges of your cum is in him.)

When you break apart, he sucks in a breath and murmurs, humid against your mouth, “I—I want you. Want your fingers.” For good measure, he adds, “In me;” but you're quick on the uptake, and you've already got your two fingers driving from his labia and sliding in smooth n’ deep to the third knuckles. His slick and your own cum coats them as you thrust them in, slow n’ out, soft and wholly gentle-like.

“There’s my good boy,” you coo, curling your fingers upwards towards the swell of his g-spot. It’s long abused, by now, and the gentlest brush against it makes Aether mewl, but you're so, so proud of him, now, and you aim to please him.

Your own cock: you’re not even sure if you're hard or not, chubbed up or not, and you find you don't quite care enough to find out, not when Aether's so perfect on (quite literally) the palm of your hand. “S’good, so good,” he babbles, eyes doe-like while thick tears start bubbling up at the edges of them.

“I know it is, sweet sunshine.”

The sun, half-out from the clouds, is gorgeous in the rain shower. It's shimmering and shining; and it's soaked, Aether’s labia parting for the easy squelch of your fingers in n’ out.

He’s wet ‘nuff to slide in a third finger, still loosened up from your fingers and cock both earlier this evening. Thick, white cum begins to dribble out between your fingers to coat your knuckles, the top of your hand, and you're not sure what's his and what's your own, mixed up and muddled up deep in his cunt.

“Ohh,” he moans, drawn-out as the line of slick that drips to your wrist. If there could, small lil' hearts would surely pop up in his eyes, the glare of the sunshine through water making your heart all soft n’ sappy for this gorgeous man.

“You feel so soft around me, honey,” you murmur, pressing your forehead against his. His breath and yours mingle, his bottom lip hanging slightly open and quivering with each little moan that tumbles past. “So loose n’ open f’r me. How couldn't I love this?”

“I—”

“Shh, Aeth. I got you, honey, my sunshine.” Your hand falls to rest on the side of his neck. You clutch at his tender skin, clasped halfway around his throat with your thumb resting atop his Adam’s apple. It's not a tight hold but any means; instead, it is simply there, a warm presence against the rapid flutter of his pulse. “I adore you, this—” you curl your fingers once more for emphasis, swiveling your palm to grind against the oversensitive swell of his cock. Your palm allows it a reprieve against the concentrated stimulation of your thumb, only moments ago.

“This is my favorite,” you murmur. Then: “Well. Second favorite. You’re my number one.” Cheeky, you kiss his slack-jawed mouth, swallowing up his mewls and other moans. “The most perfect boy in the world, ‘nd I have him all to myself. I’m so, so lucky.”

He nods vehemently, bumping his forehead a bit rough into yours. You laugh, light, and he scrunches his nose at you rather adorably: that is, until your fingers and palm grind just-so, just right, and his entire face slackens—not only his jaw. “Mm!”

“Y’make such pretty sounds, too.” Once you've got a set rhythm—one Aether seems rather amiable to, mewlin’ like a kitten in heat on your hand alone—, you gone in on it, repeating it over n’ over again ‘til those tears begin to stream down his cheeks.

“Let go for me, honey.” You kiss the tears off one cheek as you let them continue to flow down his other one, allowing him the reprieve, the ability to revel in the absolute catharsis the saltwater provides. “Just feel.”

Feel, he does, crying louder and bawling harder, but he fists his hands into your back and aches into you, and he's a goner, just like that. Warmth slathers itself on your palm, your fingers, as you slow your motions with the abating of his orgasm. If you looked, you know there'd be even more white—thick and opaque—smeared across your hand and his cunt, and the thought sends you so dizzy that you simply must kiss your pretty, perfect boy, kiss him ‘till his breath leaves him entirely and he's putty in your arms.

His heartbeat is erratic, a rabbit-quick putter-putter that presses against you, chest to chest as you are. You lean back, just enough, only a bit, waiting until his bleary eyes open, and you're face-to-face with golden sunshine. “Hi, honey.”

Smiling this absolutely adoring, this blinding grin, one that puffs up his flushed cheeks and makes him look so soft, so kissable, so wholly well-fucked, Aether giggles. He fucking giggles, airy and light as anything. The sound of his laughter reels you in with him, wrapping your arms around him—even the one with the hand all covered and cum and slicked up. Your wet hands pressing into his waist makes him erupt in louder lil’ hiccuping laughs.

“What?” you ask, teasing, trying to kiss his cheeks through the way both your chests shake and disrupt the two of you.

He shakes his head, this way and that, a vehement, “Nothing!” falling past his lips. “‘s nothing.”

You pout. “Nuh uh,” you say, because while you’re every bit the adult, every part of the full-grown cock you stuffed up in Aether only hours before, you’re a child at heart, here, with him. You’re allowed the immaturity. “Ain’t nuthin’, if it’s you.”

“I just—” With a sigh, Aether’s giggles taper off, and he rolls the two of you over. He rests on your stomach, belly to belly and soaked cunt to soft cock. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Aeth.”

He doesn’t say anything more, but he smiles, nuzzles down into your throat. You’ll need to clean up, but that can come later—later, when your sunshine is radiant on top of you, resting and basking in the warmth of the room. He is your sunshine in every sense of the word; and that must make you his moon.

If so, you’d gladly revolve around him. It’d be impossible not to.

if i'm given the chance to pick whoever i want, i can guarantee that it'll end up being aether 90% of the time LMAO he's like a motivating force for me, honestly ;; but irregardless, i hope this fulfilled ur lil' idea, anon !!

14 MAR. 2024, @rosedom, rosey .

#ㅤ✦【 ASKS 】#there's just .#there's smth abt a pretty boy submitting himself to me . . .#fully and entirely<3 #sub aether #aether smut #aether x reader #aether genshin impact #sub genshin #genshin smut #genshin x reader #amab reader #dom reader #ftm smut

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suguru-getos · 6 months

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୨・┈﹕✦﹕ Kinktober Day 19﹕✦﹕┈・୧

-> Event Masterlist

Tartaglia/Childe x F!Reader -> 69

a/n: just trynna catch up 🤭 to the leftover kinktober prompts, it’s been a while i touched genshin (sorry genshin daddies 🙇‍♀️) i hope yall likey !! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

“god, ajax, i missed you,” you had tears brimming in your eyes as you remembered the time you had last seen him. it had been months since he left for fontaine, you were told by arleccino that he’s in the prison of meropide & then boom! gone! just like that. you didn’t want to assume he’s dead because of just how powerful the harbinger was. also, it hurt to assume the same, so you left yourself miserably perked up in hope.

“i missed you too, missed you every single day, missed this little pussy every single day.” childe spreads your ass cheeks, watching his spit and your essence leaking out of your pussy. while you were laid down and dribbling over his cock lewdly, sucking it in deep with hollowed cheeks & fondling with his balls to earn a moan out of him.

“god, lewd little girlie.” he shoved his tongue deep into your hole, his nose nudging against the rim of your asshole, it felt so dirty yet so good— his deep tongue fucking reduced to kitten licking on your clit. he would suckle on your clit, nibble at it and then lick it soothingly. it was the perfect way of showing how much he missed playing with his little girlie.

“make sure you make me cum now,” he teased, spanking your ass cheek and smirking as he sees his large hand imprinting your flesh. you whimper out, nudged forward and choking a little on his cock, humming for more. another one clapped right on the other side with the same intensity, and you mewled out in bliss, twitching against his tongue & close to your orgasm.

“or i won’t let you cum girlie.” childe commanded, spanking your ass harsher, you whimpered, suckling onto his cock harsher, hollowing your lips completely and your jaw completely. you wanted to feel his taste deep into your throat, your tongue was missing him & his essence. “yes, mmgh~ please.” you moaned, begging to cum on his mouth & begging him to let you have a taste.

“go on, cum for me & take me in. don’t waste a drop now.” childe smirked, biting and nibbling at your ass cheek and spanking it once more. “good girl, good girl, atta girl~” he smirked, rubbing at the reddened, sensitive ass cheek and slurping all over your juices while his seed trickled down your mouth. you suckled in all of it, just as greedy for him as he is.

“i love you so much my little girl.” childe smiled, kissing your lips softly and tasting himself on you. “i love you too, ajax.” you were drunken off his cum, hazy with all the love and affection you’re feeling. you’re so happy to see him & this is just the start. <3

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thevirtualvalentine · 9 months

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000. ONE PIECE, RED HAIR SHANKS.

content warnings: nsfw, back shots, afab!reader, author is obsessed with shanks using cringe petnames, cunnilings, idk probably more.

plot: somehow it always ends up like this with him. he’s blowing your back out praising you as you take all of him, you’re his sweet girl after all.

Shanks and his silver tongue get you in trouble, pleasurable trouble. Whether he’s chatted you up over a few drinks or slithered his way into your heart, a part of him always belongs to you and vice versa.

“Why don’t we get outta here?” You recognize that glint in his eye, full of mischief and promises of long nights spent together tangled in his sheets. He’ll kiss your bare shoulders as he whispers sweet nothings about his never ending affections for you.

“And what’ll it be tonight, captain Shanks?” you pout your lips as you drawl out his name, tossing your head to the side in your palm as you eye him up and down. His hand lingers comfortably on your thigh as if it belongs there, snug perfectly beneath his finger tips.

“Whatever a beauty like you wants,” he says while leaning in to kiss your cheek. Soft gestures like this from him always leave you flustered, relishing in the warmth that slowly creeps up your face and down your core. “But if you’re in need of suggestions, I have a few ideas.” When his teeth nibble at the sensitive shell of your ear you shiver from his forwardness and blatant disregard to the other patrons at the establishment.

A man like him is intoxicating, inviting, and deviously too attractive for his own good.

And yet again you’ve found yourself nude in his white sheets as the unforgiving waves rock against the Red Force. He kisses you like he’ll never get his fill of you again, deep and sensual as his tongue snakes it’s way down your throat. “You taste so good here sweetheart, wonder if down here is any sweeter.”

You play along, knowing he knows your pussy like the back of his hand. He’s propped you against his pillows as he spreads you like his favorite dessert, eyeing your cunt with hunger he only chooses to divulge himself in with you. “Stop staring Shanks, it’s embarrassing,” you say trying to close your legs from the intensity of his gaze, starting to feel a little self conscious when silence grips the room.

His hand bolts your leg to the bed with a disapproving look on his face. “Why’d you wanna hide this? Such a pretty pussy n’ all for me.” He licks a long stripe from your slit up to your clit, collecting whatever wetness that accumulated throughout the night. He grins as you gasp and buck up towards his mouth, hand holding you firmly in place. “Ah ah ah, very eager tonight are we?”

Shanks and that damn silver tongue, words and phrases that leave his mouth so smoothly as if it’s second nature to him, almost too easily. You sigh in annoyance letting your head fall back against the plush pillows, not interested in playing whatever little game he had in store for you.

You mewl feeling his mouth back on you, suckling sloppily on your clit as he hollows his cheeks but only briefly. “Hey now, eyes on me sweet girl. Don’t go hurting my feelings.” You’re met with that same disapproving look he shot at you earlier.

“Please Shanks, I want you so bad. Haven’t felt your mouth on me in forever.” Granted, it had only been a few weeks. But the things he does to you, you can never forget. It’s addicting. Your own fingers and hands just can’t seem to do what he can. You try inching your hips down towards him, hoping he’ll show you mercy, however it’s to no avail.

He thinks for a moment, contemplating all the dirty thoughts and garish dreams he’s had of you night after night that don’t seem to leave his mind. Echos of eating you out like a man starved before he plows your cunt stupid cloud his mind. He feels thankful dim moonlight enters the room through his window or else you’d notice the pink twinge that lights up his cheeks.

The suspense is killing you, you can practically feel yourself dripping down his sheets in anticipation. He says nothing, opting to kiss the insides of your thighs before biting down on the supple skin. You’re sure it’ll leave marks in the shape of his teeth by tomorrow, too lost in the feel of him loving on you to care all to much about it right now. “Missed you s’much Shanks,” you begin to slur, sex with him leaves you breathless and probably saying things you shouldn’t.

He loves this, melting down your tough exterior till he’s met with your blatant and unadulterated honesty as he gives you satisfaction like no other. The subtle rise and fall of your chest as he inches closer to what he wants most, what he’s been waiting for all week. He guides one of your legs to rest against his shoulder as he places a kiss on your clit, “Gonna make this cute cunt cum all over my face.”

You clench around nothing at the lewdness of his words, complaint on your tongue ready to chastise him for such profanities. It dies in the back of your throat as he dives in, licking through your folds as he curves the tip of his tongue up. “Fuck yes, more more more.” He finds your clit again, giving it kitten licks as the pressure from his tongue increases as it presses down. He’s desperate to hear you fall apart on his mouth, keep praising him like this and he’s unsure how long he can go without sticking his cock in you and demolishing you right there.

His grip on your hip loosens as he lays his tongue flat against your clit, urging you to grind against it as his eyes meet yours. You tread your fingers through his bright red hair as you rock your needy pussy back and forth against his face, soft moans leaving you as he groans from feeling your nails at his scalp. “Yeah baby jus like that,” but it comes out muffled as he’s being used for your pleasure alone.

Shanks’s heavy lidded eyes never leave your face, too enraptured by the erotic look gracing your features. Your mouth hanging open as your abdomen twitches in bliss while you rut against his tongue. You’re beautiful like this, forever ingrained in his mind as you start to come undone. Heavy panting as you cry out for more of him.

His arm unravels itself from being hooked under your leg to tease your entrance with his middle finger. Easing it slowly through that first ring of tight muscle only to pull out again as you try to squeeze him in and not let go. He figures he’s spoiled you too much, removing his mouth from your bud as he keeps his hand positioned at your entrance. “Needy little thing, want my fingers that bad? Desperation is such a good look on you.”

You swear you’re seeing red from his provocations but that’s exactly the reaction he wanted from you, watching your brows furrow as you send glares of animosity his way. He smiles that same big dorky smile before he leans down again to kiss your pussy with an open mouth, filling you up with two thick fingers before you can give any sort of retort.

Your back arches off the bed as the pads of his fingers repeatedly hit that spot in your cunt that makes you gush around his fingers. “Gonna cum already?” He taunts as he ignores the rock hard problem in his own pants, wanting all the focus to be on you right now. “Cmon sweet thing, let go for me.” He watches you hang on the precipice of pleasure as his fingers move faster against your g-spot, letting his tongue make quick work of your aching clit that was desperate for his attention.

A whine sparks at the back of your throat as the band finally snaps in your gut, legs clamping around his head as his tongue and fingers refuse to let up, nudging his head side to side as your thighs lock him in place. “Gods you’re so good Shanks, fuck fuck fuck,” you’re nearly screaming as white clouds your vision from the intensity of your orgasm.

As you start to twitch from the overstimulation he eases up, gently rocking his fingers in and out of your dripping hole. “Damn, that was hot. Lemme fuck you, I can make you cum like that again, promise.” As the world around you clears up you agree to round two with the all but infamous pirate. Shanks stands up to remove the rest of his clothing but you’re scrambling to the end of the bed to remove it for him. “I can do it myself you know.” You pull the sash around his waist to bring him closer as he stumbles a bit.

“I know, just wanna do it for you.” When you smile at him as you untie the piece of fabric he swears his heart flutters a bit. You pull down his pants and boxers in one fluid movement as your lip tugs between your teeth at the sight of his perfect cock. The tufts of red hair that line his stomach down to his shaft makes your mouth water.

“Like whatcha see?” So full of himself, you roll your eyes as you crawl back up the bed, letting your ass sway as a punishment for being so annoying. “Woah, bring that ass back here sweetheart. I’m not done with you just yet.” His change in tone made heat flair up again in your core, when he tells you what to do you know he’s serious.

But, where’s the fun in being completely compliant. “Oh yeah?” You look over your shoulder as you spread your legs for him to get a better view of you. “Then fuck me like you mean it Shanks,” you tease while letting your head droop down to the bed as your back arches, putting your ass on full display for him.

Perhaps giving him a taste of his own medicine would do him some good, you think. It does not. His big hand comes down with a loud reverberating slap that bounces off the walls, accompanied with a cry that you attempt to muffle between the sheets. He loves watching the fat of your ass jiggle from the recoil, “so naughty, for such a sweet thing you have the mouth of a sailor.”

He’s amused by your antics and definitely aroused, he fists his cock a few times to spread his own dripping pre-cum from his tip before he’s lining himself up with your slit. “Swear all it takes is some dick to shut you up.” He lets the head of his thick cock glide through your entrance, your familiar warmth already threatening to drag him in. He hisses as he bottoms out inside you, pelvis pressed firmly against your ass. “Feelin’ full baby?” His hand rubs the globe of your ass as you choke from his girth alone.

“Mhm hm,” is all you can muster as your breaths come out shallowly. “Feels so good Shanks fuck.” You’re left deflated on his mattress as drool threatens to spill out of your mouth. You can feel yourself clamping around him like a vice, walls fluttering from his intrusion.

“You gonna let me cum inside this pussy, right doll?” His hand traces your back delicately while his fingers linger along your spine, making you focus on him and his words rather than his cock that was pulsing within your tight walls. “Always so good for me, n’ with such a perfect ass.” He lands another slap on your bottom, switching the cheek he slapped as you moan and wail out beneath him.

“Shhh, you’ll get your reward soon enough sweetness.” Shanks smooths the area with his palm as he rocks his hips into you at a begrudgingly slow pace. As he feels your walls relax around him more of his cock slips out before plunging back into your soaking warmth. The sound of skin on skin and your sex coupled with the sound of his balls slapping against your folds make you both heated, craving more of each others touch. No matter how close you are or how deep his cock is nestled in your cervix, you can’t get enough of him. Never satiated.

“Harder Captain Shanks please, need it s’bad.” His pace falters hearing you use the title he likes so much, cock twitching against your sensitive walls. You can feel him pulsing with need inside you as he takes you. Asking him to fuck you harder is a dangerous game, he doesn’t want to break you so he usually holds back some as he rails you into the sheets. What fun is it to break your favorite toy?

“So fucking greedy, and you still want more? See if you can take it brat.” One of his legs props itself into the bedding as he finds his balance. Hand gripping your hip with bruising strength as he somehow fills up even more of you. You’re crying into the sheets from sexual ecstasy as he fucks you deeper. He’s moaning lightly watching your ass clap back against him with each thrust of his strong hips.

He’s pistoning into you with no mercy, hearing you whimper just makes him fuck you harder. Your hand tries to press at his stomach to get him to slow down as your high comes too soon, “thought you wanted this pretty girl, t’much for you now?” He grabs both your wrists in his big hand as he restrains you, pulling you back against his thick cock with each thrust. “All of it, you can take it love.” The praise makes you melt and cream around him at the same time. Your voice is hoarse and you can’t even hear yourself bawl as you completely come undone beneath him, waves of white hot pleasure circulating your system as you cum for the second time tonight.

“Atta girl, doin s’well for me. Love fucking this tight cunt.” He’s stunned at how you’re gripping him even after coming down a second time, still he leans down resting his chest against your back to feel closer to you as his own peak nears. With him at your back like this you can hear every moan, every hitch in his breath, and even those things that he’d rather not let you hear as his hips come down on you like a hammer, knocking the wind out of you with each thrust. He wraps his arm around your chest to stabilize himself while his fingers pinch at your nipples.

With him, you have to tell him how much you want his load, beg for it nice and pretty. “Where?” A simple question but you know what he means, he’s too sadistic to just cum where he wants. You have to tell him exactly where and why he should.

“In me, please baby, need to be full of you.” You’re a breathless sweaty mess underneath him, even his scruff scratching at your shoulder adds to your stimulation. You watch him bust at the seams from the corner of your eye. He’s terribly handsome with hair that shades his face, his eyes closed shut as he revels in the feel of you wrapped around him just right.

“So good, you know I love it when you use your words,” you don’t call him terms of endearment often and he’s truly flustered by your soft phrase yet obscene request. Shanks moves his hand to wrap lightly around the base of your throat, “careful what you wish for.” His pace is all forgotten as his orgasm washes over him in heavy waves, hips slamming against you with no mercy as he tries to bury himself impossibly deeper within you. You whine and writhe in his hold because his grip only tightens as he cums. He groans feeling the tension from his balls release as his hot load fills you with each twitch of his softening cock.

He knows he has to pull out but he doesn’t want to, watching all his seed go to waste never sits right with him. Reluctantly he eventually comes to as your form wobbles when he pries himself off you. He hmphs watching it slowly spill and drip down the back of your legs, pushing whatever he can back inside your defiled cunt with two thick fingers. “Cant be wasteful, better for you to keep it.” Always the charmer.

You laugh tiredly at his nonsense as you move your sore body to sit upright. “Stay here I’ll run us a bath,” and of course he’ll always take care of you. You put up with his bullshit and honestly he feels strangely indebted to you for all your patience and love that you show him. He’ll be vulnerable with you as he scrubs your body of any filth or sweat, kissing marks that he himself left on you while apologizing for being so rough. You sit in his lap and talk about miscellaneous adventures for hours while the water prunes you both.

You’re his sweet girl after all, you only deserve the best and nothing short of that.

#shanks #I wanna fuck this guy so bad #here’s my word vomit version of how that’d go ^^#red hair shanks #shanks x reader #shanks x y/n #shanks x you #shanks smut #one piece smut

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betterfettered · 5 months

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Hello hello we'll be back to our regularly scheduled obey me programming soon but I'm so down bad for blade from honkai star rail right now so I wrote a real quick little thingy about him.

Your yandere kidnaps you

(Gn!reader x AMAB!yandere, please let me know if reader is gendered)(noncon)(violence against reader)(kidnapping)(forced affection)(masc rage)(plus size reader 💖🫡)(18+ readers only please, mdni)(Please let me know if I am missing a TW)

Part 2

[This is fetish content and rape and abuse are disgusting and inexcusable in real life.]

You thought your master’s bondman was not just cute, but also harmlessly so. “Blade”, he called himself, which you thought was so melodramatic that you could not help but smile whenever you happened to see him. On greeting him, you bent your knee and lowered your face as a maid ought to, but surreptitiously peeked at him from beneath your fringe and pressed your lips together to hide a laugh at the stilted way it made him hold himself, the apathy in his expression stirred up into a vague discomfort. For all the chagrin his name heralded, you could not help but see an awkward man who liked heaps of sugar and a touch of salt in his tea, one who would nudge your arm with his knuckles before demanding in monotone that you reaffix his barrette and shivering when your hands brushed his scalp. A hissy cat, a moody kid with overgrown bangs – you were fond of him, and nowhere near as scared as you should have been.

In fact, that lack of fear made it hard to understand what was happening when he first locked you away. His expression not budging out of its typical hollowness, he simply wrapped his hand around your arm and began to lead you; you followed, as a servant did, through halls and down many stairs. You didn’t question it when he led you to a part of the compound you had never been to until a door shut behind you, hard, and you turned in time to watch him slide a bar into place to lock it. When he faced you again, it was to glare down his nose at you with his typical emptiness, this time with more intensity than you were used to.

There was a brief pause, then he raised his hand to your cheek, letting his fingertips ghost just above your skin until you raised your own hand to push his away.

“I o-ought to be going,” you said, taking a step back. “I’ve plenty of work to do.”

That was not the right answer. This time he seized your wrist, hard enough to make you hiss a little, and dragged you further through the hall you had been sealed in. It was hard to focus with your heart pounding so hard, but you tried to scan your surroundings to see where you were and only recognized that you were somewhere dark, poorly lit by dim bulbs and no windows, with his feet leaving prints in the dust telling you that no one had been down here for quite some time in a way that makes your stomach drop, because you have a bad feeling about anything he could need privacy for–

Your fears were validated as he pulled you into a tiny room, some defunct servant’s quarters you’d imagine, containing nothing but a small bed covered in threadbare sheets and a rickety nightstand. Panic overwhelmed you, and you immediately began to struggle against him like mad, your chest seizing up so hard that it took you a while to realize that that loud noise you could hear was you screaming, apologizing, promising to do anything else that he wanted if he just let you leave.

He had been uncomfortable trying to approach you gently, unsure how to do it with his hands reforged specifically for killing and only killing. Subjugation, however, was his only nature, and once you began to act like prey, he allowed his instincts to take over. The nails of your flailing hand caught his face but seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever; he wrenched you forward by your arm hard enough that you stumbled and then kicked your feet out from beneath you while still holding your arm so that he could press you onto your back as you fell. It was relatively easy to pin you after he did that, and he did so by planting his knee downwards into the soft flab of your stomach, driving it in a little deeper when you tried to squirm away and loosing a knife from his belt to remove your clothing with.

He fucked you like a punishment, pushing into you with no foreplay and holding you down by both of your wrists as he thrusted into you hard enough to make your fat thighs clap against his skin. He watched you rather emotionlessly, unmoved by the tears pouring from your eyes and down your temples into your hairline or the whimpers that occasionally escaped your lips despite how hard you were pressing them together. Wracked with pain and with humiliation at your body suddenly being so exposed and shock at how things had turned bad so quickly, how you were suddenly being pinned under him like this used like some disposable toy, you looked just beyond the side of his head and traced cracks in the ceiling while you waited for him to finish. The room had been quiet but for the hoarse creaking of the bed, so you were surprised when you suddenly heard a grunt from him: he freed one of your wrists to bring the back of his hand to his blushing face, covering his mouth as he finished, his eyes growing distant as he stared down at you and his cock pulsating inside of you, making you feel sick.

You expected him to fix his clothes and leave you there, back to his same nonplussed demeanor, but instead he continued watching you the moment that he came back to his senses. As though that would make him vanish, you squeezed your eyes shut and only felt what happened next. He grabbed hold of the bottom of your face with his horribly cold hands, the bandage wrapped around it feeling clammy with his sweat, and then his lips pressed onto yours and his fringe tickled your forehead. You recoiled in shock and disgust, retreating backwards into the mattress and turning your face away from him, wiping your mouth before you could stop yourself. You flinched, expecting to feel the bruising of his hands roughly handling you again, but instead he lied down on you a little gently, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

“Wrap your arms around me,” he commanded.

It took you a second, but eventually you complied.

“Now say that you love me.”

“I--… I can’t,” you whispered back.

“You will. Say it.”

It took a long time for you to finally comply, and to his credit he waited in your embrace without moving as he awaited you saying it; eventually, your disgust was outweighed by your worry that he would never pull out of you and leave if you did not obey, so eventually you did finally whisper it into his hair, tears welling up in your voice as you pried the words from your throat.

After what felt like an eternity, he eventually left, but you were not allowed to because he locked the door from the outside when he went. In fact, you were kept in that tiny room so long that you lost track of time. You tried to measure your days by the showers you took in the adjoined bathroom, or the times you’d get hungry and eat some of the food you’d been left the day before, but you could not stop the time from blending together into slop no matter what you did.

It was easiest to measure time in when he suddenly reappeared to see you.

The first few days, upon just the sound of him unlocking the door keeping you shut in here, you would shake uncontrollably and fix your eyes to the ground. Once he entered, you tried to put as much distance between him and you that you could, though that was only a few steps or so. That ruined feeling, the unfamiliar slickness and soreness between your legs would rush back over you in memory and you’d feel overwhelmed to the point of dizziness, your trembling jaw barely able to form “please don’t” as he stared you down impassively. The second or third time you did this, he lost patience with it and dragged you kicking and screaming back over to the bed, but this time he only lied down beside you and rested his head on your chest, then demanding the same two things: to put your arms around him and say that you love him. You obeyed, sobbing, but sooner rather than later you got used to your new routine and became proficient, or comfortable even, in the new ritual of greeting him.

“Welcome back,” you’d tell him when he entered, going over to him and wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying him back and forth. Then you’d say you missed him or you were thinking of him or you were happy to see him. You started to wonder if that was actually true: he was your only human interaction, and after (what felt like) a few weeks you felt almost excited to see him, especially when he bought you things you requested, like wine and puzzles and lube and books. You felt like you could kiss him when he brought you a video game from his companion, though he seemed not to be sure what it was.

Well, more like you could kiss him and want to, because you often kissed him, actually. After greeting him you often led him, still emotionless as he always was, over to the bed where the two of you would lie down in the same position, his head on your chest and your arms around him. When you could stomach it, you’d roll over onto him and press your lips to his and moan into his mouth and grind on him, doing your very best to arouse him. Your hope was that if you preempted his lust with seduction of your own, maybe the sex would be easier, maybe you would have fewer nightmares that woke you up screaming. Strangely, your success with this strategy was variable: often times, he allowed your ministrations and then let you ride him until he came, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while his other hand covered part of his face. Other times, he seemed to grow overwhelmed with your affections, flipped you back over and rested his head on you again, burying his reddened face into your chest so you could only see the top of his head. You’d be confused, not sure what to do, and he’d quietly command you to do the same thing he always did: wrap your arms around him and tell him you love him.

Still, no matter what you did, you could not escape that often he wanted to hurt you. You could predict it based on how much blood he was covered in when he visited you or how he seemed to bristle away from your touch, but most reliably he was in this violent mood when he woke up from nightmares of his own, seemingly gripped with unwavering rage that drove him to want to destroy, whether that be furniture or himself or you. If you were unlucky and he went for you first, you’d be awoken by him striking you, hitting your face or dragging you by your hair or roughly tearing your clothes from your body. You learned better than fighting back quickly, as that only made him angrier, and so you just tried to shield your face and go somewhere else in your mind until it was over. Sometimes he’d fuck you dry, hard enough that you bled a little after, other times he’d hit you all over your body until it hurt to move, other times still he’d twist your arms painfully behind your back, lean into your ear, and tell you exactly how he was going to kill you in gruesome detail that made you want to vomit. He only seemed satisfied when your tears had run out and you stopped moving, overwhelmed by pain and despair, and then the room would fall into silence but for the sound of his panting, slowing breath.

After these rages were the only times he’d hold you and tell you that he loved you in a way you knew was meant to be comforting but only sounded flat and disturbed.

Eventually, he let you go (later you learned that it had been around two and a half months after you’d been captured). It was unceremonious – he simply left one day and did not shut the door behind him. It took you nearly an hour to summon the courage to leave, as you could not help but fear that this was some sort of trap, that he’d be waiting just beyond the threshold to punish you if you left. In the end, though, it was not, and after some walking you found yourself back in a central corridor of the compound with business as usual happening around you. It was hard to comprehend how other people were talking, laughing, cleaning, working without bone deep, paranoid fear strangling them. You’d dreamed of your freedom for a long time, of the relief you’d feel to be out of his clutches, but there was no relief to be had.

You could not sleep with any semblance of normalcy after getting out, so you often lied awake at night and wondered why he had gotten rid of you. Had he grown tired of you, bored? Had he moved on to someone else? Had he seen that there was something within you that he had irreparably broken that made you not worth using any more? Part of you worried about this so endlessly because if he was angry that you failed him, you needed to figure that out so you could prepare for him to return in one of his rages.

But another part of you, one that you could not bear to acknowledge, had grown used to making him and his comfort the center of your universe, and now felt lost without him. You wished that he had just kept you until you died.

#yandere #tw noncon #tw non con #yandere x reader #yandere smut #cw noncon #tw: noncon #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr blade #betty fetty

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yanderederee · 1 year

Text

ForeverYours,

tw; obsessive behavior, manipulation(?).. kinda soft? Sorry if I missed anything. ;~;

Part1 … now~ … Part3 … Part4 … Part5

A civil twilight graced the sky before Mikey felt the urge to stir himself awake from a nap. While he may have rustled himself awake by accident, he did his best to pretend he hadn’t.

There was no way he was getting up.

Immediately, he went to shift into a comfortable sleeping position. In this attempt, his conscious took note of a squirming warmth lingering against him. Immediately feeling a large smile creep past his fake sleep.

Then, in a gentle squeeze, he feels himself being tucked deeper under a duvet.

So thoughtful.

So considerate.

You hated when Mikey looked like he may be cold.

“Manjiro?” You whisper.

Immediately his eyes feather open, tickling the hollow of your neck intentionally. You let out a silent giggle , before taking the blond’s face in your hands.

“C’mon baby boy, you have a meeting soon.”

He wanted to argue, mostly that it was absolute law he couldn’t separate from you.

“But I’m cold~” he lied in between his yawns.

And like a spell, he found himself drifting into your scent. You held him tighter in your embrace.

“Ten more minutes,” your lips etched against his temple, your breath sending his entire body into high alert when you brushed passed his ear. He’d expected you to cuddle yourself into his neck, expecting himself to scoop your form out from under him and laugh.

He loved imagining your laugh. You smiled a lot around him. You couldn’t help but swoon for his charm.

Mikey loved the affection. The connection. The refreshed feeling he has after a good nap. Nothing wrong in the world.

But rather than cuddling into his side as he’d expected you would, you shifted an elbow to prop your form to look down at him.

In his late dreamy daze, windows misting a bright blue screen across the room, he’s never known a peace as perfect as this.

Security and reliance. Give and give and give and give. You were all that is right in this broken world.

And he will not let you go.

“Manjiro,” you sang, fingers tracing the hair that fell into his face.

“Yes?” Mikey answered obediently.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Mmhm!~”

“Mannnjiroooo..” you protested.

You always knew when Mikey wasn’t taking care of himself. With no real encouragement, he would honestly probably only eat sweets, and ruin his health. Skipping Meals. Become malnourished. Sleeping too much or not enoug—-

“Is my cutie worried about me?~”

“I always worry about you,”

“You worry too muchh~”

“I love you.”

•

The world stopped.

And something snapped. What was it?

He tried coming back to reality, to ask if he really heard you correctly.

Before Manjiro had the chance, he couldn’t help taking note how dark it was now. How much time has passed? Time wasn’t moving, but the color of the room darkened like a blanket.

“You do?” He asked, serious.

Never losing his intense stare, your pupils dilate with glee.

“Maybe,” you teased.

Uninterested in the chase, he pressed.

Automatic and rough hands shape along the side of your neck.

Calloused fingers weave your scalp, and thumbs brush harshly against your cheek bones.

You let out a sharp gasp when he tore you up and against his chest. It was jerky and possessive. His love sick smile gently lay on the back burner.

For now, his blank black eyes bare down at you.

“Y/nnchin is mine, right?”

You’ve heard people address Mikey by many scary titles, but he had never seemed scary to you. He was intimidating and forward, but you’ve felt nothing but safe in Manjiro’s presence.

But every ounce of darkness he possessed, seemed to spiral you into a heavy, crushing fall.

A cold sweat forces your body to adjust to your surroundings.

Yet despite his expressionless stone mask, you saw through Manjiro, who’d always found himself racing against something. Racing a victorless race at full throttle. Chasing that one headlight is what keeps his sanity tethered.

The headlight he chased after, he saw it shining against the tears that glass over your adoring gaze.

“Yes, Manjiro. I love you,”

You straighten your form to sit with the boy.

“So,”

Your hands cover his dry and scabbed over knuckles.

“Very”

Gently, you rest your lips against his motionless ones.

“Much.”

You let a giggle escape, Manjiro’s hands, that you were cradling so tenderly just a second ago were now tangling circles around your stomach.

“You’re so amazing…” he breathed heavily against your diaphragm. Tears welling up in his eyes,

“Too good for those assholes to take advantage of.” Mikey felt his nails dig deep into your hips, an emotion of love and anger rushing through him all at once.

“Whatever you want the future to look like, I will make it happen.

“For as long as you live, I won’t let anything bad ever happen to us.”

Manjiro felt himself praying against your chest. Quickly following, he lifts his head, chin resting against your chest. His face was flush with emotion and immediately after catching your eye, couldn’t stop himself from devouring all the love he could from you. …❤︎

~ , ~ , ..

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cobragardens · 7 months

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Red & Yellow Can Hurt a Fellow:

Color Symbolism in 1941 (Part 2)

So in Part 1 I held forth about how the use of red in and yellow in this minisode continues its symbolism from elsewhere in the show for romantic love and fear of head offices, respectively. From the moment of Aziraphale's realization that he is in love with Crowley, all the backgrounds become saturated with the vivid passionate red.

Then, in the dressing room, after the Bullet Catch, the walls are slightly more orange in comparison to the true crimson featured in the rest of the show, foreshadowing the intrusion of fear (symbolized throughout the show by the color yellow) into Aziraphale's romantic feelings for Crowley. This yellow becomes discretely visible the moment Furfur enters the dressing room, and it remains visible around Aziraphale and between Aziraphale and Furfur as Furfur menaces Crowley through the rest of the scene.

In the final scene of the "Nazi Zombie Flesheaters" minisode, after Aziraphale reveals (offscreen) that he has stolen the photographic proof of Crowley's fraternization with him from Furfur, Aziraphale and Crowley celebrate, sharing a bottle of wine by candlelight.

Pretty romantic, right?

Hmm.

Aziraphale and Crowley are each sitting on a red velvet chair, sharing red wine from a bottle with red paper at the top. The passionate romantic love is still there. But it's fragmented, isolated in small islands surrounded by yellow. Yellow backgrounds indicating fear are used in "A Companion to Owls" and "I Know Where I'm Going," so we've already been primed for what a yellow background means by the time we hit "Nazi Zombie Flesheaters." After the scare with Furfur, the background of Aziraphale's existence becomes once again saturated with fear.

Remember, this is Aziraphale's memory, so it's his feelings that are coloring these walls. Here's the same room in S1, looking toward where Crowley sits in 1941:

Now look at S2 again.

The walls are yellow in both (which fits the fear Aziraphale feels and must hide in the S1 scene as well), but the clarity and intensity of the yellow--and the fear--has been turned up and illuminated around Crowley.

@vidavalor proposes in "The Blitz, Part 3 Theory: The clues that suggest what it might be about & how it's affected what's come after it" that the story of the husbands in 1941 is likely to be a triptych, given that a literal Chekov's gun has been established (Aziraphale keeps a derringer in a hollowed-out book in the bookshop) and given that Aziraphale clearly references "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" in the conversation in the Bentley in 1967 but the song has not been established as one either of the husbands are aware of as significant to them by that year.

I agree with @vidavalor that a third part of the story is likely for two other reasons: firstly, the Nazi zombies are still shambling around London, another Chekov's gun; and secondly, because Aziraphale says, "You go too fast for me, Crowley." 1941 is the last record of a meeting between the husbands we have before Aziraphale says that, but...we haven't seen Crowley go fast with Aziraphale. At all. He's been responding to what Aziraphale wants, what Aziraphale decides to do.

So what happened between

and

? (Notice how this is still backlit in the pink and red or romantic and passionate and/or romantic love.)

How does "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" become a song Aziraphale references and Crowley picks up in 1967?

And, most importantly: Why does Aziraphale have to do the apology dance in 1941?

***

A Few More 1941 Observations

Do these curtains in 202? look like this--

(Note the symbolic Metatron head!)

--because Aziraphale wants this to be a romantic night and he's re-creating the most romantic night he's ever experienced?

***

Look who's hanging around next to Crowley even when he doesn't take off his sunglasses.

It's not just a passing shot, either: the dark horse stays in frame and visible the entire scene.

***

There's a post running around on Tumblr somewhere about how contemporary slang would interpret the language of the Bullet Catch (e.g. "never fired a gun at someone before") to mean that Crowley is a virgin (which I absolutely believe to be true) and Aziraphale is not (which I would find pretty surprising). Tumblr's search function being what it is, I have been unable to find it, so if someone would drop a link in the comments if they run across it so I can add it to the information here, I would I appreciate it deeply.

***

And finally, let us take a moment to appreciate Furfur's beautiful hair.

The wigwork in this series makes me sigh with happiness.

I think it's a telling choice that some of the angels have some dreadful visual qualities (Sandalphon's grille, Gabriel's jogging sweats) and some of the demons have beautiful visual qualities (Furfur's hair, Shax' 50s style).

#dark horse theory #1941 theory #good omens 1941 #good omens s2 #good omens meta #good omens color symbolism #nazi zombie flesheaters #ineffable husbands #bullet catch #aziracrow #crowziraphale

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iamumbra195 · 9 months

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MY favourite bleach head canons in no particular order

1. the idea that all shinigami in gigai give off uncanny valley vibes

Basically like Isshin, whose not quite human but not quite shinigami, meets some of Ichigo’s friends when he was a kid like Tatsuki and she obviously met his mom before and she was nice so she wasn’t expecting much from his dad and then she meets him and her first reaction is ‘what the fuck is that???’

The kurosaki kids, who have grown up with their dad and have pretty high levels of reiatsu, don’t actually realize this while their human friends just instinctually avoid Isshin ‘cause they feel like something’s off about him

of course over time and with extended exposure to Ichigo’s reiatsu, the weirdness kinda fades away but anyone outside of Ichigo’s circle generally avoids all the shinigami that come to Karakura in gigai for those reasons

2. all animals hate shinigami except cats and crows

literally for no reason besides the fact that I like them

I love the idea of shinji with his creepy ass smile just perched on top of a telephone pole and if he stays still long enough, crows will start sitting on him XD

I also have cats that I love and I love the idea of Ichigo just chilling on his bed with an orange cat and doing the purring thing with it while he’s sleeping

And then when he goes to a pet store with Rukia because she wants to see bunnies, all the animals go ballistic anf they get kicked out XD

3. the visored + ichigo with animalistic traits

laying down on hot things because it feels nice on their skin and soothes something in their lizard brains

eyes that flash hollow yellow when they feel intense emotion (inspired the scene in the anime where Aizen says that hollowification is faster when agitated so emotions heavily affect their appearance

I like the idea that they get very tactile with people they care about (not in a romantic way) and they get into little wrestling matches over stupid stuff because that’s they’re idea of playing and bonding

Shinji gives cat vibes, you can’t even tell me he doesn’t just look at him. When cats make eye contact as they push something off the table- that’s him

I also really like the idea of the hollowification affecting their zanpakuto. Given that Ichigo was pretty much born with his hollow, he doesn’t notice the different the way the Visored do

Shinji’s whole standing upside down and reversing the gravity on himself, I like the idea that it came after his hollowification and if he wishes he can do it to others

Idk if there’s any jjk manga readers her but you know that attack kenjaku has where he makes you feel like you’re falling but you’re not really? He does it to Yuji a few times when he’s fighting mahito and I love the idea of Shinji having that ability, just completely fucking up their sense of reality and direction

I haven’t thought of the other visored abilities but from my other AU that I will never write, I mentioned that Kaien was hollowified as well so I love the idea of him just being completely obsessed with everything water related and having an affinity for any water type kido and being able to control minor amounts of water without actually drawing Nejibana and being able to breath under water

4. all zanpakuto spirits do commentary in their weilders head

but only ppl like Ichigo and Toushiro who have incredibly powerful spirits that they can literally talk to in the middle of a fight can actually hear

Like Zabimaru, haineko, and all the other zanpakuto are just constantly making fun or nitpicking the way their weilder uses them

But Ichigo is the only one who has to suffer through Zangetsu (Shiro) cackling in his head while Toushiro gets useful feedback and Ichigo’s just completely done with him

a sadder headcanon: all zanpakuto spirits talk to their weilders regularly however, the Visored because of their own fear of their hollowification have estranged themselves from their zanpakuto spirits and like Shiro is hostile with Ichigo in canon, the others are like ten times worse

5. If Ichigo every actually seals his zanpakuto, he’d be incredibly sensitive to reiatsu (I forgot to add this one the first time and I didn’t wanna make another post XD)

I personally love this little explanation of Ichigo’s powers and you know how Ichigo is just really shitty at sensing reiatsu at the beginning? Shinji commented on it a couple times and seemed pretty confused by it.

I think that part of the reason why he’s so bad at it-- especially after the SS arc ‘cause remember he was actually pretty good at sensing back then-- is because after he achieved Bankai, Hollow Zangetsu was in control rather than OMZ and with that switch in power came a significant uptick in his own reiatsu to the point where Ichigo actually feels like he’s being crushed by his own power and he can feel how close Shiro is for the first time and he’s actually scared of his own power

Hiyori even comments about how he’s scared of his own bankai because the distance between him and Shiro decreases everytime he gets stronger since Shiro gets stronger with him

Anyways, we’re not devolving into an analysis about Ichigo and Shiro but eventually Ichigo learns how to sense things properly even with his own reiatsu

So when he finally seals Zangetsu and he’s no longer covered by his own power because it’s finally sealed, he’s gonna be sensing things so much stronger and get sensory overload only it’s ✨reiatsu sensitivity✨

6. Souls in the Society age until they find an appearance both they and their reiatsu level is comfortable with (Another one because I’m an idiot and I forgot)

Excluding Toushiro’s weird case of appearanc shifting but I guess that could be attributed to his bankai’s weirdness that I don’t know much about

I don’t think we’ve gotten on actual explanation on how souls age so I’ve decided to apply this hc

Basically the reason why ppl like Unohana, who looks incredibly similar to herself from a thousand years ago, the only difference being how much less sinister she looks and how calm she looks

Plus, all the characters from the Turn back the pendulm arc barely changing over a hundred years is wild

I initially thought of it as comparing every decade a soul lives to ever year a human lives but that didn’t feel right so I chose this

#visored #ichigo kurosaki #hollow ichigo #hollow zangetsu #shiro #zanpakuto spirits #bleach #headcanons #shinji hirako #half this post devolved into stuff about him #shinigami #animals #uncanny valley #uncanny shinigami gigai

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honeybleed · 4 months

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content & warnings: established relationship, fem!reader, suggestive and allusions to sex mdni

author’s note: cooked sumn quick for yew bae @softwiingz 💓 hope u like it tee hee AND DAT ANON WHO SIMPED FOR YELENA IN MY INBOX IF U SEE DIS!

word count: 0.7k

It had taken a long time for Yelena to lower her walls around you.

She'd grown up never receiving affection. She was accustomed to lying and manipulating to get what she wanted.

An intimidating figure that made people tread carefully around her.

But it all changed when you came along and as much as she hated to admit it, you had her wrapped around your finger.

After a small spat which led to a heated argument, which then ended up in intense lovemaking, you gazed at your lover.

You were the only one who could make her cheeks the dusty rose and her eyes glimmer this way.

"I really love you." You said gently as you beamed at her, your breaths labored and heavy as you stroked her cheek.

Yelena smiled softly, feeling a warmth spread through her chest at your words.

"I love you too, my sweet girl," She says tenderly, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "Always."

Soon enough, you sat on the rim of the bathtub as she lounged in the ceramic grand tub, head tilted back as steam billowed from the hot water.

"I can feel you staring." She said as she didn't meet your gaze. Even though you'd been together a while and she knew you loved her, she still hated the feeling of insecurity always looming over her.

Of course, her slender build and towering figure helped in her line of work but the last thing she wanted to do was intimidate the woman she loved.

"How could I not when my girlfriend is so gorgeous?" You responded in a matter-of-fact tone, earning a chuckle from her.

"Say something about my height and get it over with." Yelena replied.

"You're tall." You said plainly.

Yelena leaned back in the tub, enjoying the sensation of the hot water swirling around her body.

"Heh, yeah I know," She chuckled, relieved you settled for a statement instead of something that may have rubbed her the wrong way. "I've had people comment on it my whole life. It used to bother me, but now I quite like it."

You cupped the side of her face and slowly kissed her.

"I love how tall you are. So sexy." You settled on with a smile.

Yelena returned the kiss, her lips soft and pliant against yours.

"Mmh...I'm glad you find me sexy," She murmured against your lips. "I think you're incredibly sexy too."

She pulled you close, wrapping her arms around you and holding her tightly.

"In fact, I can barely keep my hands off you," Yelena whispered huskily. "Every time I see you, I just want to take you to bed and make love to you for hours."

You straddled her lap in the hot water and giggled.

"Your body is so gorgeous too.." You murmured as you glided your hand across her taut muscles.

Yelena let out something between a half-groan of pleasure and a shy laugh as you straddled her lap, feeling the heat between your bodies.

"You're making it hard to resist you," She said, her voice low and husky with desire. She ran her hands over your body, marvelling at the way your skin felt under her fingers.

Wordlessly, her eyes drinking in every inch of your body, grasping your hip. You settled to sit between her legs, back against her chest as she draped her arm over you.

Your fingers interlaced and your heart quickened.

"May I ask you something?" She asked softly as she nuzzled her face into the crook of your neck.

"Shoot."

"What did you first think of me...?"

You sighed.

"I always used to think you were kinda scary.." You said with an uneasy laugh, hoping you didn't hurt her. As much as the front she always had up, she was a total softie underneath it all.

"Don't know what I was expecting to hear." Yelena said with a hollow laugh as she chuckled. Regardless, it didn't sting. Not with the warmth of the water and the closeness of her girlfriend relaxing her.

She played with your fingers, tracing circles on the back of your hand with her thumb.

"Maybe I am a little bit scary," Yelena continued. "But only to people who don't know me. You know I'd never hurt you, right?"

"I know, Lena." You said fondly. "I trust you and you make me happy."

She tilted her head down to kiss the top of your head, feeling her heart flutter.

"As long as you're happy, that's all that matters to me," Yelena said softly. "I'll do anything to make you happy."

#aot x reader #yelena aot #aot yelena #aot yelena x reader #aot x female reader #aot x fem!reader #aot fluff #⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ nara scribbles

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amonsteronmaplestreet · 1 year

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I was a changeling child. My parents begat a child who laughed and giggled and played as babes do, but it was taken from them. The fair folk came in the night, and they spirited my parents’ true child away, and in its place they left me.

Though I looked identical to the taken babe, in the morning my parents knew immediately that I was not truly the fruit of their loins. I did not laugh as children do, nor play as children do, and as I grew up I behaved in strange ways and knew secrets I should not have known. They did not know why the fair folk took their child and left a duplicate in its place, but they tried their best to send me back and to have their true progeny returned.

They cried, at first. They despaired. That night my father, deep in his cups, rushed out into the woodlands beyond the village and bellowed out a demand that the fair folk take this creature back, that they retrieve this thing, this mockery in human skin, and give him his true child. But if the fair folk heard his demands, they did not heed them. No matter what my parents did, they could not return me.

So they reconciled themselves to the simple fact that their child was gone, and they settled on secrecy. They did all they could to hide the truth of me from the others in the village, did all they could to help me to blend in with the people and affect some semblance of humanity. Gradually, I learned.

In time, I think, they came to love me. In time, I think, they came to forget their true child—or at the very least to convince themselves that they had been mistaken that morning, that no switch had ever been made. Yet there was always a distance between us, and though that distance would grow shorter with the passing of the years, it never truly closed.

I was a changeling child, and though I sought to hide this fact, it seemed that the humans could always tell. Countless were the times when I would meet someone and they would look at me oddly, and later I would overhear them speaking with others about what a strange and off-putting creature I was.

It seemed that, even if they did not know for certain, even if they were unaware of the secrets of the fair folk and the nature of the changeling, they knew upon speaking with me that there was something different, something not quite right, about this stranger in their midst.

Oftentimes they would attempt to be friendly, at least at first. A man would reach out to shake my hand. A woman would look me in the eye and smile. But I would recoil at the man’s touch, and when I looked the woman in the eye in turn I would be greeted by all that she was.

I would see an intensity, a vastness, a wealth of humanity so overwhelming that I would have no choice but to turn away. Thus I would be deemed “rude.” Thus I would be called “cowardly.”

My thoughts were not their thoughts, and my actions were strange. The other children of the village would make a game out of mocking me, though it was rare that I would realize at first that that was what they were doing. I would gladly participate in my own humiliation, thinking it nothing more than a game, and thus would receive even more of their mirthful cruelty. When the truth of the situation would—belatedly—come to me, I would run home and cry into my mother’s skirts, and she would offer me all the hollow tokens of comfort that a mother is obliged to give to her child.

But she did not understand why I cried, and she would resent me for my difference. Over time, I grew to recognize this truth as well, and I grew distant from her. I learned how to hide my feelings, to disguise the intensity of my emotions. When they threatened to rise up and consume me, my mind would go numb and my soul would still itself, and so I would become empty and shielded from the turmoil within my own heart.

I was a changeling child, and as I grew, I learned all the ways to hide what I was. I learned to wear a false smile like those upon the faces all around me, and I learned to hide my discomfort at others’ touch. I forced down food which was revolting in texture, even as my stomach churned and I desired nothing less than to retch it up.

But even as my proficiency in this farce grew, the suspicion of those around me never truly faded. No matter how well I hid my difference, now matter how adept I became at wearing my human mask, they could always sense that I was not one of them, that I did not belong among their kind.

Still I worked to bury my truth. I stilled my emotions and I hid their intensity, but this ruse did nothing to quell their power. That intensity, though denied an outlet, remained. It roiled and it churned within me, and whenever I was fool enough to let my guard down, to relax my control just a little, it bubbled to the surface and overwhelmed me. I would scream and I would thrash as these emotions took hold, and my parents would take me and beat me and scold me for my outburst. And still I would scream until my voice was hoarse, until exhaustion claimed me and my bruised body fell still once more.

I was a changeling child, and when I was on the cusp of adulthood I wandered through the forest outside my village and basked in its peace. I let my mind grow still as I walked, and I left behind all the worries of my daily life. This became a routine, and I would often find time to walk beneath the trees.

One day in the midst of that wandering, I happened upon a pond of clear water. Standing there, at the edge of that pond, I looked down upon my reflection and I pondered the question of who I was. I desired to know the truth of myself, and to know what sort of creature had truly been left in that crib all those years ago.

I reached up with my hands and I grasped my face and tugged at my skin. It came off without resistance, peeled off with an ease that I never before would have imagined. There was no pain, not the slightest discomfort. Instead, with each new tearing, as each strip of flesh fell away, I was filled with a greater and greater sense of elation and freedom. When I was done, I stared down into the pond, and in my reflection I now beheld for the first time my true face, and I saw that I am grotesque and I am beautiful and I am alien and I am me.

Turning from the pond, I walked once more through the forest, and by the time I returned to the village my human face had grown back, for the people there could never look upon what I truly was. I left the forest, and I slipped in among humanity, masking the truth of my heart.

I was a changeling child, and when our village was in the grip of its harvest festival I stood alone at the edge of the crowd. The people danced, though none would dance with me. Humans played instruments and sang songs and the volume and the cacophony of it all filled my ears and filled my head until I felt that familiar numbness creeping through my senses to protect me.

All made merry. They drank and they laughed and couples snuck away into the shadows, giggling to themselves as they did was couples do away from prying eyes.

Alone, I watched it all play out, until soon enough I grew weary and retired away to quiet solitude, exhaustion heavy upon me though I had done so little.

That night I slept deeply, so thorough was my fatigue. I slept alone, with a weight heavy upon my soul. I found myself yearning for touch, even as I feared it.

I was a changeling child, and always I have been averse to the company of humans.

It was on the farms, and in the barns, and in the wilderness surrounding my village that I found kinship. Dogs swiftly grew to trust me, and the cats who hunted rodents in our food stores felt no fear of me. The people of the village soon learned that I had a knack for working with animals, and many were the days that I spent among the sheep and among the cattle, caring for them and protecting them and comforting them.

Even the wild beasts beyond the village did not fear me. In the forest I would find wolves, who sat by my side and rubbed their snouts against my arm as though they were tamed hounds. I found deer; the fawns and the doe would accept my hands against their fur, and the stags would bow their heads before me and allow me to pass them by unchallenged.

I was no threat to the creatures of the wild, and they understood this and accepted me. I did not challenge them, and my presence did not rile their passions nor offend their senses. When I was not working in the barns of the fields, I was in the forest, resting with a fox curled up on my lap as I watched the birds flit through the trees above me, and I was thinking deeply of this world I had been left in, and of all its wonders.

I was a changeling child, and when a troupe of performers came to our village I was among the crowd that gathered to watch them. I was soon drawn deep into the tale they spun and the story they pantomimed, and soon enough my attention settled upon one player in particular, who took note of me in turn.

We were the same, such was obvious. We were both changeling children, and when the play was done we found each other and shared with one another our truth. We bore ourselves openly in a way that we never had before, and we retired together and shed our skin and our disguises and for the first time exposed our beauty and our strangeness to another.

Together, we shared an intimacy both intense and magical. Together we were ourselves, bare and without pretense, our masks forgotten for just a little while. We held each other without discomfort, and we knew each other in our minds and in our hearts and in our flesh.

When the morning came, we said our farewells. The troupe left the village, and I returned to my everyday life.

I was a changeling child, and I live now in a little house at the edge of the village. I tend to my garden and to my chickens, and I care for my dogs who guard the coop and my cats who patrol my plants.

When I go to the market to sell my vegetables and my hens’ eggs, the people are courteous but they are not warm, which suits me well. We complete our transactions and I return home to my quiet and my animals. Children point and whisper among themselves as I pass, and the people of the village give me a wide berth.

My parents, for that is what I call them and that is what they were, are gone now. I live a simple life, and I am satisfied. Sometimes, however, my heart yearns for companionship; the sort that cannot be found among the beasts, and I recall the theater troupe and I wonder if I will ever again meet another who is like me. On occasion I will try, in my own fumbling way, to reach out to a villager, but the intimacy I crave continues to elude me.

For I am a changeling child, and my place is not among the humans of the village—nor will it ever be.

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#short story #fantasy #fairy tale #changeling #autism #my dumb life #my writing

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dailyrothko · 5 months

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ik its taboo to ask but, what do you see in rothkos work? Why do you like it?

It's not taboo! But I have answered this many times before so, I might direct you here or here for random examples of my answers and just add a bit, perhaps retreading...

Rothko gets singled out for being famous and looking simple (though it's not not) but I don't feel the criteria is different than it would be for any other artist.

My favorite artists, Munch, Bearden, Hokusai, Bill Traylor, Ruth Asawa etc., what do they have in common? Just the basics of form, color and light and the emotion that is carried through them.

I don't feel like the public always has great taste but I do subscribe to the idea that Rothko would not have endured if his work did not have meaning to some. And some of those people were Joan Mitchell, Brice Marden, Helen Frankenthaler, Motherwell, Pollock, Elaine De Kooning, Tracey Emin, Robert Ryman etc. Other fine artists blown away by these seemingly simplistic works. This doesn't mean you have like Rothko or any artist but you know here we are the the Rothko detractors kind of amuse me, not for their taste but rather for their arguments.

I think a lot of people just aren't exposed in person to a wide variety of art and when you see things in the flesh, so to speak, it's a wildly different experience than the world of looking at computers. And art museums are also places people react to thinks as a group and it's an interesting footnote to see how art affects people, sometimes it can make you think.

I have devoted so much to time to Rothko, sometimes I have asked myself why, maybe he's not as good as I think, I see them everyday, it can be tiring to research and post and be involved with it.

And then, I see one again or, as in the last two weeks, I see shots from the Paris show (I couldn't afford to go but they did invite me) and again I am struck by what a really exceptional artist he was. How no one else does what he does and how I have a great feeling for his particular expression.

And Rothko the person, who could bloviate occasionally, was an exceptional character of great dedication to art and to his idea. I have known lots of artists and his intense commitment to an idea, that was not popular, that was not making him money, that had not been done before, was a relentless pursuit. I admire that too.

Detractors would have to you believe silly things about art, embarrassing things not seated in the normal "Does nothing for me" argument which is a great argument about any artist. Rather they want to say it's the emperor's new clothes and frankly, while that's cool if you believe it, the technical merit argument is so hollow and silly, I never even know what to say to these people. The reductive standard is basically the best painting of a cat is the one that looks the most like a cat, and if you believe that, buy a camera and save yourself some money.

Even yesterday with the Christie's sale, and the orange/yellow Rothko, which is certainly not one of my favorites, Photographer Mark Cashion (thanks Mark) sent me this shot. And I was just impressed again, kind of in the opposite way that his detractors feel. They see someone doing nothing and I see someone creating a huge amount from very little.

Thank you so much for the question , sorry, as always to prattle on.

#mark rothko #markrothko #rothko #daily rothko #dailyrothko #abstract expressionism #modern art #abstraction #colorfield #ab ex #colorfield painting #mid century #anonymous #questions

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suuho · 7 months

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genuinely, i love how they set top up as this cold and uncaring top dog, absolute player and fuckboy stereotype, and then in comes mew and he blows it all to smithereens. instead, top becomes intensely caring and devoted to mew, vying for mew’s love and affection and, most of all, for his forgiveness. and it is never just a hollow act of caring for the sake of appearances or posturing, top cares for mew because he is in love with him, because he wants to care for him and make sure he is alright, because it is his first and foremost way to show affection. the showy dates, the overboard flirting, the pick up lines and come-ons, they all mean nothing. that is all just smoke. at his core, top is a caretaker and with mew, he cannot even help himself. he just has to. mew matters to him more than he would have ever expected in the beginning, when it was all just a game, and there is a certain degree of romance to the care he gives mew. how readily he receives him, all sides of him, how he has learned to accept because the way he loves mew is unconditional, at this point. they might both be unhinged, manipulative to a fault, and focused on appearances and performance, but at their core, topmew are so genuinely in love with each other, they’re a perfect match. and top is just the absolute picture of devotion.

#he would burn the earth to keep mew warm lol #i think it’s sooooo well done bc you have this cold character that is set up as a stereotypical asshole #and then he turns crazy devoted. 180 flip.#and yes top is misguided at points and definitely messy as hell but so is mew lmao #so is everyone in this show #anyways topmew ily….. you could only be with each other and that’s the entire point #only friends the series #kaz talks #topmew

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snowthornes · 7 months

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SHEPHERDS OF HAVEN | @shepherds-of-haven HEADSHOT ART | @yuuugay

✦ The Godless Brightburner

— Rend the world in winter's wrath.

The magic of Aetherai relies heavily on energy and emotions to increase the intensity of their spells. Without them, spells would be rendered weak or ineffectual, losing their force and impact; what should be great gusts of wind would become gentle puffs of air. - Notes by Thorne Briers, scribbled on a worn out journal.

On the battlefield, Thorne is akin to a howling blizzard.

The smooth and unfazed demeanor he typically affects is nowhere to be seen. His movements are swift, powerful, and brutally efficient: leaping and dodging with a jagged elegance reminiscent of an icicle broken from a frozen cave mouth. There's a flash of silver as he swiftly drags the bowstring all the way back to his cheek; a sliver of a second; then the silent scream of an arrow hurtling through the air, meeting its target with vicious accuracy.

There's a razor glint of claws and he abruptly rolls back, dodging a near-fatal blow. He springs back to his feet and responds with a barrage of howling magical energy — magic that twists into hurricanes of wind and frost, knife-like icicles that rend the flesh and freeze the limbs. The storm responds to his escalating vehemence, singing with approval as it cuts and dances and destroys, obediently following his every command.

Power and emotion flood his veins like water bursting out of a dam. His blood sings with an almost feral glee. Fury and longing, grief and defiance, silver-bright intelligence and dagger-sharp cunning, a mask always hiding, concealing, performing a one-man masquerade of hollowed music and elegant smiles, shattered faith and deadened hope, sunlight thawing a winter's chill, love and loss and laughter and hands reaching out—

Beneath the blood and dust that cling to his face, storm gray eyes blaze with a sharp, glacial, light.

✦ The Mage's Phantasms

— A thousand colors to a name.

Truth be told, I'm not sure how to feel. I came to Haven hoping to find employment and perhaps enter the merchant trade, but ended up landing in the lap of the Shepherds instead. This is my reality now. While I'm not too thrilled about it, I have no choice but to continue down this path I've inexplicably stepped on — though I have no interest in being a hero and sacrificing myself on the front lines. Perhaps I'll transfer to a non-combatant position in the future. I shall fade safely into the Order's background soon enough. Then, I can return to pursuing my previous ambitions. - Entry by Thorne Briers, scribbled in a worn out journal. Written after his inititation to the Shepherds. Miscellaneous trade and business notes are jotted down on the rest of the page. It's an entry that he often views with a look of both irony and nostalgia.

Notes on Shepherd Thorne Briers, ranging from the startlingly mundane to the undeniably vital. The author is unknown.

➸ Thorne stands at 5'11". He typically carries himself with an air of grace and elegance, mannerisms painstakingly absorbed from the aristocrats and merchants he used to watch from the distance as a child. His movements notably become more erratic and excitable when around those he wholeheartedly trusts — something that he had never found until joining the Shepherds. 🌠

➸ He can be overly apathetic to the plights of strangers. He's seen too much, done too much to be easily moved by compassion or emotion. Though he's capable of giving comfort and reassurance when the situation calls for it, he would rather use detached pragmatism to assess a situation rather than give in to 'pointless' emotions such as pity and distress. One could say that he almost recoils from genuinely emotional displays — though he hides it well.

Only those close to him know of this particular aspect of his nature, however. He usually keeps it well-concealed beneath a gleaming veneer of carefully chosen words and expressions, knowing that his true nature might work against him during missions. Whether or not this makes him insincere is up to the judgement of others. 🌠

➸ Avoids making grand promises or heroic declarations. While Thorne is quite adept at manipulating a situation to his favor, there is something quite odd about him: his aversion to making direct promises. Hope can be such a light, fragile thing, and it can be so easy to give; yet when it is promised to someone only to be taken away, it can break them. He can't. He wont. Thorne doesn't trust himself. He doesn't trust himself to be this so-called hero. He will meander, he will laugh, and he will tell you that he'll be back, in his own roundabout way — but he will never ask you to trust that he'll succeed. Not yet, anyway. 🌠

➸ Possesses a vehement aversion to religion itself. Contrary to what one might think, Thorne actually thinks it's very likely that gods do exist in some shape or form. He just has absolutely no interest in worshiping them; one could even say that he despises the thought of it. It's a stark contrast to his childhood, when he would worship and pray to the One-God with his parents. The very mention of faith and religion — especially that of the One-God — can have him inwardly recoiling as he bites back the scathing words threatening to spill from his lips.

Very, very few know about it, however. Only those he implicitly trusts have been allowed to catch glimpses of the cold vitriol that he holds towards the gods — and even they don't know just how deep it runs. (Yes, he didn't take the kithma revelation very well, and still has very mixed feelings about it. Despite that, he had to grudgingly admit that it made more sense than not.) 🌠

➸ He can be unexpectedly honest when it comes to those he holds dear. Though it clearly takes him some visible effort, Thorne won't shy away from telling a friend all the reasons why he holds them in high regard. If he plucks up the nerve, he'll bluntly tell them of how important they are to him — all while wearing the flat expression of a frog about to leap into boiling water. He'll immediately find an excuse to flee after saying his piece, face prickling with rare heat all the while. 🌠

➸ Loves accessorizing and embellishing his clothes! Before joining the Shepherds, Thorne would diligently set aside a part of his earnings to spend on his more fashionable pursuits. He especially liked embroidering delicate patterns and designs on his clothes, a hobby he continued even after joining the Order. He often tests the bounds of the Order's rules by embroidering subtle yet tasteful patterns onto his Shepherd's cloak, much to Blade's consternation. 🌠

➸ It's ridiculously easy to make him laugh when among friends, a fact that has surprised many — including Thorne himself. Even the saddest joke can coax a snort of laughter from him, though he tries to explain it away with something along the lines of, "the pathetic air of it makes it funny, why are you looking at me like that—". The recruits have long grown accustomed to seeing him doubled over with laughter during breakfast over something Chase had said, sometimes choking on his honeyed milk in the process. 🌠

➸ His moral compass has been slowly (and reluctantly) shifting after joining the Shepherds. Unfortunately, the environment Thorne was given at the Shepherds Order made it all too easy to foster compassion. For the first time, he has allies, confidantes, friends — people he can genuinely trust to watch his back. It was slow, and it was gradual, but the veneer of ice and stone he kept around his heart was softening.

The pivotal moment was in Chapter Five, when Thorne had to choose between following the mission or letting Nathe win. While Thorne could bluff that he'd only allowed Nathe to win because he'd figured that Briony would make for a powerful ally, he knew in his heart of hearts that it was a lie. In that moment, as he stared into Nathe's eyes, he'd simply wanted the elf to reunite with his family. 🌠

➸ He's actually incredibly emotional (and dramatic) despite the way he doggedly conducts himself with an apathetic pragmatism. Thorne can be indifferently cold when it comes to matters of compassion. Overly rational, even. But one could say that it was a steel born out of necessity; an iron will carved out of what was once a gentle heart in order to survive alone in a world teetering on the brink of madness.

To love is to be left; it is what he has learned in his years of wandering the world alone. To rely on faith is weakness. To believe in hope is foolishness. What was once laughter and camarederie will eventually bleed into farewells and betrayals.

To love is to be left. Never again. Never again. 🌠

➸ He is afraid. He is afraid of losing everything. The more he comes to care for the Shepherds (his comrades, friends, family, even), the more terrified he becomes of losing them. The more he grows to love them with all the fierceness and softness and everything in his heart, the more he becomes afraid of driving them away. He is no hero. He is no light. He is a charlatan, full of anger and grief and so much hate that he cannot speak into the world. Hope is a word that burns at his touch. When he looks into the mirror, all he can see is a scarred visage of disappointment — a liar masquerading as a hero. 🌠

✦ Afterword

First of all. If you've actually, somehow, managed to reach the end of this monstrously long post and are somehow reading this. Thank you. So much. So very much. Also I might be on the verge of proposing (🥺🥺🥺💍💍💍) Ahead is a little afterword about Thorne and the Godless Brightburner snippet.

Thorne is a heavily flawed character — and an incredibly emotional one at that. Despite how he usually conducts himself — pragmatic, cunning, calculating, and all that jazz — he feels his every emotion like a raging howl of sleet and storm.

He used to be a child who loved the world and everything in it. He was Westwood's beloved ray of sunshine, the mayor's precocious son. It was the... events of his thirteenth birthday and his experiences as a solitary Diminished that hardened him, that turned him into the reverse of what he once was.

A bleeding heart is a weakness: so Thorne closed his heart and turned the wound into a jagged scar. There were far too many people out there who would use a naive, wide-eyed Diminished for their own gain — he learned this very quickly. He rejected his compassion, despised his own emotions, and turned himself into someone so coldly pragmatic that the boy he once was became naught but another painful memory.

It's why he has so much mixed feelings for the Shepherds, especially in the first half of the story. By then, the only one he was concerned about was himself — or so he claimed. And, if he were to be honest, he didn't consider himself very worthy of living. He didn't even know why he fought so hard to survive; why he was willing to go so far. Perhaps it was anger. Perhaps it was defiance. Or perhaps it was atonement: continuing his hazy existence in exchange for the home he had eradicated so long ago.

You could say that he's very similar to the embittered Hunters that Halek often criticizes. Those who were disillusioned by their banishment so subsequently refused to help with the demon problem. It's why doesn't really get along with the more... openly compassionate members of the order — at least not at first. All the "make the world a better place" and "protect the innocent" talk would only ever earn flatly unimpressed looks from him.

Over the course of the game, he starts to soften. Slowly, hesitantly, his view of the world starts to gentle. He becomes more open to helping others, more willing to express his true emotions instead of hiding them under a veneer of charming smiles and calculated words. He's still wary of promises and heroics, but a part of him is gradually entertaining the thought of a future soaked in sunlight rather than in shadow. Of a future where he could be happy.

Thorne's journey is one of change and new beginnings: of learning to trust others as you learn to trust yourself. He is flawed. He is frustrating. Sometimes even I want to throttle him. He shuns emotions while he drowns in them. He will conflict with the Shepherds in the order. And, yes, he has a massive case of Impostor Syndrome when it comes to his status as Hero of Haven. But he will change, and he will grow. And I'm very, very excited to see it. 🫡✨

Another thing! If the "Godless Brightburner" snippet felt familar to you, then you'd be spot on! That section was actually inspired by something from the SHOH alpha demo — it's one of my favorite passages from the game ever. I've put it just below, so beware of MINOR SPOILERS!!

(I'll be honest: this passage made me cry. Like, I was full on sniffling my heart out. I don't know why. I don't know how. But it felt so regretful. Like the hollow echo of something that once was. Vibrant and brilliant and ephemeral and gone.)

When I first read this passage, I was floored. Sniffling aside, it was just... brimming with so much life. "His essence poured into the ring". Lena had done just that. With one passage alone, the very essence of a man long gone had been given shape in strokes of heartbreaking color.

It stuck with me for a very long time — and still has. The world of SHOH has made me cry many, many, times (I will probably ramble about them in the future as well, I apologize in advance 😔) (also yes the Thurl chapter was a DOOZY) but this just... stuck. It's an incredibly beautiful peace of writing, and I never tire of it no matter how many times I reread it.

Therefore, I was inspired to do something similar for Thorne! His essence — what would it feel like? What song would it sing unto the world, if it could?

The Godless Brightburner is supposed to be about showing Thorne's very essence. The Mage's Phantasms, meanwhile, was only supposed to contain little bits and pieces about Thorne. But I think I got a bit carried away there. That section is nowhere near little. 🗿

Aaaand, that's all. Thank you so much for reading this far, and I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed making it!! The world of SHOH is so breathtakingly crafted, its characters so beautifully alive — I'm glad I got to give Thorne his own special place within its seams.

Thank you very much to Yuki @yuuugay for making Thorne's portrait!! I am very KSDHGJKLSDG about him and everytime I look at him I lose the ability to speech 🥺🥺🥺 You've made him so, so beautiful — thank you! You've made me so incredibly happy!

Lastly, thank you to @shepherds-of-haven for commissioning this template for us: I had a lot of fun wandering through Blest with Thorne! Exploring the world of SHOH was an experience, one with a ton of tears, dismayed yelps, and laughter. Thank you so, so much for sharing it with us. I'm looking forward to seeing how the rest of this journey unfolds together. 🥺💖

Have a very good day, and I hope you all have just as much (if not more) fun as I did on your own playthroughs and template-filling endeavors! Good luck, and thank you again!! 💖🫡💐✨

#shepherds of haven #shaking crying #i'm.... i'm done #it's finished #im in state of disbelief rn hold on #this became SO LONG #this project was so so fun to work on #i'm both happy and sad that it's finished #aaaaah #to anyone who clicks that read more link: thank you. i appreciate you very very much 🥹🥹🥹 also im sorry HSDHGHDSGDGH #shoh #oc: thorne #oc template #aspen's blorbos.txt

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