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hopefulceladon · 1 month ago

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︶⊹ all beauty, no beast | phainon x reader

summary: phainon, for whatever reason, refuses to reveal his demiurge self, up until the very moment you manage to get him to crack. notes: WRITTEN BEFORE THE 3.4 UPDATE!! if this ends up ooc at all i'll cry. i love phainon and freaknon so much that i ended up listening to an indulgent worm whispering that i should make a fic where you get to hug demiurge phainon. so now we're here. word count: 2.2k ao3 link: here!

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“I... really don’t think you should see me like this, partner.”

There was an anxious waver lingering within Phainon’s voice as he addressed you from behind the nearby wall; a broken, unsure cadence familiar to your ears, but deeply foreign as it rang forth from his lips.

It was hard not to frown at his desperately uttered sentiments, but it didn’t come as a complete surprise. After all, upon the days that followed both the retrieval of Kephale’s Coreflame and the subsequent beginning of Era Nova’s end, Phainon had grown increasingly distant.

It had stung, of course, being gradually pushed away by the very man who had already sworn nearly everything to protect you from whatever turmoil that’d erupt—and was, already, erupting—upon the disintegrating planet, not realizing that he was actively hurting you in the process, but you tried to regard the circumstances with as much understanding as your wounded heart would allow.

Still, never once did you suspect he’d ever go so far as to physically avoid you, too.

But despite all your growing fears of abandonment and the countless streams of resentful thoughts that had trickled forth from them, you swallowed down any trace of the biting poison that resided upon your tongue, and lathered your words with the patience you knew was far more productive to possess.

The vile aftertaste of the hastily downed bitterness had burned your throat, but you knew it was only a small price to pay to maintain a bond once so sweet.

“You’ve avoided me for the past few mornings,” you finally stated, silently praying none of your deeply bruised feelings would surface. “You’ve hid behind pillars, slipped off into abandoned corridors...” you trailed off with a frown. “Whatever it is, it can’t possibly be as dire as you so clearly fear.”

A small, shaky chuckle from the other side proved he was still there, still listening.

“You’re right,” Phainon agreed, and it had lifted up your hopes for only a second, before they were chased back down with a weary sigh. “...it’s worse.”

“Phainon.”

The stubborn man didn't yield, even at your utterance of his name. “I know,” he whispered, despite his own cluelessness. “I know what you're thinking—that we’ve stuck to each other's side through thick and through thin, rejoiced in both our highs, and tried to cheer the other up at both our lows...”

He took a breath before he continued. “But, this is... different. This-”

“Phainon.”

You were pleased by the silence that had followed—it always was hard for him to outshine your own obstinance, after all.

“...amidst all this chaos and all this uncertainty, I really just wish to see you again.”

In light of your earnest sincerity, Phainon allowed for nothing to escape in response; not a word was uttered, nor did even a single sigh escape past the separating barrier. All you could hear was a series of light tapping noises against the surface—rhythmic, yet hurried, steady, yet unassured.

This time, his silence had worried you.

“I think,” Phainon continued after moments had passed, as if he had taken the time to deeply mull over your words. “...that if you’re trying to avoid any sort of ‘chaos’ in your life, then I’m right, and I really should stay behind this wall.”

“Oh, please.” you brushed his words off with a huff, growing weary of your unwilling role in this endless song-and-dance. “...how bad can it really be?”

You swore you heard a soft gulp.

“...very bad?”

It had taken an arduous amount of restraint to force down a harsh groan that, judging by Phainon’s current tone alone, would’ve certainly deflated him into a completely pitiful pile, but you willingly did it for his sake.

“My love,” you uttered the endearment abruptly, before softening your voice down to a pleading whisper. “...please.”

It was a terribly cheap tactic, but it was one you had indeed learned and mastered from the indirect guidance of the very worst. After all, the master must’ve surely been even the slightest bit fallible to the very weaknesses he exploited?

The small, hushed ‘that’s hardly fair...’ you heard Phainon whisper—whine?—underneath his breath already allowed you to picture the pitiful expression upon his features, from the slight frown upon his lips, to the widening of his pupils as he immediately yearned to rectify his mistakes.

“...I never could say no to you, could I?”

Upon his confession, a bitter, resigned sigh had escaped him, as if Phainon had finally accepted his own fate.

“But... you can’t say I never warned you.”

Even amidst such a dire situation, you couldn’t help but crack a weak smile at the familiar words. It was a phrase that once would’ve forced a loving wince out of you in happier times, but now, you were just thankful to be even brief acquaintances with a fleeting touch of normalcy at all.

As expectant as you were to hear approaching footsteps, tapping against the shared ground beneath both your feet, you were taken aback by the stillness that followed. Even if you could somehow sense that Phainon’s presence was drawing near, you weren’t certain as to how that was.

That was, of course, until Phainon finally revealed himself.

What stood—moreso hovered, really—in what you had expected to be Phainon’s place, was a floating figure that strongly resembled a man of similar stature, if not just the slightest bit taller.

The first difference you had recognized was his hair, once a comforting shade of snow-white and lightly fluffed, now a glowing hue of pale gold, unruly and tousled about. Phainon’s sudden lack of the typical armor that adorned his body was the next thing you noted, as unfamiliar wings of black and gold shielded his form away from your perception, the shiny, nearly mechanical plumes wrapped around his torso like a curtain that hid away all of his shame.

You finally looked up to meet his eyes, hoping to still see the same pair of aquamarine you’ve familiarized yourself with, only to gaze upon shimmering gold instead.

The man who levitated before you might’ve looked so vastly different compared to what you’ve always known, but despite all the physical changes that might’ve separated one from the other, deep down you could tell it was still him.

And as you cast your gaze upon the spiked, gleaming halo that clung behind Phainon’s head and bathed his form anew with warm, ethereal light, you swore he was a sight ripped straight out of a myth of old, a celestial vision bestowed upon only a select few.

You weren’t scared like he had feared you to be, no.

Matter of fact, it was hard to feel anything but downright awe at the sight.

Still, in light of your sudden brush with speechlessness, Phainon’s lips obliviously downturned.

“...you must think it’s pretty bad, too.”

Phainon’s voice, despite his tensed features, was still soft, as if he had already resigned himself to the likes of his false beliefs, yet remained so dejected because of them.

It was then you swore to yourself you never wished to hear the once-beaming man sound so uncertain ever again.

“What? No, you look-”

“Like a monster, prepping himself to strike?” he guessed.

“No!” you cried out, your boiling frustrations over his lack of understanding starting to spill over into your words. “We’ve both seen monsters before. We’ve both seen the depraved hunger in the eyes of the creatures consumed by the Black Tide, the crazed bloodlust radiating off the corrupted Titankin—we’ve even both been on the receiving end of the Flame Reaver’s blade!”

You paused, hastily chasing after the air that eluded you upon your spiel.

“We’ve both seen the very epitome of evil before, my love—”

Even as your gait trembled, with every step more cautious than the last, you stood before him, closer than either of you expected to be.

“—and I’m positive you couldn't look anything less alike.”

Phainon had froze at your words, a slightly hitched intake of breath giving his surprise away.

The silence that fell upon the atmosphere was solely broken up by the pattering of more careful strides towards him, all gentle in their approach, treating him as if he were a wounded stray at high risk of snapping forth to protect himself.

But even despite his new, slightly imposing visage, Phainon remained incredibly docile.

“You really are breathtaking.” you whispered with earnest reverence.

Phainon chuckled weakly before he shook his head. “You know, if I were you, I’d... probably be running away from me in utter fear.”

“Right, well,” you clicked your tongue, unable to prevent the smile that soon formed. “...you’re also sometimes an idiot, so...”

Cautiously, you lifted up your hand and cradled Phainon’s cheek against your palm, the surface of his pale skin surprisingly warm against the thumb you stroked it with.

“...maybe it’d be for the best if I didn't always listen to what you’d do in my shoes, yeah?”

It didn't take long for Phainon to lean—no, melt, into your soothing touch.

As your fingers reached skyward to thread themselves through his mussed locks of ivory, it was if your presence alone had been what finally stilled him, as Phainon all but clung to you like a scared, helpless puppy would still cling to a beloved tattered toy, his arms firmly wrapping around you and pressing you closer against him as if you were the very fragile, fraying tapestry that upheld what little remained of his diminishing stability.

Maybe because to him, that's nearly what you were.

And as you basked in the comfort of his embrace—even if it had, indeed, felt far stronger than the likes of the ones he bestowed from his other form’s arms—you willingly molded yourself against Phainon’s frame in kind, bathing yourself in the pleasant, perfect warmth that radiated from his body, breathing in the sweet scent of the morning's dreary dew that had bonded itself to his skin.

Phainon soon turned his head and pressed fleeting kisses to the skin of your palm, his eyes squeezed shut, as if this were a blissful dream he had no desire to rouse from.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you.” Phainon murmured, further sealing his apologies against your hand with another press of his lips, the brief touch nearly trembling, as if he’d rather soon perish than to allow for even a mere inch of your palm to go unloved.

You deeply loathed the waver that remained in his voice.

“It’s alright,” you tried your best to soothe, hugging him ever closer. “...the past few days have been absolute living nightmares. I could never fault you for falling prey to any stressful whims.”

Phainon didn't respond further, stiffening at what you presumed was the reminder of all the discord that wreaked havoc upon the surrounding world. Before you could apologize for bringing such a depressing topic up, however, the man had scooped you closer and floated down until you both rested upon the ground, propping you upright against the wall that once separated you, before choosing to rest his head against your lap.

You froze.

Hesitant to break the tranquility of the moment, and even more reluctant to shatter the peaceful expression upon Phainon’s features that had only grown to be an increasingly rare sight as of late, you didn’t dare question his actions, choosing instead to resume rubbing soothing circles against his warm scalp.

“...angel?”

Your fingertips stilled at the abruptly whispered name, and you were quick to glance down towards the source.

What had met your gaze was the precious sight of Phainon looking up at you through long lashes, his softened, golden eyes gleaming—tenderly, pleadingly so—with the same levels of potency as the bright blue you’ve always known. He then grabbed onto one of your hands—utterly careful with exactly how he had grasped it, solely so that the gilded claws of his armor would not penetrate your flesh and draw pointless blood—and squeezed it within the confines of his own, firm enough to ground himself in the moment, firm enough to remind himself that yes, you truly were there with him.

Phainon’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I never wish to live a life where you’re not there by my side, you know.” he confessed quietly.

It was such a profound thing to admit so suddenly, but you knew why he had done so; Phainon’s life had always been dotted and dashed with countless loss after loss, and so he must’ve feared that you...

You squeezed his hand in return.

“I... I don’t think you ever will.”

Of course, you both knew that neither of you could ever wholeheartedly afford to keep such a lofty promise, but you were more than willing to take your chances upon whispering flimsy sentiments none could ever fulfill, if it meant your beloved hero could finally find some temporary semblance of rest.

And it must’ve worked, because the tension that had once left Phainon’s shoulders haggard seemed to have ebbed away at your reassurances, which only encouraged him to hold you even closer, his arms now lazily draped over atop your legs.

“Mm, good.” Phainon finally whispered against your thighs, his voice slightly muffled.

Your heart warmed at his sleepy murmur, your hands still idly playing with his hair.

“Why 'good?'”

“...because you really were my greatest miracle.”

#︶⊹ writings #︶⊹ of fantasy's sweetest memories #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail imagines #phainon x reader #phainon x you

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bambooshootssoup · 2 months ago

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"Would you still love me if I was a demon? or angel?"

Demiurge Phainon x Reader

In which your puppy like partner starts to develop a new personality that apparently he had a bit of hard time controlling them

Warning : Headcanon, slight angst but fluff, insecurities (not the reader)

- Only god knows where he gets such a world destroying power while managed to keep them in bay most of the time

- You were the first one he tried to convince that he's fine and he could control 'that' form so there's nothing to worry about, he's scared to make you scared, of him..

- But his switching personality does add spice to your relationship

- He was pretty good at controlling his emotions, but since he got that demiurge power? He finds himself struggling... a bit, he feels so much rage coursing through him and he has to constantly keep them at bay

- It can be funny because he became easily provoked and sometimes can't help but be pissed off by something (which works like mood swings or some sort) but it's sad to see him so restless just by keeping his emotion in check

- As a result, he became touchy, he already is. But this time worsened by ten folds

- Your presence is what calms him down, and he's aware of it, that's why he always keeps a hand on whatever part of your body he can touch (hands, waist, shoulder, your preferences..) to anchor every bit of his shredding sanity

- His body ran warmer now, making him a perfect cuddle buddy, and he can get to be close with you, so it's kind of great deal

- As for the rest? He's still your usual Phainon, he still does whatever it takes to make you safe and happy

- but now, with a bit of "I'll burn the world for you" determination..... And please, keep him from burning the world away

- What about Phainon's side?

- He feels troubled, no one can truly tell and describe what he felt, but he certainly looks worried all the time

- What if he scared you? What if he ended up hurting you with his hands? Even if it's just a thought, he couldn't forgive himself to even think about it

- Sure, he now has a power that can protect you from anything, but 'that' power can also hurt you at the same time if he's not careful

- He's afraid to show you his new form, afraid that you might find him terrifying.... or even disgusting, despite the extravagant power, he looks so vulnerable, so fragile

- After all, his body can't truly feel your warmth anymore, the power, the emotion, it's all so raw and intense... That he almost lost his sense of touch, he almost cried the first time he realized that he can't truly feel you anymore

- The only body part that still probably functioning is his head, you could actually notice how the rest of his body is pale and lack of blood... only his head remains it's colour..

- He often nuzzles when you both are cuddling, trying to fill out the missing sense by nuzzling his head to you, he always told you to touch his head with your hands so he can feel the lost warmth again..

- He's slowly shattering, but at least, he got you, right?

Sorry :)

#phainon #phainon x reader #phainon x you #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader

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hivemuthur · 21 days ago

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Heathen

viktorxgn!reader explicit (thigh riding, body worship). When the commune starts to rot, you join the search party and trace a half-remembered path through Zaun’s sewers to the find missing Herald.

word count: 4,7K

author’s note: artist is ofc @petitesieste, the never ending source of inspiration.

AO3

—

The wilt begins at the edges: a single fuchsia blossom slumping against its own stem, petals bruising to the colour of old liver. By the second dawn the planters along the cloistered walk lie foul-mouthed, their soil hacked open by roots twisting inward as though trying to hide from the light. Pearlescent gourds—once swollen with clean water and shimmer-sweet pulp—soften to grey bruise and give up a wet, meatish stench. Hushed footfalls crunch over skins that yesterday were taut as drumheads.

Shadows thicken and knit across vaulted ceilings; they drip down walls in tarry strands until the stairwells resemble throats clogged with soot. The faithful drift through that gloom like figures in an under-developed plate, outlines greying at the seam of existence. Their eyes run with irritation yet no tears form—just a brittle, salt-rimmed sting reminding them of nights before redemption, when Zaun’s vapours ate the alveoli raw.

Breath grows metallic, tinged with that sour-green tang the Undercity exhales after rain: a flavour of oxidised copper and rotting kelp, intimate as blood on the tongue. Coughs re-emerge—old, rasping signatures of a body losing arguments with air. The youngest acolytes do not know the sound and gape at their own chests, betrayed. The elders recognise it at once; they fold collars over mouths, but cloth cannot keep out memory.

In the orchard annex a cluster of figs drops, splitting open on flagstones like so many soft skulls. Spores rise in a ruddy cloud and cling to cassocks, seeding mildew in ragged ecclesiastical patterns. By dusk the once-clear pools have turned opaque, surfaces ruffled by unseen gasps as if something beneath gulps at the last scraps of light.

Rumour hardens to dread: the Demiurge is gone. Their voices crack on the word—gone—because absence hums louder than bells, louder than the rattling ventilators that fail to clear the tainted draught. And every throat that attempts prayer tastes rust and realises the miracle was never the hymn but the breath that carried it.

It’s strange to feel so much again. Something tells you the ‘much’ of it is subjective, an effect of long-lasting suppression under the Herald’s care, yet whatever emotion floods you now feels colossal. Whether a fleeting worry or a lingering disquiet at the loss of something you never knew you could lose, it expands in your chest like a necrotic growth, and your heart mistakes each flutter for imminent collapse.

It’s equally strange to watch things fall from grace, lose their impeccable shape, and dissolve—from a perfection dictated by the anomaly—into the entropy that rules nature: the very nature that was promised to be superseded in the name of a greater good.

Those devotees whose health allows it spread out in rays from the centre of the commune. Each is issued a backpack, provisions of fruit that have not yet gone sour, a mask to shield their lungs from the virulent air of Zaun, and a hand on the shoulder already glimmering with faint shimmer-veins.

It’s terrifying to be outside—the world untouched by the Herald’s mercy looks even worse than your collapsing home. Green fumes cling to every inch of space unoccupied by matter. Beggars, their palms nothing but sinew, tug at your clothes and streak them with grime as you push towards the canals. You still do as the Herald taught you and hand over your food faster than you can think, in the name of a greater good.

And your thoughts—they are alien. Impure ideas breach your brain as it slips back into fragile humanity—the longer the Arcane remains absent, the worse it feels. What was once part of a collective, sprouts individual notions one after another. Vignettes of memories surge through you, agonising and packed with emotions your body can’t contain.

Pain comes first, true to its old habit of arriving unannounced and seating itself behind your sternum like a hot rivet. It is the pain that once drove you to the Herald, the pain he lifted as easily as a veil—and now it grinds back into bone, spark-sharp, searing the fine nerves that lace your ribs. Each breath scrapes as though the air itself has teeth.

Fear folds over that pain like damp canvas, heavy and ever-present while you huddle through the slick drainage channels. Oily water kisses your ankles; the reek of rusted pipes clings to your mask. Rats scurry in the dim, their fur algae-slick, and shadows lunge at the edge of lamplight, stretching racket limbs across the tunnel walls.

Loneliness follows, stealthier than either agony or dread. It pads up on quiet feet and settles in your throat, a dry ache. With it comes an unfamiliar longing—a hollow pulse behind the breastbone, tender as a bruise and twice as persistent. You want something not food, not warmth, not safety, but something nameless and distant, an echo across a chasm. Your heart, unused for its original purpose, knocks against your ribs like a locked door in wind. The emptiness inside you feels cavernous, so wide it invents its own weather: draughts of yearning swirl through rooms you never knew existed until the Herald’s absence prised them open.

The worst one—the loneliness skulks beside you wearing the Herald’s face—the last visage you saw through a lattice of agony, the first you glimpsed once the agony vanished. Then, you were grateful, stunned, grovelling in dust before your knees even registered ground, mouth too slow for thank-you. The feeling was pristine, a clean sheet snapped against sunlight.

Now that same face drifts up from your mind’s sump and the sensation that rides with it is almost rancid: it hurries your breathing, lashes your pulse against your throat. You trawl your memory for the daily icon—his profile lit by strange milky lamps—and, as the image sharpens, something tilts. You see the asymmetry, the slim jaw, the long fuse of petrol and gold in each iris, and for the first time you realise the beauty was never hushed but stark, seismic. It unsettles you, the way a cathedral suddenly seems too tall when the choir stops.

Worse, you sense absence in that remembered face: a missing fleck of loveliness, the faint mole that once anchored the skin beneath his eye. You cannot say why you know it should be there, only that your gut fills with cold water when you notice it gone, as if beauty itself had been prised off with a scalpel and pocketed by the price of miracles. The thought cuts sideways—was the cost paid by him, or by all of you—and leaves a metallic echo jangling behind your ribs while the tunnel ahead narrows into bruised, green gloom.

You nearly slip on something you decide not to examine—for the sake of your mission—and, as you steady yourself against the cold wall, you mutter, “Shit.” The word tastes strange on your tongue: common, vulgar. You have grown apart from such words; in making you better, the Herald has also made you soft-spoken.

“Shit,” you repeat, softer now, rolling the syllable across your palate as though testing the grit of unfiltered wine. The hiss and blunt finality of the t scrape the roof of your mouth; it echoes down the sluice channel, returns to you thinner, like a discarded snakeskin. The profanity feels illicit and oddly nourishing, a shard of common life pressed under the tongue after months of sacramental silence.

You try a stronger one. “Fuck.” The consonant lands like knuckles on sheet-metal, flashes through your teeth. The vowel unfurls hot in your throat, a flare of rusty iron and old smoke. It vibrates deep, stirs sludge-coloured memories: alley fights, cheap gin, nights when language was a cudgel instead of a hymn. The word leaves a sulphur tang in your mouth and, strangely, steadies you—anchors your scraped nerves to something primitive and unadorned. For a single heartbeat, the tunnel’s rot, the missing sheppard, even the ache in your ribs are welded together by that raw, human utterance.

You keep moving, boots squelching through brackish run-off that sucks at your soles like slow jaws. The tunnel begins a steady incline—pipes thicken, valves carry cleaner stencilling, and the stink of shimmer slurry thins to a coppery chill, further away from Zaun’s bedraggled underbelly and closer to the tidy clockwork of progress.

Without the faintest idea how you know where to go, you do. As if guided by some internal compass etched into your fingers, you struggle up the slippery slope until you reach a round service tunnel, washed in bluish daylight spilling through side vents where water drains to Zaun below.

The corridor kinks, and a lateral pipe yawns open. A stream murmurs beyond: the canal, arterial and indifferent. Sunlight pours through the breach—white and razor-sharp—abusing pupils widened for darkness, interrupted by a lazy roll of an overgrown water gear. Cool air hurries in, lifting the sewer’s stagnant warmth off your skin; it smells of engine oil and cold stone.

You raise a hand to blunt the glare. The skin of your knuckles glows red, veins floating like minnows; between the rickety bars of your fingers, beyond the industrial hydraulics, a darker shape condenses, a smudge resting on the pipe’s rim. At first it registers as a trick of contrast—a shadow spilled from a rooftop girder—but its edges sharpen the longer you squint: cloaked shoulders, bowed head, the taper of a spine arrested in absolute stillness. Statue or man—the difference has never mattered less.

“Herald?” Your voice rasp-cracks in the light, dies against open water. No reply, not even the polite echo of iron. You shuffle forward, pulse banging a kettledrum in your inner ears. Each step bleeds sound from the world until it feels like your heart has been plugged directly into the tunnel’s wet acoustics.

You pick your way along the lip of the great pipe, shoes smearing moss into emerald streaks, until the figure—no longer smudge or statue—fills the aperture like a cork in a bottle. He is folded small against the vast mouth of machinery, knees spread, feet dangling into nothing. At first glance he looks carved from dusk: shoulders hunching forward, hair hanging in river-dark ropes that catch the wind only enough to whisper.

Up close the details resolve, treacherously beautiful. His cloak is midnight indigo, herringboned with thin teal conduits that pulse beneath the fibres like a sleeping pulse-ox. Where the fabric parts you glimpse the brass spine of a corset-frame cinched round his ribs, each plate laser-etched with patterns that once irrigated miracles. His right arm—silvered, petalled, almost botanical in its plating—rests slack across his lap, fingers opening and closing on an invisible seed. Beneath the fringe of hair, skin shows the faint marbling of arcane bloom, a pale aurora creeping from jaw to temple.

He seems blind to your footfalls, deaf to the clatter of gravel you dislodge into the canal’s roar.

You crouch beside him, feel the marble-cold seep of shadow on your shins, and lay a tentative hand on the rise of his shoulder. Nothing. The robe’s fibre is cool and slightly damp, smelling of crushed mint and engine grease. You clear your throat—“Herald?”—a thin reed of sound swallowed by wind. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t turn. His gaze remains fixed beyond the balcony of Piltover, on that shining lid pressed tight over Zaun’s wheezing furnace.

You tighten your fingers, give a small shake. The body yields like a scarecrow’s: pliant, but vacant. A second shake, firmer, and still no flicker of awareness. Breath enters and leaves him in mechanical cadence, but the rest of him is stone strapped in cloth.

Words fail. Panic rings a dinner-bell behind your teeth, then quiets into a child’s superstition: wake the sleeper with a kiss. It feels absurd and yet exquisitely correct, as if you have rehearsed it in dreams you were never allowed to remember.

You slide your palm to his jaw—skin cool, rough where metal grain freckles flesh—and tilt his head towards you. He follows the motion without resistance, lids half-lowered, lips slack. You press your mouth to his, chaste as chapel marble, linger there—no breath shared, just the soft meeting of skin, the long hum of pulse in your ears.

Heat blooms under your hand; the jaw you hold tenses. For a second, there is nothing, until a tremor ripples up his throat, and mouth beneath yours moves—slow ignition of muscle and intent. Cold fingers rise to cup your face, thumbs brushing the arch of your cheekbones. His lips part; a tentative tongue tastes the seam of yours. Shock cuts through you like clean glass, yet you lean in, helpless against the gravity of remembered sweetness—another lifetime, a mouth that once tasted of copper pennies and seawind. Name comes back to you: Viktor.

A small sound slips, an involuntary moan. Embarrassed, you break the seal of the kiss by less than an inch. His breath feathers your skin; his thumbs trace slow consoling arcs across bone.

“It seems I have been found,” he says, voice solemn but thinned by distance, as if the words have had to migrate a very long way to reach his tongue.

You blink hard, twice, three times, and the image ahead sharpens like under a microscope: his eyes—tarnished gold shot through with storm-grey, colours swirling the way petrol blooms across summer asphalt. The intent in them scalds.

“Why have you abandoned us?” The question leaves before thought can leash it.

“Abandoned?” His brows knit; voice threads ragged. “How long has it been?”

“I—” You count back through sleepless dawns, rotting fruit, the first coughs. Your knees meet the ground. “Days, I think. The commune… it’s withering. Have you forsaken us?”

He answers with a slow kiss to your brow, solemn benediction. “No. I had… dreams. I came here to think, never meant to linger. This used to be my—”

“Oasis,” you finish, the word cold as canal water seeping through your trousers. “What did you see?”

“Obliteration of individual thought,” he murmurs, gaze rifting past you to the horizon where Piltover’s brass spine meets the smog. “Death of passion. Solitude and emptiness. A garden of perfect silence—every blossom identical, and myself seated at the centre like a tombstone.”

A shiver lifts your shoulders. “You’re no tombstone. You pulled breath from dust, gave people light.”

“Light that blinds,” he answers. “I think I am no good for them—no good for you. Shielding minds, tethering hearts to my own pulse? Mercy that mutates into leash.”

“You saw one future,” you counter, fingers curling into his robe. “A bad branch on the tree. People need you now. Flowers are dying, lungs are cracking open. Everyone’s suffocating again.”

He studies you—truly studies—the way surgeons study a wound, searching for the line where health ends and rot begins. “You came for me more human than you were the last time I saw you,” he says. “You seem almost like… before.”

So it is confirmed. “I’ve known you before,” you breathe, lifting a hand to his face. Your thumb drifts to the smooth plane beneath his left eye, where once a freckle anchored the constellation of his features. The skin there marked by marble patterns, faintly luminous, unsettling in its perfection. “I remember.”

His eyelids flutter. “Arcane swallows the proofs of me once belonging to earth.” A rueful breath. “Tell me what else you recall.”

Memory unspools—cigarette ash spiralling off a bridge rail, arguments about progress shouted above turbine thrum, a shared grin over pilfered tea. And darker: nights you traced fever-shine on his brow while Zaun coughed fireworks outside. All fierce, all sharp—none of it numbed by glow or gospel.

“You were stubborn,” you say. “Brilliant. You chased life, not sedation.”

He closes his eyes as if tasting the words. “If I return as Herald, that life you speak of may drown beneath devotion.”

“Then make yourself anew,” you whisper. “Let them keep the air you cleaned and the hope you lit—but give back the freedom to feel it burn.”

A bleak laugh ghosts out of him. “I can’t feel what they feel. I catalogue emotions the way archivists catalogue insects—labels without hum. I fear I’ve soaked the commune in the same forgetfulness that embalms me.”

His gaze flickers to yours, pleading in its stillness. “Tell me—was hope ever a heat, a sting in the blood? I’ve mislaid the memory.”

“Can you feel my hope burning?” you ask, fists back to knotting in the folds of his robe.

He uncurls your fingers, sets his iron palm against your pulse. “Remind me.”

Guiding your joined hands, he draws you across the scant space until your knees bracket his thigh. Fabric drags, damp and gritty, as you settle astride; the concrete beneath him thrums faintly with turbine vibration—like a tuning-fork struck far below the waterline.

“My body is useless for passion,” he murmurs, though the assertion falters when his fingertips begin mapping your mouth, brass joints flexing. You take hold of his wrist—lightly, an offer he could refuse—and guide his index and middle finger between your lips. Cool metal grazes tongue, palate, the silken insides of cheeks. Salt and ozone bloom across your taste-buds. You seal tighter, suck slow, tongue tracing nail to knuckle until your cheeks hollow around him. His eyelids drift half-mast; a staggered breath threads out.

Keeping the light grip, you draw that damp hand down to your sternum and press it there. Heat thrums beneath your ribs; his palm registers the pulse, and you arch so that throb beats harder against alloy. Without a word he slips those wet fingers under your shirt. Brass tips stroke a nipple—slick conductor meeting living current—and the contact flashes through both of you.

He inhales sharp, shoulders flexing as sensation travels from fingertip to collar, a wave of reclaimed embodiment. Every catch of your breath, every tremor at your core becomes proof to him that the touch is real, effective, his.

You guide him back to your lips and draw his fingers in once more, tasting copper and salt of your own skin. Another hand settles at your waist, calm yet unarguable, pressing you down onto the hardness of his thigh. Cloth meets cloth; warmth spreads through seams as your hips find a testing rhythm. Each subtle rock jars his artificial sinew, and somewhere deep in the metal, a harmonic shivers.

His gaze fixes on your mouth working—dark pools where petrol-rainbow light swirls. You release with a wet click, breath skating over his knuckles. “Like that?” you ask, voice roughened.

“Again.” His thumb drags your lower lip down, exposing slick pink. Another hand—a collar of refined metal—comes to settle loosely around your neck. “Show me how heat behaves.”

You obey, lips sealing once more, tongue polishing each segment as if burnishing lost memory. Your pulse hammers against his palm; he seems to study that rhythm more than the wet heat of your mouth, learning by proxy what his own nerves refuse to tell him.

A tremor travels from his knee up through your centre with every shift of weight. The pleasure is yours, but its echo ripples visibly along his spine—shoulders hitching, throat working—as though sight alone transmits a voltage he can almost, almost feel.

You break for air, chin slick, heartbeat loud enough to drown the canal.

He raises the damp fingers, rubbing pads to metal joints as if checking viscosity. You watch—hovered between fascination and grief—then ghost your own fingertips across the ridge of his brow. “This is how it used to be,” you murmur, combing up through the heavy fall of hair to bare the pale plane of his forehead. “I think.” Your lips meet the revealed skin in a timid blessing.

A breath the length of a lifetime shudders out of him. Arms fold around your waist; the hard line of his torso fits to yours like iron poured into a mould. His exhale pools against your throat. “Do that again,” he pleads, voice husked.

You comply, sliding your hand to the nape and tugging the dark strands there, gentle but unambiguous. A low sound answers—half of a sigh—something older than doctrine. “I remember you,” he says, and the words creak with age, an accent buried beneath months of sermons.

Something in you snaps, clean as a sapling in frost. The Herald flakes away; all you want is the man who sat beside you in boiler rooms and argued circuitry until sunrise. “Viktor,” you whisper, tasting the name like forbidden fruit, and seal your mouth over his.

The kiss lands hard, slow. Your bodies convulse together; his thigh slots flush between your own and you grind down, fabric rasping fabric. His mouth opens at the shock—wet bloom, a startled breath—then answers with surprising ferocity. Teeth bump, tongues tangle; he drinks each gasp you offer, as if mapping the edge of every living nerve you still possess.

Your hands roam, one tangling deeper in hair, the other finding the delicate architecture of his ear. Thumb and forefinger sweep the whorls, trace the thin shell where blood flushes right beneath skin. He jerks—not pain, but a lightning-strike of sensation—shoulders jolting, hips pressing up instinctively. A muffled sound catches in his throat, raw delight, or remembered ache.

You skim fingers along the sensitive rim again, then over the lobe; his breath fractures, lips breaking from yours only to seek a new angle, desperate to keep contact. Metallic fingertips grip your hips, useless for passion perhaps, yet they hold you steady while your body rolls against his, feeding him proof after proof that life still burns untamed.

You bend to his ear and breathe, “Easy, Viktor—feel me here,” each syllable a pulse that thrums through the delicate shell into the long cable of his spine. Your lips map the rim, pausing to plant soft, insistent kisses where skin melts into gears; you drag the tip of your tongue along the notch, tasting faint traces of musk, echoes of everything human. At the first wet glide he shivers—muscles twitch, plated chest rising in a stuttered breath—yet he tilts his head, baring the tender crease behind the lobe in silent request. You take it, sealing your mouth there and sucking gently; he gives you a low, throttled sound, neither word nor moan, and the steel of his fingers cinches at your hips, possessive, anchoring you, while another tremor ripples through the metal lattice beneath his robe.

Rocking slow, clothes rasping, you ride the unyielding line of his thigh, letting the coarse weave worry tender skin while your weight shifts and returns. Every press feeds warmth into him; his hands, all brass articulation, tighten just enough to hold you true. The pulse in your hips travels through bone and into him, scattering as it goes—an alien tide with no harbour—so the sensation diffuses instead of sharpening, spreading outward until your voice at his ear, the scrape of cloth, the tug of your fingers in his hair layer together into one wide field of heat he can only name by its breadth.

“You make me feel human,” he rasps, as the weight shifts across him in slow waves: your hips’ press transmits through metal fascia to the ghost-nerves still listening beneath. Warmth pools where your pulse thuds against him; vibration seeps along filaments, echoing in the empty chambers sensation once called home. Instead of sharpening to a single point, the feeling diffuses, spreading like dawn over frosted glass.

Is it only a question of faith? Viktor wonders, hearing the wheel of doubt grind inside his skull. Did he amputate the human parts of himself by believing too fiercely in their loss—and did that belief fester into every soul he ever healed? Was it fate that you, of all people, were the one to find him? He is certain, with a clarity that stuns, that he loved you once—fiercely, messily, before miracles were measured in units of breath. And now, though nothing about this moment has the right to be as it was, your weight feels recognisable; each slow press of your hips floods him with phantom memory until the arcane current inside him is displaced by something simpler: you.

Your breathing grows ragged against the bare slivers of skin at his temple. “Come for me, my darling,” he murmurs, the words surfacing as though coded into his tongue. One brass hand slides between your shoulder blades, guiding; the other cups the back of your neck, anchoring. Tension knots through you, thighs tightening around his metal limb, and when release snaps, you cling to his shoulders as if the world might shear away beneath the pipe.

The tremor you spill into him ricochets through plating and ghost-flesh alike, a chain reaction that detonates in slow motion. Heat blooms from the roots of his hair, pours over scalp and ears, drifts like molten silk down his spine, filling every rivet and recess. Fingers tingle, toes spark; his whole body seems to exhale through its seams, wrapped in a blanket of warmth so complete it wipes out the constant hum of machinery. For one weightless heartbeat all circuitry falls silent, all doctrine dissolves, and a single, impossible memory reigns:

You, years ago, curled on a sagging settee in your tiny Zaun flat, idly twining his hair around your fingers while afternoon light—filtered through stained glass you’d salvaged from a shuttered chapel—painted the walls red, orange, and teal. He sat beside you reading aloud from a dog-eared volume, voice catching when your nails grazed his scalp, the room and the moment glowing like a private sanctuary.

The recollection punches a breath out of him—shallow, stunned—and a lone tear breaks free of its lashes, sliding down the curve of his cheek to vanish in the seam between brass and skin.

“Viktor,” you say, cupping his face. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

He sighs and swallows. “I forgot how painful humanity is.”

“But it’s beautiful,” you tell him. "My memory is all chopped up, but when I think of it now, it was good."

“It was good,” he repeats, tasting the admission like spring water after years of tinctures and tonics. The words settle, but the space beyond them feels vast, unscribed. A tremor rides his next inhale. Brass plates at his throat click together, the sound tiny, apologetic. “I don’t know how to be,” he confesses, and the candour makes his voice child-small—unfitting for the mantle he’s worn, perfectly human for the man he once was.

Your thumbs wipe the tear away, then pause, tracing the faint groove it leaves between metal and skin. “We’ll relearn living,” you say, though the promise tastes like grief.

“What if I fail them? Fail you?” His gaze drifts to Piltover’s bright railings, then down to the fog-choked warrens where the commune struggles for breath. “I burned out my compass trying to orient everyone else. Now I can’t even point myself.”

“And I gave my bearings to you,” you confess, voice brittle. “We’ll walk without stars for a while.”

He lets the words settle like ash. At length he takes your hand—no sermon, no vow—just the quiet weight of alloyed fingers closing over flesh. Side by side you leave the pipe’s mouth, the canal’s roar fading behind.

The climb back is wordless. Somewhere along the corridor the light shifts from turquoise to the jaundiced yellow that leaks from Zaun’s vents. Doubt keeps pace with you both: his, a mourning for two incompatible fates; yours, the ache for a man who no longer exists in any single body.

When the rust-stained gates of the commune appear, you stop. Hands linger, then part—his to gather the staff firmly in both palms, yours to reacquaint with the posture of a disciple whose faith has soured into questions. You cross the threshold together yet separate, each carrying more riddles than the tunnel swallowed, stepping into a garden that no longer blooms the way either of you remembers: the returned Demiurge and once-faithful zealot, turned heathen.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x gn!reader #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation #arcane herald viktor

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serenity-loves-red · 3 days ago

Note

How would the Chrisos Heirs act if the reader comes home a bit beat up? Whether it's because family/relationship problems, friends/bully problems, or on accident (like bumping into a pole because reader was playing hsr on their phone), or just low iron?

Do you think they'd show their concerns loudly by barking/meowing at them as if asking "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?" Or would they be quiet and affectionate even if they dont know what really happened?

You don't have to do this ask if you feel uncomfortable, of course! I love your cat-atstrophically chaotic fic!! Be sure to take care!!

I’ve already wrote something similar but lemme just- ✍️ you could think of this as part 2 of that side story or stand alone– your pick🤓

Ps. Thanks for liking the series💞! Srry for taking this long I’m alive chat just being lazy lol

Imagine:

Phainon

Becomes a mother hen cat? and won’t leave you alone. Either by sticking close to you at all times or won’t let you out of his sight.

I mean, he’s already clingy on daily basis, so what’s more if he saw you had a bad day– him being clingy would be the least of your worries.

He likes plop on your lap when you sat down, looking at you with wide blue eyes, nuzzling at your chin. And if you go somewhere, he’ll follow you, then rub his body on your legs to remind you of his presence.

If you got hurt on accident, he will fuse over you but if someone hurts you? Won’t you be a darling and tell him who? He won’t see vengeance he promise. He’s a cat, what worse could he do? You’re definitely not having a demiurge!cat licking it’s bloody paws trust

During this time, will be all ears when you rant and let you squeeze him or hug him on your arms. He doesn’t mind since this is the most he could do with his circumstance. He will just have to make do with this situation.

And alas, if only he can turn back to human again to properly comfort you in his arms, giving you all hugs and kisses to make you feel better and to chase away all those problems.

But until then, just you know you have a cat who loves you and doesn’t want you to shoulder all your problems alone.

Mydei

He is the first one to seek you. Unlike Phainon who fuse and questions himself what happened to you, he will walk cautiously towards you before laying on your side.

Normally, Mydei is somewhat reserved and will only let you pet and play with him just a handful of times. Unlike Phainon, Mydei will mostly watch you from afar to prevent you to do things that crosses beyond the line and to keep both of your honors and prevent any further embarrassment he feels for you on daily basis– now he just doesn’t care anymore.

You are clearly upset and beat down– what kind of spouse he is to be if he doesn’t show concern to his wife?!

So he will paw your thighs softly and giving hesitant barks. Judging from your reaction, he will either stay at your side and let you caress head or he will move to your lap and cuddle close to your tummy.

He will give few barks if you started to rant to encourage you to say more. If someone hurts you–heh–consider them well taken care of. You don’t have to worry about those insignificant people anymore. He is quite sure that the Deliverer doesn’t mind to get his paws dirty to help you with your problems.

It is his honor to help, so now just continue your rants and let him comfort you as he could. Maybe if he isn’t feeling shy he will give you kisses to help you ease from your problems.

Tribios

These 3 cuties will look at you with wide bead eyes. With their given forms, they can’t cuddle you or hug you. They remember that whenever they feel down or sad, their mama will hug them to comfort them but unlike Phainon and Mydei, they simply can’t.

So they will try to lift your spirits up by entertaining you and acting cute. Tribbie was the one who planned while Trianne and Trinnon pitched their ideas. Together, they will show you how cuteness can cheer you up!

Trianne will show you new tricks she learned, backflips and acrobatics! Trinnon will stay plop like a puddle of water and Tribbie will bring you random things she found that she thinks you’ll like.

If they got tired, they will do this synchronized movement and will plop their bodies on your hand.

They are really happy to see how you smiled and play with them. This means that you feel entertained hm? Hehe then let them show you new cool tricks while Phainon and Mydei do their jobs.

Tribios is the best support and wingman, they cheered inwardly.

Taglist: @speedycoffeedelight @kiransalt @sunsethw4 @wispfish @syntaxandpi @hoo-hoo @aerisevx @wixsvem @reminiscingthesea @hquntinghunter @n8mareee @larettajudith @vashyuu @superbfuryfest @shio225 @line-viper @hiqhkey @fuji-sen @takeyomikamakura @raaawwwr @hoshinosama @shonwithnohope @naOyak1 @whatamoodhoney @violetisreadinghush @shio225 @blushho @bloodrrose @kazudare @monoclesnapple @elymint @jambajuicedrinker @lovesickdaydreamss

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr phainon #hsr mydei #phainon x reader #mydei x reader #mydei #honkai star rail mydei #hsr tribios #hsr trinnon #hsr trianne #hsr tribbie

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cryptotheism · 3 months ago

Text

The technical hermetica refers to techniques for doing things. These fragments often feature long lists of stones and plants, followed by operations the reader can perform with them to produce certain effects. I am being careful with my words here. Today we would call this a spell book, but we don’t know if the intended readers of the text would see it that way. The philosophical hermetica is significantly more complex. It features everything from discourses on the origin and nature of the universe, to outright hymns to Hermes. If you are interested in reading what secrets Hermes Trismegistus has to reveal, I would strongly recommend that you read up on Platonism, Jewish Magic, and Gnosticism beforehand. The best way I can describe the contents of Hermetica is this; it is in conversation with the rest of Egypto-judeo-greco-roman-tom-dick-harry-etcetera esoterica. Open the copenhaven translation of Hermetica, and the first fragment will be the Poimandres (note: the original fragments did not have titles.) You will notice some startling similarities to the creation myth in Plato’s Timeus, as well as the stories of creation common to Gnostic literature. You might call it a “Hermetic version” of the demiurge myth.

Hermeticism, today on patreon

#occult #patreon #hermeticism

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baphymittens · 2 years ago

Text

“….Demi….”

The demon simply hums in response to her, not looking up from his work, dipping his quill into the ink well he continues to write.

“Yes, pet?”

Leaning over his desk, she cast a shadow over the important forms he was currently busy with. It was a moment of pause as he looked up and into the eyes of the woman sitting at his desk.

“Can i kiss you?”

His ever-present grin widens slightly. “Oh, you've shown before you are fully capable of doing so my dear.”

“You know what I mean Demiurge…”

There is a long silence until finally, he decides to speak again. “You know, I would be far more inclined to give you an answer if you were to ask properly, love.”

With a huff she stands up, arms crossed and a pout on her face.

“Why are you always such a…” she makes a disgruntled noise. “Fine…may I have a kiss?...please.”

He sets aside his quil before leaning back in his chair, tilting his head.

“You know…” He speaks in an amused tone. “I find it quite cute that you insist on asking every time.” He looks pleased. At the question itself or at her offer, she doesn’t know. His grin morphs into something softer, more genuine.

“Of course, my love.”

He reaches out, his fingers gripping into the fine cloth covering her thighs. Pulls her to him he has her stand between his knees. Cupping her legs just below the curve of her behind, he gazes up at her now blushing face.

“Well…” Gave her upper thigh a gentle squeeze. “Where is my promised kiss?”

#demiurge #demiurge overlord #demiurge/reader #/reader #overlord #overlord demiurge

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reading-hub · 9 months ago

Note

Helloo darling! 🫶🏻

I would absolutely love to request and so many apologies from me if your requests for fanfics aren’t open☹️

I would love a Overlord X F! or GN/reader

Where the reader is surprisingly powerful and more dominant even could overcome ainz if necessary and isn’t a NPC. I would love hcs on how he acts and perhaps how the people act? <3

I’m assuming you wanted the reader to be another former player of that game(?) I did what I could and I hope I did your request justice 😳 Enjoy! 💛 — Hubby

AINZ OOL GOWN with a powerful reader would include..

Ohhhh he’s down bad for you.

He’s always seen you as friend and you were the last people from the guild that actually showed up before servers got shut down. He genuinely appreciated that you wanted to stick by and watch.

What you didn’t expect was being trapped in the game with you…

Your original voices that you had were long gone after the clock struck midnight. Anytime you talked, a sultry voice would linger from your mouth!

If Ainz could blush a thousand shades of red he would’ve when he first heard it. You definitely had a dommy mommy vibe going with your character. He missed your simple and cute voice back when it was just you two.

You tried your best to not act too different from your old self when you and your guild mate were all alone but you felt the urge to intimidate those below you, and a need to have that competitive streak in you anytime you felt like your position as the supreme leader alongside Ainz was shaking.

No. You won’t let Ainz get the upper hand. Not when you’re around!

You felt the need to seduce and turn your guild mate into a blushing mess. Sure he was now a skeleton lord, but you found him all the more attractive regardless.

You always had to knock him down a few pegs.

The floor guardians think it’s a blessing to see you both in the same room!

Lord Ainz loves your dominance. Although he no longer feels much of anything, you bring that fire inside him to having you pin him down or best him at any of the attacks or spells that he thought you never leveled up to.

But Ainz never realized how much stronger you are! Especially now. Anytime he thought he had the upper hand, you were five steps ahead.

Your weapon and spell casting skill level was higher than his by 5! He couldn’t believe it!

Ainz definitely was slightly worried that your power would show especially to the floor guardians, he wouldn’t be overthrown just because you just were so much stronger right?

You teased his worries. Assuring him with that you two were an item, a team, a power couple! It’s both of you against this unknown world!

That small inner old self of yours is still there somewhere! And it’s still loves your guild mate, it’s just now owned by a tall dominant creature with the sultry voice that loves breaking people.

He knows you can beat him anytime. Now he has no excuse to hold back anything with you!

Sure a few buildings collapse around Nazerik but that’s what the NPCs are for. They’ll fix it.

Demiurge is your favorite. He’s your number 1 guardian and he is honored to serve you.

And no, you didn’t edit his coding to be in love you or anything (*coughs* Ainz!).

Demiurge couldn’t more happier to know one of his supreme leaders is cunning and dangerous. Ask and you shall receive with this demon servant! He’s a ride or die for you!!

Albedo and Shalltear are wildcards. They adore and love just as much as Lord Ainz!

Shalltear mainly sees you as a mother figure to her. She wants to ask your opinion on anything. Almost to the point of obsessive, but she knows where the line ends. The last thing she wants is for you to be dissatisfied with her as floor guardian. Please tell her that you’re proud of her once in a while.

Albedo knows she can’t meddle with you and Ainz. Although her coding says she’s in love with Lord Ainz, she’s knows her position as floor guardian comes first!

And she wants both you and Ainz to be happy. Seeing your over powerful casting breaking the sound barrier, she stares with stars in her eyes. She’s feels envy but also admiration for you!

Pandora’s Actor: “Mommy and Daddy??” 🥹 Although Ainz is more so a disappointed dad whenever PA speaks, you quickly found yourself assuring him like a stern but overprotective mother. Pandora’s Actor loves you! Anything you and Ainz say goes!

“Pandora’s Actor, please don’t flirt with the lady guardians, it makes them uncomfortable.” You tell him. “Of course Lady (Y/n)! You have my word!” He salutes, bowing graciously and he marches away to apologizes immediately to the maids for his behavior.

“Huh, even though you created him, he’s somehow more obedient with me than to you, Ainz.” You smirked deviously.

Ainz can only face palm at that moment. Although you were painfully right. The slight feeling of being teased with how parental you two were Pandora’s Actor, it left a warm feeling in him.

Playing domestic scenarios with you was something Ainz deeply loved.

Aura and Mare definitely look up to you. Admiring your strength and look to you and Ainz for guidance.

Aura is confident in your leadership and strong abilities. She wants to be just as strong as you one day!

Mare although timid to talk to you, Mare sees you as a one of the best spell casters in Nazerick, even keeps a close eye on you whenever you fight, taking notes on what he can adopt in their arsenal.

Although you’re much stronger then Ainz, the man definitely appreciates what you do for Nazerick. And is glad that you were the only one that stayed behind when the servers got shut down.

Behind closed doors, Ainz tells you that he’s just glad he’s not alone in this situation, although he has to put up an act around the floor guardians, he’s knows he can relay on you with at the end of the day.

When Shalltear got corrupted, he knew that he had to worry and that the floor guardians were vulnerable.

But at least he can rest easy knowing you can never betray him since you still have a little bit of humanity left in you. At least for now.

#overlord x reader #ainz ooal gown #overlord/reader #hubbywritings

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 2 years ago

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I love your Overlord works so much 😭

Could you do Overlord headcanons with a SB! Reader that is a sort of high Priest/Priestess? The specialize in Holy magic and act similarly to a judge when it comes to their duties.

You can do individual characters or general headcanons. I don't know. I just really love your work. I hope you have a nice day!

Cleric Supreme Being Reader | Yandere Overlord

Before the game had closed forever you found yourself lingering still

Microphone left on as Ainz made some final addresses

In the beginning, you were regarded as a…moral authority

Often being the mediator for the guild

Supreme Judge is your title with only the guild knowing your true name

When you and Ainz are transported you lean on one another

“Satoru….is that you?”

“(Y/n)?”

It isn’t long until you’re both forced to maintain your role as the Supreme Judge

Unlike Ainz it seems the rest of the Floor Guardians and the Pleiades have much different ways of expressing their happiness that you’ve stayed

“Ah~Our Supreme Judge it is an honor to be in your presence!”

They immediately go to kiss the ground in front of your feet

Unless you explicitly say otherwise they will always report to their default

While absolutely melting at the proximity

“Those in Nazarick mean a great deal to me and thus you’re worth is invaluable to me. Lift your head.”

“OH, great judge!”

“I’m so honored!”

“So gracious as always my Judge.”

You’re not exactly stationed on the throne but you certainly aren’t expected to go into the heat of battle

Especially with Ainz nearby

Unless you commence on your mission he never meets with the others without you or lets you go anywhere without his supervision

He loved you before and he loves you now

You’re all he has left…he refuses to put you in any danger

Granted he makes that clear in how he prioritizes you being in Nazarick the majority of the time

But as a fellow supreme being he can’t contain you for long

This is why he employs the guardians to disintegrate, eat, and annihilate all that threaten their other Supreme Being

They are all incredibly hesitant to go against your supposed wishes if you verbalize feeling trapped or stifled

But he makes this argument for you being a symbol of Nazarick

To be the very symbol of integrity that Nazarick has left

That encourages everyone to treat you both like grass as you’ll unintentionally order the same thing from them

“Y-y-you can count on me, my Judge!”

“And I as well! We’ll do whatever you ask of us!”

“Your honor will be up-held with all my actions Great Judge.”

But being a Supreme Being a part of the original group you’ll have your own creations

And depending on how demented creative your imagination is it may give you the edge you need

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #yanderexrea #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yandere #yanderes #yandere harem #yandere overlord x reader #yandere overlord anime #yandere overlord #yandere guardians of Nazarick #yandere overlord albedo #yandere albedo #yandere cocyutus #yandere demiurge #yandere aura #yandere mare #yandere pleiades #yandere shaltear

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hunn1e-bunn1e · 1 year ago

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My dearest lord of the burrow, I beseech you, please grace this mere peasant with another scrumptious Demiurge fic? You, my lord, are the only individual I have found in my travel on this desolate land known as Tumblr to create gender neutral or male reader Demi fics and one's that are not of a sexual nature.

If you would hear my plea, this one would be eternally grateful. You, my lord, may call me, 🥕Carrot.

Seraphim SB Part 2, Electric Boogaloo~

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Greetings, noblest 🥕Carrot anon, one has heard of your quest for gender-neutral and male reader Demiurge content and sends you this small offering to hopefully quench your thirst... even if this is only slightly Demiurge related... sorry about that. This particular work is a gn reader one as pronouns aren't mentioned at all, and it is a continuation of a previously received ask since there were no specifications in the ask you sent. —Benny🐰

Original Post

🔆•♡•🔅•♡•🔆•♡•🔅•♡•🔆•♡•🔅•♡•🔆•♡•🔅

Presenting…! An short overview of Seraphim SB's general information!

It wasn't mentioned in the original ask, but Seraphim SB is the heteromorphic race ‘Angel’ and has gotten to the maximum evolution and level, reaching the class of ‘Seraph’. I thought of a passive trait of theirs being that they have a natural holy aura around them that purifies anything within a certain distance of them. And by anything, I mean, living and non-living things.

As mentioned in the previous ask their aura harms those of undead or demonic origin, steadily chipping away at the health of those who are at the same level or higher and hacking away at the health of those of lower levels. The effect of Seraphim SB's aura is so powerful that even Ainz has to step away from them after a while after seeing his health become three-quarters of what it was just an hour ago.

As said above, Seraphim SB is a Seraphim; in angelology, Seraphim represents light, ardor (enthusiasm & passion), and purity. This would mean, after a little while in the new world their overall demeanor would become incredibly positive, bright, and enthusiastic.

The positivity they hold never dissipates even in the most serious or depressing situations, as their mind no longer allows them to feel negative emotions; their racial qualities completely blacking them out. They'll also take on a strange sense of innocence that makes those around them feel an irrational need to protect them from certain things and people. Seraphim SB's positivity also affects those around them, driving being into an almost deranged happiness if they stick around too long.

Because of Seraphim SB's holy origin, most if not all of the spells, skills & abilities they use are also of holy origin. Their particular skill is somewhat similar to a command order, but it's strictly directed at other angels. This skill, ‘Buisine’, allows players of the seraphim class to issue irrevocable commands to those of the angel race that are ten levels or less below them. Not only that, but angels and other holy beings have a natural want to follow, serve, and protect seraphim as they are usually a sign that a God is nearby.

It's already been established that Seraphim SB is the law of Nazarick; they are the judge and sometimes the executioner. But, who's the jury? Seraphim SB has two NPCs who act as their jury, each one is of a race that can split themselves into multiple consciousnesses with a maximum of six. They give off the appearance that each part has its own thoughts on each case, but in reality, they all share the same thoughts, goals, and morals stem from Seraphim SB. So to be clear, the “jury” is also Seraphim SB. It was also mentioned in another ask I received, but they can summon a sort of instant domain in the form of a grand courtroom that can seat thousands.

Let's talk about Seraphim SB and their relationship with others in Nazarick!

As stated in the previous post, Seraphim SB pays the arch-devil no real mind. They usually ignore most of the people around in favor of having a constant internal celebration instead. What do they celebrate about, you ask? Anything. Back on topic– Because Seraphim SB is physically and mentally incapable of having negative thoughts and opinions anymore, they usually fail to see the wrong in anyone's words or actions.

Demiurge wants to take over the world in the name of Ainz and themself and also happens to be kidnapping humans and doing unspeakable things to them at the Happy Farm? Okay! Sounds great! Shaltear was brainwashed and is fighting Ainz? That's awesome, Seraphim SB is rooting for both of them! Albedo wants to hunt down and kill any other players she finds? Cool! They're wishing her luck!

Seraphim SB is also incapable of reprimanding and forgiving others, they can't identify that any wrong has been committed and because of that, have no reason to punish or forgive them. That may make you wonder how they can accurately judge others when they commit a crime against Nazarick, but they trust that the book of laws that Ainz gave them is correct and they abide by it without fail. They also have Albedo, Demiurge, and their NPCs to point them in the right direction when it's needed.

Because they trust so readily and are easily manipulated by others, Demiurge, lucky for him, has been assigned to Seraphim SB as a sort of protector and a balance to their morals.

🔆•♡•🔅•♡•🔆•♡•🔅•♡•🔆•♡•🔅•♡•🔆•♡•🔅

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Reblogs are appreciated ~ 𔓘

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venusdandy · 1 year ago

Text

God's Rival [Part 2]

[Hazbin Hotel x GN!Reader] [Platonic]

Story Summary: The Demiurge is what they decided to call you. You aren't human, angel, or demon. You're something else entirely—an enigma in each realm. The only being who had ever shown you kindness was the fallen angel Lucifer since he freed you from Heaven's prison by offering Eve the apple from your tree. You promised him a fruitful favor in exchange, but he has not asked anything from you. Until now, that is.

Chapter Summary: In the back garden area of the Hazbin Hotel, you're summoned to Hell by Lucifer's and Charlie's combined magic. You finally meet the human souls—your spiritual children, who you sensed were saying your name last evening. You're delighted to be able to aid your dear friend Lucifer in protecting his family and home from Heaven.

Warnings: Gender-neutral reader (they/them pronouns). No use of (y/n). The reader is genderless and AroAce—platonic relationships with the characters only.

A/N: I wanted to let everyone know this story is now on AO3 (VenusDandy)! I also have a tag list here if you'd like to be added.

Part 1 Part 2 (here)

Your eyes are closed as you relax in your hammock and feel the sunlight warm your soul. You're humming a song you heard from your last visit to Earth that's been unable to leave your head. The birds in the trees above you had begun to sing along.

A sudden strong gust of wind nearly knocks you off, but you're quick to grasp the sides of the hammock to help balance. You quietly laugh to yourself as you peek an eye open. One of your creations, a pteranodon, landed a few feet away from you at the lake's edge to eat some fish.

For this reason, you keep the lake closest to your palace filled with life. The amount of happiness you receive when you see your creations eating gives your soul well-needed peace. You love seeing your children happy!

Speaking of your children, you feel that familiar vibration in your soul telling you a human has mentioned your name. A side effect after Eve ate the apple from your tree was that it forever connected your soul to humankind—your spiritual children.

Four deceased humans that have become demons, a fallen angel, and the Princess and King of Hell themselves are discussing you. You feel honored that they are considering asking for your help. You mainly use your energy and time to maintain the mortal realm's chaos and observe alive human souls. You pay less attention once they pass into the afterlife since it is not your domain.

Another chuckle escapes your lips. You have been wondering when Lucifer would cash in the favor you owe him. You were beginning to believe he had forgotten. Although you would prefer to continue staying out of Hell's and Heaven's pissing contest, if Lucifer requests for you to aid him, you have no objections to that. You respect the eldest Morningstar greatly after all he has done for you and humanity.

A content sigh leaves your lips as you go back to humming. You'll indeed be summoned to Hell by Lucifer soon, so you'll use your remaining time in the mortal realm to relax.

One last time, Lucifer scrambles around the immense sigil engraved in the dirt of the Hazbin Hotel's abandoned garden. He's pretty sure he's drawn your sigil correctly; he's only ever seen it once when you emerged from the apple tree in Eden, so it's entirely from memory.

"Okay," Lucifer semi-confidently says, "Okay, I think I got it."

Alastor has a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he hums, "Hmm, try walking around it ten more times to make sure."

Lucifer huffs with a glare. "Why are you even here? There's no reason for you to be here right now!"

"Who am I not to greet our guest who will aid us in war?" Alastor says with a twirl of his cane, "As the manager of this Hotel, that is my duty!"

Vaggie quickly stands in front of everyone with her hands on her hips. "Alright, let's go over this again!"

Vaggie points to Angel, "No flirting with the Demiurge!"-then to Husk-"No sarcastic remarks that can piss them off!"-then to Niffty, "No knives or sharp things that would threaten them!"-Then to Alastor "And no making deals with the Demiurge! Got it?"

Varying agreements ring out, some more irritated than others, but it satisfies Vaggie nonetheless.

Charlie is excited and slightly nervous as she stands next to her father. Lucifer had said he'd need her assistance for the summoning ritual since it requires powerful Celestial magic. Not just anyone can summon the Demiurge.

Lucifer lets out a breath of anxiety and rubs his bare hands together. "Ready, Charlie? Do you remember what we rehearsed?" He asks with a nervous smile.

Charlie nods firmly. "Ready!"

Lucifer and Charlie then shift into their more demonic forms to channel more of their magic before twirling their arms in graceful mannerisms. Lucifer begins chanting in the ancient Celestial language, which causes the sigil in the dirt to glow golden.

Vaggie anxiously clutches herself as her gaze never leaves Charlie's form. She knows her lover is powerful and capable of protecting herself, but Vaggie can't help but worry about her. A gentle, clawed hand rests on her shoulder, causing her to shift her gaze to her left, seeing Alastor grinning down at her. He doesn't say a word, but his eyes share a confident reassurance that strangely makes her feel a bit better.

The ground beneath them all began to rumble as if an Earthquake was happening. Niffty laughs as she uncontrollably falls to the ground, but Angel quickly swoops in and holds her tightly.

Once Lucifer and Charlie finish the ritual, they take a few careful steps back to join the others.

The sigil's golden glow brightens, then dims to nothing just as quickly. The ground beneath them stills once again. Everyone doesn't move as they wait for what will happen next. . .

Before Lucifer could question if he performed the ritual incorrectly, a large blaze of golden flames twists above the sigil, causing a few surprised gasps. Within the fire, a silhouette could be seen taking form.

Strong gusts of wind swirling around nearly blow the habitants of the Hazbin Hotel off their feet. They're quick to grasp onto each other for stability, other than Alastor, who uses his tendrils of shadow to ground himself.

Once the wind finally puts the fire out, it gradually falls into a light breeze. At the center of the sigil is a deity that stands at 120 meters. A golden-scaled serpent with the head of a mighty golden-brown lion. Their eyes glow brightly and shine into Hell's eerie red sky, and their sharp teeth are a perfect white—the Demiurge's true form.

You stare down at the beings who summoned you. Your eyes land on Lucifer, who stares up at you with a nervous smile. He looks more tired than how you remember him. He slowly waves, and you roar to greet him a bit too loudly since some of the beings below clutch their ears.

You then close your eyes as you shift into your humanoid form so you can speak eye-to-eye with everyone—the sounds of bones breaking and reshaping echo around everyone grossly.

Once you take your desired form, you eagerly reopen your eyes with a giant smile. You're very excited! "Lucifer Morningstar, how have you been, my dear friend?"

Although Lucifer was surprised you called him a friend, it eased his anxiety about you being here. He clears his throat awkwardly before greeting you properly with your name. "I've been uh- I've certainly been better, but I'm still kicking. Heh."

"Happiness is not a destination; it is a neverending journey." You remark with a hum, "I hope after we deal with Heaven's aggression toward Hell that it will ease your worries and bring happiness to you all."

The fact you already know why you've been summoned surprises everyone. You were in another realm far away from them, weren't you? How could you possibly know why Lucifer summoned you? Now Lucifer's anxiety peaks again. You're far too knowledgeable, and it makes him feel you're at least 100 steps ahead of him. It could be good or bad, depending on the context of your aspirations.

You shift your attention to the Princess and send her a kind smile. "Princess Charlie, it is a pleasure to meet you finally! I've heard wonderful things about you along the grapevine, child." You reach a hand out to greet her, noticing the younger fallen angel beside her tense up.

Charlie nervously smiles back as she shakes your hand. "Oh? It's lovely to meet you as well! I've heard things- good things about you from my dad."

Your eyes crinkle in amusement. You then glance amongst the four human souls staring at you intensely; you can sense their bubbling emotions. "I thought I heard my title being said last evening."

The look of regret is visible as Angel pales. The way you phrased it doesn't sound very good, as if you knew every word discussed about you last night—or rather ever. And Angel said some crude remarks about you! Husk is a bit nervous, too, since he straight-up said you have mommy issues. Your mommy issues got you locked away for millions of years because you lashed out at Heaven! And Husk does not want to be on the receiving end of your chaos! Niffty wouldn't mind your chaos, though.

"So, that means you're aware I'd like to ask that favor of you finally?" Lucifer asks uncertainly, "I'll admit I was hesitant to call upon you since I don't know how you feel about Heaven these days."

You hum in acknowledgment. "A fair judgment, although I have no qualms about protecting Hell from Heaven. You all fought in self-defense against the exorcists." You smile at each soul, "I shall do everything in my power to aid you all, although I must warn you, Heaven will not be pleased that the Demiurge will be fighting against them once again."

With her golden heart, Charlie grabs your hands with a much calmer smile. "We won't force you to do anything you aren't comfortable with! We all will understand if fighting against Heaven isn't safe for you."

Your old heart beats with bittersweet happiness at Charlie's words. You've heard about her kind-hearted personality, but witnessing it firsthand puts it in perspective. You see so much of her father in her.

You squeeze her hands reassuringly. "I appreciate your kindness greatly, child."-you gently release her hands-"I'm afraid that once it is known that I am aiding Hell, Heaven will send their most powerful Celestial beings, ones that only Lucifer and I have fought against."

Alastor quietly hums at that. He's a lot bit egotistical, but even he must admit that sounds rather dramatic. Your eyes then meet his, making his ears twitch back slightly. You're difficult to read. Much like him, your smile hasn't faltered, though yours is more genuine than his stitched grin.

"Alastor the Radio Demon," your amused voice rings out, "Did you want to say something, my child?"

Slight unease is bubbling inside Alastor, causing his claws to tap the top of his microphone cane. He doesn't like feeling this way. Masking his nerves, he tilts his head and keeps his smile strong. "The Demiurge has heard of me? Why, I'm quite honored my broadcasts have reached your ears!"

Your eyes squint with a lighthearted gleam. "I remember your radio broadcasts from when you were alive, too, my child."

The unexpected words cause Alastor's eyes to blow wide. Alive? How much does the Demiurge know about him, exactly? He doesn't like being this much in the unknown or having this much lack of control. . .

Your attention shifts to the other three human souls. "And here we have Anthony or Angel Dust, as you prefer. Then, the former Gambling Demon Husk. And Niffty, the demon who slaughtered the first man, Adam." You smile warmly, "It is a pleasure to meet you all, my children."

Niffty giggles at the memory, not bothered by you or your information on her or her friends. "I did do that!"

On the other hand, Angel is frowning because he has a clue that you don't know him because of his career here in Hell. That you know his darkest secrets and hidden emotions from when he was alive. Now he's starting to get why Lucifer was hesitant to summon you. . .

Husk's brows are furrowed. Clearly, from just witnessing your natural form that could rival Godzilla, you're not the average soul. You already know them all, even hinting that you know of their lives as humans. Was this basic knowledge the Demiurge already had, or did you do research beforehand? Husk isn't sure, but he plans to monitor you closely.

Charlie nervously clasps her hands in front of her. She's a bit unnerved you already know everyone, but then again, for a deity like you, that knowledge is probably easily accessible.

Vaggie, not about to let your creepy knowledge of them slide, asks with a threatening undertone, "How exactly do you already know why Lucifer and Charlie summoned you? And care to explain why you know a little too much about everyone?"

Lucifer snaps his worried eyes to Maggie Vaggie. He had the same questions, but he wasn't about to go and ask them! What if you get irritated?! What if you leave?!

You smile warmly at the young fallen angel, hoping to calm her protective soul, "You must be Vaggie; it is a pleasure to meet you, child."

Her eyes squint with suspicion, and if Charlie weren't holding onto her waist so tightly, she'd have waltzed on over to you. You dodged her question!

Lucifer loudly claps his hands, bringing everyone's attention back to him. With a nervous chuckle, he says, "I know how much being summoned to another realm can zap your energy, so how about we take a moment to rest inside and get better acquainted? What'd you say?"

You nod in agreement. "I would greatly appreciate that, friend."

You look back to Vaggie, "Then I will answer your questions, child." That brings some relief to Vaggie. At least you're willing to give answers. . .

With the others following close behind, Lucifer leads you into the Hazbin Hotel, asking if you are hungry or thirsty and listing too many options. He doesn't know how posh you are and is trying his best to please you. He's so afraid of you lashing out.

You understand why Lucifer is nervous about your presence; you would also be if you were in his position. Lucifer was one of the many angels from Heaven sent to investigate your existence. He witnessed your absolute most destructive moment when you lashed out at Heaven with all you had. You don't look back on the memory of your younger self fondly, but you do not regret your choices. You witnessed Heaven slaughter your children, and you couldn't save them back then.

You want Lucifer to know he is your friend, and you will never hurt him or his family. He never hurt you or your children; you remember him protecting them.

With a whisper of a touch on his shoulder, Lucifer interrupts himself and instead looks to you. You don't say a word, but the empathetic glow in your eyes calms every worry Lucifer has about you.

Lucifer can see in your eyes that you are genuinely here to help them, to help him and his family.

With a more comfortable smile resting on his lips, Lucifer tells you, "I'll make us all pancakes!"

If Heaven plans to slaughter your children here in Hell, well, you'll just have to slaughter the angels first.

Tag List: @paastaboi @gasoline-eater @rabioa @m00nd0v3

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