sabotsen

[sabotsen]

🍀 UVHASH CONCEPT ART IS OUT TBIS IS NOT A DRILLL- oH hey you already posted about it

MORIMENS CONTINUES TO FEED ME 📢‼️

Joke is the new uvhash outfit is just him when you take him out for a walk

[sabotsen]

Savior

Fandom: Morimens

Genre: Yandere, smut

Main Characters: Castor, GN Reader

Word Count: 424

Warnings: Yandere, smut, praise kink, sub castor

A/N: @sabotsen ❤️

He never expected this would be something you do. You who are benevolent and endlessly patient with a reckless sinner like him to gift him with such bliss by your hands. Are you rewarding him for being so diligent? Has his devotion to you finally been realized? Do you…no, no. How could something so holy ever love something like him? Even so, he hopes he can become a little closer to you, inch by inch.

The warm texture of your fingers make him shiver, gently prying him apart as he struggles to keep himself still and quiet for you. His feathers shudder, hands digging deep into his thighs, teeth catching on his lip until it bleeds, vocal cords straining to keep back the whines and pleas for you from pouring over his tongue.

"Are you alright?" Your voice is so heavenly, smooth as velvet and as bright as sunflowers. It makes him gasp, sunlight filling his veins and pulling his mind higher and higher, flying far above the Earth and the clouds until his vision turns to gold. He can feel you working through him, changing him, anointing him, making him whole.

Oh, how merciful and benevolent you are to bestow such a blessing upon someone as filthy as he. Truly you are divine and worthy of praise by all; he shall place himself at your feet as his one true lord savior and shall devote himself completely unto you.

He feels weak in the wake of your anointment, his arms barely able to hold him up as your hands glide down to his chin and lift his gaze to you. Your eyes are so gentle, so sweet, so loving, your hair falling over your face perfectly. Something trickles down his cheek and only then does he realize he's crying. Your thumbs wipe his tears and you lean down to press your lips against his temple, his hands clawing into your shirt without thinking.

Closer, closer, closer.

He draws a breath, your scent filling his nostrils and churning his stomach. You are everything.

"You had me worried." Your breath brushes over his skin and he shivers.

He swallows awkwardly, unsure of how to speak as if the memory was wiped from his mind. "I-I'm sorry, I just…"

"Shhh." He melts into you, burying into the warmth and safety of you. "It's alright. You don't need to apoligize."

He takes a deep breath, his black wings arching to cover you from anyone who might dare to lay eyes on you.

"Thank you, My Sun."

[sabotsen]

“ PERMISSION TO REST ”

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who doesn’t know how to be loved, only how to kneel . . .

requested / gender neutral reader / emotionally fragile angel x reader / intense fixation / devotion laced with fear / touch starved beyond reason / unhealthy comfort / aching vulnerability

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: finally finished a post, yay!! been super busy with grad, so take these quickly written abrin headcannons as a little gift. i'll write proper fics with my full writing style once i have more time!

The first time you opened your arms to him, an invitation so simple, so achingly human, Abrin didn’t understand. What you meant as comfort, he mistook as a test.

Without pause or hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you, eyes wide with frantic devotion. He pressed desperate kisses along your legs as though in worship, trembling with a feverish need to prove himself. “Tell me what to do. I’ll be good. Please. Let me deserve this.”

You had to kneel with him, gently guiding his face into your hands like one might calm a frightened animal. To him, your embrace wasn’t a kindness, it was a divine trial. The thought that love could be given without condition had never once occurred to him.

When you finally drew him into your arms, his body resisted the moment. He didn’t know how to soften, how to yield. He sat stiff and trembling, his muscles coiled tight like strings drawn too far. Beneath your touch, his pulse fluttered, thin and frantic, as though his very heartbeat feared being held.

His hands hovered, barely brushing the air near your body. “Can I...?” he whispered, as though asking for permission to exist. When you said yes, the breath that left him shuddered out like it had been trapped in his lungs for years.

Cautiously, like a creature unsure of its own shape, he leaned in. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, not out of peace, but surrender. And when the sob finally tore through him, it came with whispered fragments of gratitude, broken and trembling: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Holding Abrin is not just cradling an angel. It is gathering the scattered, shattered pieces of something holy and hurt. He fears he is too much: too scarred, too cold, too far gone to ever be worthy of warmth. Yet he yearns for it all the same, as if your arms were the last place left in the world where he might still belong.

His wings bear the worst of it. They are torn, crooked at the joints, marred with breaks both ancient and new. And yet, when you hold him, it’s his wings he wants you to touch most. Every stroke of your fingers along those ruined feathers sends a jolt of pain through him. But he leans in, never away.

He clenches his teeth, eyes glassy with withheld tears. To him, the pain is sacred. Your touch is sacred. A quiet proof that you see all of him, even the broken parts, and still choose to stay. Sometimes, in a voice tight with emotion, he murmurs, “Please don’t stop. It only hurts when you let go.”

The longer you hold him, the more he melts. Slowly, hesitantly, like snow thawing in early spring. His shivering eases. His breath deepens. Eventually, with the carefulness of a child touching something beautiful for the first time, he rests his head against your chest. He listens to your heartbeat as if it were the music of the stars, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

He always needs to hold something when he’s in your arms; a fold of your sleeve, a corner of your shirt, your hand clenched tightly in his. He anchors himself to you like a dreamer afraid of waking. It is as though he believes that if he’s not tethered to you, he’ll vanish. Or worse, that you will.

Sleep comes to him only in pieces, stitched with hesitation and fear. But in your arms, he wants to try. Still, his voice is soft with worry each time he asks: “May I sleep here? Will you stay?” The question hangs fragile in the air, like frost waiting to melt.

When you say yes, he settles into your warmth with the carefulness of something half starved. If you shift or pull away, even for a breath, he freezes, his body going still and cold like a candle just extinguished. So you stay, holding him until his breathing evens into something that resembles peace.

Once sleep finds him, it’s as though the world’s grip loosens. The tension in his brow fades. The sharp lines of his grief soften. Sometimes, if the night is kind, a faint smile touches his lips, so fleeting, it feels like a secret only you were meant to see.

When he wakes, something in his eyes has changed. The way he looks at you is no longer just grateful, it’s reverent. Disbelieving. He traces the line of your wrist with shaking fingers, as though still expecting you to vanish. “Does it hurt?” he sometimes asks, voice faint. “To touch me?” He believes there must be a cost.

His tears come often in your arms, and he despises that they do. He buries his face against your chest, sobbing in quiet, aching gasps. “I don’t know how to be held,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to be loved.” But you ask nothing of him. You never ask him to change. That, more than anything, undoes him.

He prepares for your embraces as if preparing for prayer. If he knows you’re coming, he straightens the place where you usually sit, changes into something cleaner, gently presses his ruined wings into order. Not because he thinks you expect perfection, but because he does. Because your arms feel holy, and he wants to meet them clean, even if he never truly can.

On days you don’t hold him, he grows quiet—not bitter, never that. Just quieter. Fainter. He watches you with eyes full of longing, but says nothing. And when, hours later, you finally reach for him again, his entire being crumbles. He folds into you without a word, like a man emerging from deep water who’s only just learned how to breathe again.

Yet even this begins to change. Little by little, you see him shift. The wariness softens. The tension loosens. He starts to believe that maybe your embrace isn’t a test, nor a trap. That perhaps not all softness is followed by pain. That love, once offered, might not be torn away.

One day, with his cheek nestled to your chest and his hand curled gently over your heart, he whispers the truest thing he’s ever let himself believe: “I think I was born just to be held by you.”

a/n2: can't yap too much at the front or my post layout will cry but omg when I first read your request, I got so scared at the "you need to time back your writing" part... until I finished reading and realized it was a compliment 😭 thank you sm anon, you're too sweet!!!

[sabotsen]

Rend, slaughter, devour your enemies! There is no other way to survive; you cannot escape your hunger, warriors of Purgatory!

[sabotsen]

Most viscerally upsetting part of monte cristo by far the part where he’s in the boat being conveyed to If and finally the dread is too much and he can’t stop himself from asking where they’re taking him… and when they tell him the prison he thinks my god if I only had been less trusting if I’d been suspicious earlier I could have escaped. I could have been over the side into the water but I had faith in my own innocence and by now it’s too late… Reminds me of that oral history of Rikers I read recently and one of the interviews with public defenders she said that the worst cases are always the ones where the person still has faith in the system because then the first part of her job is convincing them that they cannot expect justice from our justice system. It’s been a fascinating read because while in many ways it’s so far removed from modern concerns and sensibilities but in many ways it is exactly the same

[sabotsen]

Castor's bday letter.

As the night sky glimmers above and the wind kisses your cheeks, he realizes. While there is so much he has yet to learn and his pursuit of freedom has left indescribable scars upon his flesh and soul, he now knows one thing for certain.

The joy in your laugher as it brushes against his ear, so very warm against his skin even in the summer night air. The sparkle in your eyes, wide with wonder as they reflect the stars. The gentle yet grounding touch of your hands, the way they shift as you marvel at the sight and your fingers find anchor at the nape of his neck -- fingers weaving into the curls of his hair with a hint of pressure that wracks a violent shudder through him.

True freedom must look like this.

[sabotsen]

🍀 *with a doomed narrator's voice* sometimes I relate to the Alistair on a whole other level. Consciously staying where you are. Decaying, withering, withstanding for the sake of it. Enduring a mile just to endure a little more. Staring at the wall, with a head tilted just enough to hint at mild curiousity. Something flickers by, and it brings about a smile, but it's weak, like I've already seen it hundred times. There are only memories to hold on to, — the last thing pure as silver. Pain is dull, barely stirring any reaction. Just quietly breathing in a vast empty space, lonely and bored. Mulling over and over all the choices ever made, coming to the same conclusion of no regret yet still going back to reassess them once more. Someone great is marching on ahead of time, hero is doing heroical deeds, and I'm anchoring something vague and illusory in a dust and fog.

Alistair makes his pupils cry, more tonight at 7.

[sabotsen]

🍀 off-topic question, since you're so far ahead of me in the story: does Alistair appear anywhere? (I'm currently tangled IP with Celeste and Sonaniel)

Ah. Ship hell. I hope you have fun on the boat ride of hell.

But yes! He pops up specifically in ch8 and his support is one of the main boons for the exploration.

He might pop up in certain side stories, but I havent finished them all so I cant say for sure. 100% tho he's not in Arc 2 ch1 or 2 tho.

But your snake man is (Arc 2 ch2).

[sabotsen]

Writes one (1) soft thing for my sole nonny for castor before I go back into 🔪 mode

[sabotsen]

Castor wanting to serve but hesitant with worry he will not truly make you happy or aide you as he should. He has only known lantern bearers his whole life -- a lifetime of serving their god and chained in service to them. But you are different. He cannot, will not approach you as he does them.

You are different.

He must learn.

So Castor trails behind you quietly, diligently -- from a carefully calculated measured distance (he must not disturb you). The small notebook you so kindly gave him is soon filled with observations. The treats you like, the ones that make your whole face light up with a smile. The food you don’t like, the ones that make a small furrow in your brow appear as you force them down under Ramona's watchful attention. The classes that have your rapt attention, the small press of your lips as you focus. The classes you hold no interest in, the doodles that fill your textbook and the way your gaze lingers on the scenery outside framed by the window. The secret spots on campus you flee to, the way you coax him to lay down in the grass beside you for a soft sunny day nap.

All the little things, he makes note of. Anything and everything so that he might learn you better.

You asked him once, one sunny afternoon as you lay beside him on a grassy hill, what he was so diligently writing.

"I'm studying," he had replied. Honest, earnest.

You had laughed, the sound beautiful framed by the wildflowers. "You always are."

Castor wonders if you like the flowers here -- if he picked a bouquet of them, would it remind you of these quiet peaceful moments and make you smile?

He wants to know. If it's you, he wants to learn -- anything, everything.

Another line is delicately scrawled into his notebook, ink curled in hopeful wonder. Bit by bit, he will find a way to make you happy.

Castor's act of love being acts of service bc thats the only way he could express it to the only person he cared for his whole life and not knowing how else to show keeper he cares for them. The anxiety that nearly cripples him when they say he doesn't need to do anything (he doesn't have to place himself in roles to be "used").

How else does one show affection if not by breaking yourself down and serving?

Tell me, teach me, show me.

[sabotsen]

🍀 *pulls another knife from my thigh* told you, it doesn't hurt anymore. *fucking faints*

You’re gaining resistance, nonny! We are building tolerance!!

[sabotsen]

🍀 the knife cuts bc why Castor always has to run away 😭 I hate losing friends ugh

Oh hahahaha that was a lemon drop, sweetie.

A real knife fic would be you pulling him from the muck and mire one day on your travels. For the first time in a long while, you stay in one place: for him. The slow, gradual treatment of his wounds marks the passing of days. He warms to you as he heals -- subtle signs. The way his eyes shine like stars when you recount your various travels to him. The way he lingers by your side, wings fidgeting nervously until he has your full attention or he finds a way to help you, whichever happens first. By the time you finally dismantle the camp, his wounds have healed. It does not take much to tear down his hesitation and convince him to travel with you.

The days that follow are warm and precious -- they glimmer in his mind like a treasure, shining golden cradled in his black claws. The kindness in your voice as you pointed out even the smallest wonders. The sound of your footfalls behind him every time he wandered off the trail to chase something new -- the easy companionship. The way the sunset, so vibrant and bright, framed your smile. Mesmerizing, humbling like viewing the entire world through stained glass -- a beauty beyond words colored in fragility.

Castor should have known better.

He has read so many books, so many tales. He should know by now that real life is not like fairytales. There are no knights, nor are there saviors.

Memories are precious perhaps because golden days do not last. Time with you -- traveling, learning, laughing -- more dear than anything he has ever known, could only ever exist as a memory. Framed in the forgotten abyss the weeps black blood.

Castor can only blame himself.

He had been foolish enough to walk instead of run.

It happened one sunset, as the sky was bathed in blood-orange hues, that Juilette's minions fell upon you two. They grabbed you first, because those trained by the Lantern will always target the weaker ones first -- it does not take a wise man to know you are his weakness.

It was the first and last time Castor ever heard you scream.

And now, as they drag him bloodied and broken before that damning black pool once more, it is all he hears.

As the tide swallows him once more, black waters rushing over his head, all he sees is the arc of crimson stained across your skin against the sunset sky that seemed to bleed alongside you.

Red, red, red, red.

The last thought he has before familiar agony washes over him and wipes his mind clean is the realization he can no longer stomach that color ever again.

[sabotsen]

🍀btw answering your question, that knife in my thigh was ur fic yeah

I don't have angst fics anywhere near me in my natural habitat

?!!??!?!!?! WHEN DID I STAB YOU, I HAVENT WRITTEN PROPERLY IN AGES?

[sabotsen]

🍀 noooo the Alistair's pfp is gone from battle-pass now that I have money to buy it, raaah sob

My sweet sweet first keeper...

Gives you it here 🤲

It might be available in those uhhhh gift boxes they implemented that let you trade 5 for a previously available emote and pfp. Since He was battle pass reward idk if he would be in there though.. .

Oh and here is ya boy

[sabotsen]

Sometimes I wonder why I'm still obsessed with AC. Like, why can't I just let it go? The characters I care don't show up in the newer games anymore. So, why does it still live RENT FREE in my brain—and then I remember it's because of Desmond fucking Miles. I'm holding vigil for a dead man that Ubisoft didn't mourn properly and I am forever furious. Forever hurting about it because behold my rant:

There were very few people who REALLY cared about Desmond. Like, Desmond was on the run for nearly a decade. His longest stint was at the Bad Weather under one solid fake name. That identity was the closest he got to stability but even then, he couldn't afford to let people in too deep. He had to stay off the radar. Stay safe. Stay HIDDEN. That kind of life doesn't allow for closeness. Not just with others, but with HIMSELF. Like, he couldn't risk getting attached or even afford to let himself love anyone.

Like, Desmond didn't have long term partners—just flings. No real connections. Just temporary ones and even those probably came with an exit plan. He probably loved everyone he got somewhat close to, but only in that distant way someone starved for a real connection could allow themselves to. The only people who ever got close to Desmond were Lucy, Rebecca, and Shaun, but even then, most of his time was spent in the Animus.

And dude c'mon, THAT'S where ANY real connection even happened because the Animus didn't let Desmond keep his distance. With Altair, Ezio, and then Connor, he was forced into the deepest intimacy possible. The Animus stripped any and all walls. Desmond lived their lives. He felt what they felt. He thought their thoughts. He essentially lived their lives. Intimately. Repeatedly.

No one can fucking tell me he didn't love them.

You cannot live inside someone's soul like that and come out untouched. He bled with them, loved with them, felt their joys, bore their regrets. How do you go through something like that and NOT love?

I am forever 100% convinced that Desmond loved them. DEEPLY. IRREVOCABLY. Altair, Ezio, Connor—they were HIS. He carried them. He knew them more than anyone else ever could or would. He knew them in ways no one knew him. And god, what kills me is that none of them ever got to know him back.

Like, Ezio got close. Heard Desmond's name. Saw a glimpse of him, but that was it. They never knew how fiercely they were loved. How Desmond defended them, cherished them, clung to them.

Talk shit about any of them? Desmond would throw hands and SPIT ON YOU because they were more than memory and probably more than anything he ever knew.

And Ubisoft—fuck you for not doing anything with that.

You had it right there. The emotional core. That psychological goldmine of what it meant to bleed into someone else. The trauma. The love. Wasn't Desmond supposed to be the ultimate Assassin? That he could've canonically TRAVELED THROUGH TIME. THAT WAS THE ORIGINAL PLAN. YOU SAID IT WAS. You had it all set up and you dropped the fucking ball. You WASTED IT.

Fuck you Ubisoft I hate what you've become.

In canon, who loved Desmond? Really? Shaun and Rebecca. Probably Lucy. That's it. Three people and they knew him for less than a year. And Desmond? Desmond loved ghosts. He loved people long dead, who would never look him in the eye and SEE HIM.

I think that's why I'm still here. Still writing and not letting it go. Desmond fucking deserved to be loved back and if canon won't give it to him, then goddamn it I will.

Thank you for taking the time to read my rant while I scream into the fucking ether.

[sabotsen]

Forever thinking about how Mercedes didn't know. All she really knew was that her fiancé got arrested, and that she needed to survive, and that the only way to surivive was marry another. All she knew was that, suddenly, Edmond came back to watch her, to haunt her. All she knew was how close her son was with him, how much he admired him, and all she could do was hope that Edmond's interest in him had nothing to do with her. Mercedes did not know of Fernand's sins, of Edmond's misfortune. She did not know what either of them had done. She only knew what she had had to do in order to survive.

And so when it proved that the Count of Monte Cristo was not conent to only unsettle her by watching from afar, when it proved that he was a real and true danger to her son, what else could Mercedes think inspired that hatred, if not her?

[sabotsen]

🍀 I successfully defended/presented my thesis

I have a diploma now

I don't feel happiness I feel empty

Congrats nonny!!!

You did it!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉 your hard work and efforts paid off !!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

I'm so happy for you hun. Congrats!!

I'm pretty sure that "emptiness" is just the huge fucking absence of the giant stress you were under mixed with muted relief that you're done. You're likely emotionally spent, sweetie. 🫂 please be sure you get some good rest