seyvith

[seyvith]

“ 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!!!

[seyvith]

hihihi guys fics mayyy come very slow this month cause im actually going through a lot of graduation stuff anddd I just did an overnight grad trip. got SOAKED in rain on the way back… but don’t worry I promise I’ll post whenever I can!!

[seyvith]

“ AND STILL, YOU CAME ”

FERAL XIAO — a beast who was never meant to be seen, and yet you found him . . .

gender neutral reader / feral xiao x reader / emotionally scarred / aggressive trauma response / desperate under the surface / he says he’ll kill you but you’re the only one who’s ever spoken gently to him / turning him soft

masterlist | intro post | carrd . . . a/n: been searching for a fic like this about xiao for so long, so I decided to just make it myself!! I think it's perfect with his lore. (btw dw!! part two of my last post is coming after this)

Ruins bore no name here. Time had long since scoured the stonework bare, ivy veining over toppled columns like bloodless threads on a withered corpse. What lingered of the ancient structure slumbered beneath the cliffs of Minlin, swallowed by bramble and a fog thick as mourning veils. Locals spoke of it in hushed tones, whispers of madness, of vanished travelers, of the god who once ruled here and went mad beneath the weight of his divinity. Even so, your footsteps carried you forward.

Wind stirred the trees restless, circling like breath from something snoring just out of sight. The lantern in your grasp flickered at your hip, casting unsteady shadows across the moss streaked walls. You hadn’t meant to stray this far from the trail, but the pull had been undeniable; an invisible string winding into your chest, plucking something deep behind your ribs. It wasn’t a voice. It was a hum, thrumming low against your heartbeat, and it asked only that you listen.

Soon, the corridor narrowed. Then came a breath, a sound so low and guttural that it was almost animalistic. Beyond the final archway, the air shifted, heavy with the scent of rust and ancient stone. When your fingers brushed the wall, dust fell away to reveal carvings: clawed talons, coiling beasts, a sigil wrapped in iron chains. Something had lived here, or died here, perhaps both.

The corridor opened into a cavern, hush settling over it, broken only by the slow drip of water and the soft glow of fungi clinging to the ceiling like scattered stars. Below, a shallow pool mirrored the pale light, sending ripples over iron bars sunken deep into the floor. Behind them, hunched in the furthest corner, was a man. Or what was left of one.

At first glance, you took him for a beast. Too lean, too sharp, limbs curled tight, hair falling in tangled, sage-dark knots across his face. Thick shackles clasped around his wrists, wrought from iron that shimmered with faint sigils. Seals, still active, still pulsing with containment. A muzzle was plastered over his mouth, forged from the same cursed metal. He didn’t move, but the weight of his gaze struck all the same, piercing the dark like a blade sliding clean between ribs.

A growl vibrated from his chest, ragged and low, somewhere between warning and wound. You startled, but didn’t back away. There was no true malice in the sound. Only pain. When he finally raised his head, you saw the color of his eyes—gold, but not the gentle hue of fireflies or autumn fields. Starless gold, fierce and ancient, the kind that remembered ruin, the kind that burned without warmth.

“Leave.” His voice scraped like gravel, coarse from disuse. “Go now. Before—” He choked on the words as his body shuddered, then lunged just far enough for the chains to snap taut and yank him backward. The force dragged him to his knees, spine arched, breath torn in broken bursts. Still, you did not flinch.

“You’re hurt.”

His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm, sweat glinting despite the chill. “I said go,” he snarled. The muzzle warped his words, saliva stringing at its edges. You took a step closer.

His entire frame recoiled like a wounded thing. He thrashed, slamming his shoulder against the bars, wild with panic. But in the midst of the fury, you saw something else. Not rage, not madness, but fear. His hands trembled where they met the ground, not from wrath, but restraint. And that tremor said more than any growl ever could.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you said gently.

“I will,” he grounded out through clenched teeth. “That’s what I do. That’s what he made me do. I—” His words faltered, voice cracking like splintering ice. “I don’t get to choose.”

“I believe you,” you whispered. “That you don’t want to.”

No reply came, just the rasp of breath and the soft clink of chains. But as you studied him, you began to see more than just shadow and weaponry. A jawline, high cheekbones half obscured by matted hair, the silver web of scars across his collarbone, thin and branching like frost on a window. He had once been something else. Someone else.

“You should hate me,” he said at last, voice hollow. “They all do. They scream when they see me. Or they don’t get the chance.”

“I don’t hate you.”

His head jerked, disbelief lighting his face like a spark. Anger, sorrow, and something else flashed in his eyes. “You should,” he said, almost a plea. “You have to.”

“What’s your name?” you asked.

The question hit him like a blow. “That’s not—names don’t—” A swallow. “I don’t have a name. Not anymore.”

“Then I’ll give you one.”

“No.” His voice broke. “No. Don’t. Don’t make me something I’m not.”

You knelt by the bars, closer now than anyone had dared in what felt like centuries. The space between you was thin, filled only with breath and stillness. “Then I’ll come back tomorrow, and maybe the day after that.”

His head whipped up. “Don’t.”

“I will.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“I trust you not to.”

“You’re stupid,” he spat. “Naive. You think kindness will undo what I am? What he made me into?”

Your hand rested just inches from the rusted bars. “No,” you said. “But maybe it will remind you that you were more, once, and can be again.” A silence thicker than smoke settled between you. Then you stood, his breath caught, and you turned away.

“Wait,” he said, but too softly for you to hear. The word broke apart behind his teeth, something like a sob, or maybe it was only the wind through the cracks in the stone. He pressed his forehead to the ground once you were gone.

Prayed you would never return.

Prayed that you would.

It began again with footsteps. Softer this time—not the cautious tread of a stranger stumbling through forgotten ruins, but the quiet return of someone who remembered the way. They came like the first stirrings of spring through wintered trees, patient and inevitable, brushing against the silence with the grace of thawing snow.

He remained still in his chains. The memory of your voice lingered like the sweetness of a forgotten lullaby, one he had not permitted himself to dream of. Dreams were dangerous things, after all. He knew this better than anyone.

When you appeared at the entrance of his prison once more, light wrapped around your figure like a misplaced sunbeam breaking into a tomb. In your arms, a cloth bundle was cradled against your chest, tied with a ribbon the color of old blood. Red—like orders barked through gritted teeth, like shackles that seared his skin, like the stains on his conscience. Yet somehow, in your hands, the color seemed gentler. Like the ribbon of a child’s gift, not a soldier’s command.

“I brought you something,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “It’s not much.

He didn’t look at you. If he stayed still long enough, maybe you would vanish like all the other foolish ghosts who thought they could reach him. Maybe you'd realize what he was and leave him to rot among the stones and silence. But you were already kneeling, already unwrapping the bundle with fingers as careful as if you were handling something sacred. From the folds emerged a small wooden container, simple and worn. Steam curled from its seams.

“It’s Almond Tofu. My favourite. I thought you might like it too.”

He bared his teeth, slow and deliberate, the muzzle pressing against his cheekbones with the motion. “I told you to stay away.”

“And I told you I don’t listen very well,” you replied, calm as though he hadn’t just threatened to maim you.

“I could tear your eyes from your skull.”

“If you wanted to, you would’ve done it already.”

You stood, walked past the shattered threshold of his cage, ignoring his previous words. As though you weren’t walking into the belly of a creature who had once been made to devour dreams and leave behind husks. The metal of the muzzle clicked faintly as Xiao’s breath hitched, chains groaning beneath the sudden tension in his limbs.

He said nothing as you sat down beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushed the boundary of his karmic debt. And then, without asking, you reached toward the clasp of the muzzle that had seared skin and spirit alike. He flinched, not from fear, but from disbelief.

It did not burn you.

Your fingers brushed the iron like it was no more dangerous than a breeze on stone. With a soft click, the clasp gave way. The muzzle slipped free and fell to the ground with a hollow sound that echoed louder than it should have. Xiao blinked. The air against his lips felt strange, wind against skin that hadn’t felt the sun in years. He said nothing, but the silence was no longer sharp.

You lifted a spoonful of the tofu, steam curling from the trembling surface. “Here.”

“I don’t eat human food,” he muttered, though his gaze followed the spoon with the reluctant intensity of a starving animal who refused to beg.

“Then pretend. Just one bite.”

He stared at you like you were made of thorns and light. Then, without breaking the stare, he leaned forward and took the bite. The taste bloomed on his tongue like a long buried memory, soft, sweet, subtle as snowfall. It was nothing like the raw meat the god used to feed him between commands. It was gentle, kind. As if food could carry emotion and this one had been made by someone who’d never once tasted cruelty. His brows drew together.

“Well?” you asked. Another beat of silence.

“...More.” A smile tugged at your lips, and you didn’t hide it.

The second bite came easier. Then the third. And by the fifth, he was sitting straighter, eyes no longer wary, but puzzled. He couldn’t understand why something so simple had shaken the dust off a corner of his soul he thought had died centuries ago. And when the last bite was gone, he looked at the empty container with the quiet devastation of someone realizing a miracle had a limit.

He looked at you then, truly looked, and hated that something in his chest gave way when he did.

You began to talk. Not of this prison or the god whose voice still echoed in his bones, but of the world beyond these walls. You painted it with your words, each one a brushstroke: ships that floated among clouds, skies blooming with lanterns during moonlit festivals, gardens that glowed like constellations, and markets alive with the scent of dumplings and the sound of laughter.

He didn’t interrupt. Not once. His eyes remained fixed on your face, as if the movement of your lips could become a lifeline. He drank in every word like a man parched, terrified to ask for more.

When you told him about the wind on the Jade Chamber’s terraces, his fingers twitched.

When you spoke of honey lotus pastries, his mouth parted ever so slightly, as though tasting them from memory he never had.

And when you said, barely above a whisper, “I’ll take you there one day,” he turned his head from you.

“You wont,” he said, but the words no longer bled bitterness. They sounded tired, soft.

He didn’t stop you when you placed the empty tofu dish beside his chains, didn’t growl when you stood, brushing dirt from your knees. Didn’t speak when you turned to leave, but his eyes clung to your back. When the echo of your footsteps began to fade into the cavern, his voice cracked into the silence.

“...Bring more tofu.” It was the first time in four hundred years he had asked for anything.

The chains didn’t feel quite as heavy that night.

[seyvith]

" STAINED IN RED "

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who used to be numb without your existence . . .

gender neutral reader / yandere (??) oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy asl / emotional dependency / he hasn't even met reader yet and he's suppper down bad

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: I wrote this a while ago in a big rush for my friend's birthday, so please excuse if it's repetitive or a little bad!!

Crimson streaked across pale ivory, seeping into the ridges of Abrin’s back like veins of molten gold in fractured marble. If his hands were not bound in chains, he might have traced his fingers over the scars, felt the raised edges of old wounds and the fresh sting of new ones. Yet, no tears would well in his eyes.

Not because he thought himself strong, nor because he believed pain was some holy trial to endure. He simply just did not care. If that celestial glow bestowed upon all angels at birth still flickered within him, dim and faltering, who would mourn its loss?

Nobody. The thought echoed in the hollow of his chest. He had wept once. Had cried, had screamed, had begged. But now, he no longer knew the difference between thought and voice, silence and sound. Whether his anguish spilled from his lips or curled within the confines of his mind, it changed nothing.

And he was not alone.

Row upon row of iron cells stretched into the shadows, each holding an angel just like him—bound, broken, fading. Their clipped wings twitched with every tremor of pain, their whispers of despair dissolving into the damp air. Even among them, Abrin felt out of place. They wept for freedom. He prayed for death. Life had emptied itself of meaning long ago, so hollow that not even a blade to his wings could carve a feeling into him.

A sliver of light spilled through the narrow vent above his cell, pooling in pale, shifting patterns across the stone floor. He watched with a vague, detached amusement. Even the sky mocked him, offering glimpses of freedom just beyond reach. If he could break loose, if he could spread his wings just once, he would not fly to escape. He would ascend only to fall. Higher, higher, until the heavens blurred behind him, until gravity reclaimed him, until he shattered upon the earth below. How many times had he longed for that? To fall, to crash, and to end?

A metallic rattle tore him from his thoughts. The heavy door groaned open, spilling dim light into the cell. Abrin turned his head, already expecting the sight of the guard. And there they stood—shadowed against the flickering torchlight, clad in indifference. But there were no chains in their hands this time, no tray of tasteless rations.

They hesitated, shoulders stiff. Then, in a voice as cold and impassive as ever, they spoke. "Someone’s bought you. You’ll be leaving in a month."

Abrin blinked. The words settled over him like distant thunder, low and rolling, incomprehensible in their weight. Someone had bought him. Someone was taking him away. He should have felt nothing. He had long since forgotten how to feel. And yet, his chest twisted.

Twisted with something raw, searing, unfamiliar. A feeling more visceral than the wounds burned into his skin, clawing up his throat and lodging itself deep beneath his ribs.

He had never known anything beyond these walls, never believed there was anything beyond them. No possibility of escape, no future beyond the loop of his waking existence, each day morphing together.

Yet now—someone would take him away. Someone would pull him from this pit, from the cold, from the endless hell he had grown accustomed to. Someone…

His savior. His mercy. His answered prayer.

Abrin’s breath came sharp and uneven. He barely registered the guard’s lingering glance before they turned on their heel, footsteps fading down the corridor. The door shut with a hollow clang, sealing him in once more.

For the first time, the walls did not press so tightly around him. His mind did not compress, suffocating under its own doing. Instead, it reached outward towards the unknown, toward the one who had spared him.

He wondered what they might look like—the shade of their eyes, the way they would be something new for him to grow used to. Would their gaze be sharp as cut glass or gentle as twilight? And their skin… would it bear the weight of scars, marred and broken like his own?

He hoped not. No, he would never wish such a fate upon the one who had reached for him, the one who had would lift him from the dark. They should be untouched by suffering, unmarked by cruelty—something untainted, something he could call grace.

My savior, my savior, my savior, my savior.

Ever since the news, Abrin had not been himself. The change unsettled not only the guards and the other prisoners but even him. After so long without feeling, without even a drop of emotion stirring in his hollow chest, a flood had overtaken him; an unstoppable tide crashing against the walls he had spent years building. And yet, he did not resist. He let it consume him, let it pull him under. He drowned in it, and for the first time, he did not mind.

He spent his days adrift in thought. How was it possible to be so wholly devoted to someone he had never even met? He knew—knew that the moment they stood before him, he would not remain standing for long. His legs would fail him, and he would fall to his knees, to the cold, filthy stone floor. Would they like him that way? Bent, broken, trembling beneath them? Pathetic? Everyone here seemed to.

Only three more days. The thought pulsed through his skull like a heartbeat, relentless. He traced the tallies carved into the stone wall with trembling fingers, ignoring the sting of his ragged nails, the gnawed-up skin around them. Pain no longer mattered. Hunger, exhaustion, none of it mattered. For the first time in his life, there was something beyond the endless monotony of waking and waiting. Something to look forward to. Something worth opening his eyes for.

My savior, my savior, my savior, my savior.

Stop. Stop it. Abrin could not contain it, this swelling, aching thing inside him. Love, devotion, obsession—whatever it was, it filled every hollow space in his body, too vast for him to hold. He was terrified that the moment he saw them, he would spill over entirely, empty himself at their feet, and drive away the only thing keeping him tethered to life.

The clang of metal startled him. A guard passed his cell, tossing a tray of scraps onto the floor, the same as every day. But before they could leave, words slipped from Abrin’s lips, sudden and unbidden.

“Can… Can I have a piece of paper and a pencil?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, barely louder than a whisper. “I want to write a letter… for the one who is taking me away.”

The guard stopped. Stared. Abrin barely spoke, never even asked for anything. After a pause, they gave a slow nod before turning away, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Not long after, they returned, pushing a thin scrap of paper and a worn-down pencil through the bars. For a long moment, Abrin simply stared at them, hands trembling. Then, carefully, reverently, he took them into his grasp.

“To the one who has reached for me,

I do not know your name. I do not know the sound of your voice, nor the shape of your face, and yet I think of nothing else. I whisper to you in the dark. I see you in the flickers of light on the wall. You are everywhere, even though you’ve never stood before me.

Since I heard of you, of what you’ve done, my thoughts have not belonged to me. They are yours now. Every breath I take is in anticipation of yours. Every second stretches like a lifetime, and yet three days feel too little time to prepare myself for you. I do not know how to contain this. This ache. This reverence. This need.

You’ve done what no one else has. You’ve chosen me. You saw the ruins of something once divine, and you reached for it. For me. Why? I don’t understand it. I cannot. But I would give you everything. Everything I have, everything I am, though it may be broken and bloodstained and pitiful. I would crawl to you if I could. If you asked, I would press my forehead to your feet and stay there, unmoving, until you gave me permission to rise.

I’m scared. Not of you, never of you, but of what I might become in front of you. I am afraid I will fall apart the moment you speak. That my voice will shatter. That my heart will give in. That I will beg, not even knowing for what.

You must understand: you are the only light that has ever reached me. And I… do not know how to survive brightness without burning.

Please. Whatever you do when you see me, do not turn away. Do not leave. If you knew what you mean to me already, what I've imagined you to be, perhaps you would. But I pray you won’t. Even if I disgust you, even if I’m not what you wanted, let me stay. Let me prove I can be good. I will be anything you need. Anything.

I don’t know how to stop this. This obsession, this devotion, this desperate, aching worship of someone I’ve never met. I only know that when I do meet you, I will fall apart, and I can only hope you’ll hold the pieces.

Even before you asked for me, I was already yours.

Abrin”

He could only pray that the words he had so carefully etched, each letter trembling with devotion, would reach them more clearly than the fractured whispers of his voice ever could. That his unsteady hands might be worthy enough to place the paper into their divine grasp. That they would cradle him gently, or break him apart and remake him at their will. He would not resist. He would thank them for it.

And if he faltered, if he ever angered them even by the smallest breath or careless misstep, he would carve the mistake into memory and never repeat it again. He would beg for their forgiveness, over and over, until they no longer had to hear it.

Please, his heart sobbed as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t cast me aside.

[seyvith]

@seyvith ! ᯓ★

hihi, i’m sev — welcome to my little corner of the internet! if you think we have similar interests, my dms are always open for chats, rants, or rambling about fictional people. [carrd]

i write pretty much anything and everything, but you’ll mostly find original works here — especially stories with my ocs and oc x reader content. that said, i’m not opposed to dabbling in fanfics too, so never say never.

things i won’t write: smut (might change someday), dominant male dynamics, poly ships, or anything that makes me uncomfy. basically, i write what i enjoy reading. [masterlist] <- wip

requests: open! i’m a student, so life can get busy, but i’ll do my best to stay active and post consistently. i reserve the right to decline any request i’m not interested in, but don’t let that stop you from asking! genuinely I am not one to judge when there’s a lot more going inside my head.

if you’re unsure whether i know a fandom, odds are i probably do. and if i don’t, i’m happy to learn. a long list of everything i’m into is also on my carrd, including my ocs.

thanks for stopping by ♡