#THESE FLOWERS CANT BLOOM WITHOUT YOU | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

slowd1ving · 2 months

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Hiiiii can u write Kim Dokja x Goth!Male!reader this sponsor constellation is Apollo and The reader is a simp for Dokja ( I love this man )

LOVE LIKE BLOOD ・゜゜KIM DOKJA

“The life is short, and I’m running faster all the time, Strength and beauty destined to decay, So cut the rose in full bloom.” By chance you meet him, by chance you become his friend, by chance you stay by his side; until it cannot be called fickle, capricious chance any longer, but an example of the inevitable law of universal attraction between two starving masses. art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! also thank you anon this ask was so big brained I yapped on for like 5k words (very sorry if you wanted headcanon/drabble form I got the most profound inspiration for this at like 3am :3) also damn you have no idea how many song titles I was perusing trying to find a suitable one for this... pairing: kim dokja + male goth reader warnings: pretty graphic metaphors, child abandonment/implied parental death, child neglect + abuse, alcohol, smoking, depression + bullying, hurt/comfort, injury, violence (as it's orv), does 10+ year long pining and oddly tense homoeroticism need a warning, anon I hope you ENJOY reading because I enjoyed writing wc: 5.6k (YAP because i love this silly man, I've never written so much for a request before lmao)

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Fundamentally, you and him are the same.

There’s a sense of loss that’s too heavy for either of your bodies to comprehend. Rather than a heart, there’s a black hole right where the organ lies; so greedy, so hungry for acknowledgement. Born blue into this world—deprived of oxygen yet wailing, screaming for your voice to be heard—it’s little wonder you’ve always been avaricious for the love your parents could never give. The hands cradling the babe were never loving; they were clinical, they were covered in sterile blue gloves and they smelled only of caustic antiseptic. There was no kiss on your slimy, puckered forehead. There was only the sting of alcoholic sanitiser.

Kim Dokja is similar, yet his parents wouldn’t (rather than couldn’t, for in your embittered mind the two concepts were so different as to be alien) spare him scraps of care. Rather than press a kiss to their son’s awaiting cheek, only bruises blossomed where the love should’ve been. No flowers were given for Children’s Day—only oily blood spilling and macerating against his chubby hands as a last, vibrant gift for their son.

These two black holes sputtered on their axes while they spun round each other: gluttonous, esurient for care that didn’t come with bruises and wailing grief.

Seoul had been unusually cold; blue afternoons spanned across the school rooftops. They were frigid and foggy—perfect for avoiding detection. Thus, the boy without kisses (only contused skin) encountered another like him on the rooftop that day. Against the haze, your own cigarette smoke had dulled the edges of what he saw—a boy canted against the railing with rippling earphones and a head tilted so far back he could taste the polluted mist.

A merger had occurred.

And though neither of you said it, there was an unspoken recognition of each other’s greed in that moment. Your eyes, ghosting over his injuries while the heavy bass played and the prussic wisps trailed around him: deep reverberations sounding a bit too like his careening heartbeat—as he made sure no one had followed him up here, that he was safe. And his umbrous eyes—honed in on the cigarette wedged between your lips, now stained black from the gloss decorating your humourless smile.

Maybe it was just that inherent feeling of kinship that came with avariciousness: a snarling sort of camaraderie that snagged at your skin with its claws. The wounds left behind were tender, but tender was precisely the adjective you were looking for—as was he.

And so, Kim Dokja found himself coming to this particular rooftop the next day. When his breathing came ragged and his vision began to swim, he instinctively sought the numbness the frigid azurine firmament would bring. Like a wounded animal, he sought safety. Flight over fight—a lesson he’d learnt too late. Bruised fists would never save him.

There you sat—eyes closed and lips still glossed in modest black. There were silver rings on your hands; rings he’d seen flashing before his eyes before he was hit, that those people no longer sported. Quietly, he matched up the scrapes on your own knuckles to the ones decorating their faces: to their unusual sullenness today. They’d furtively sequestered themselves in a club room all break, touching their swollen lips and eyes with bruised fists. Bruised fists. Like trophies, the achromatic metal glinted against the cobalt haze, and for once, his heart didn’t skip any beats at the sight of the gleaming metal. Neither did you acknowledge his presence nor their sins, but still, he sat on the same bench you were sprawled upon: hugging his bag to his chest while he scrolled the hallowed pixels of Ways of Survival.

There was no grand exchange of words, no heartfelt conversations between Kim Dokja and the boy with a messed-up uniform.

This was how tentative company was kept for a fragile week.

Tuesday was the day that fragility finally shattered. He still remembers every detail about it—down to the particular cigarette brand you’d purchased that morning, down to the chips in your dark nail polish, down to just how many rings you’d worn on your left hand (three—it was three rings). Tears had spilled down his cheeks that afternoon; they warped and distorted the words that had saved him thus far, evoked from the pain in his purple ribs and his empty stomach. Somehow, the salt he’d kept tightly bound had been coaxed by your cold presence—perhaps, knowing your indifference made it easier to cry pathetically in front of you.

You still didn’t speak, but you did hand him a tissue. You still didn’t speak, but you did press your shoulder to his own trembling one: smelling of caustic smoke, and something rich and sweet lingering beneath the plumes. You still didn’t speak, but your rings clinked on your left hand as you unhooked the earbud in your pierced ear and offered it to him: fingers brushed against his palm as he was forcibly shocked out of crying any further, like a blubbering child faced with such a conundrum that their little brains focused entirely on that rather than the reason for their tears.

Melancholy had streamed out of the device. Doleful chords twined against threnetic voices—which he could not translate nor understand but could feel in pulsing waves.

In that short whorl in the great machine of time, in the chill of the blue hour, he could not help but feel warm.

And thus, that Tuesday changed the trajectory of this merger somewhat. A deafening hum had finally blossomed from the gargantuan event; your presence could no longer be described as distant.

When he went to class the next day, you were in the seat next to him: a mirage brought on by his lack of food, no doubt. He limped to his desk, but there your corporeal form remained: this time with silver chains lining the base of your throat and a dry, sharp grin decorating your face. Sure, he knew there was a student that never showed up in his class, but he wasn’t expecting it to be you: your name now a permanent fixture in his mind.

There was a new name for this phenomenon: friendship.

The boy, with the pensive music and trophies stolen from Dokja’s tormentors, smiled up at the reader staring at him. It was an inviting gesture: the proverbial hand reaching out, the hand which he took.

You weren’t a particularly talkative friend at first: preferring to simply share your music rather than speak much. That was fine with him—it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to reading alone. Then, you started bringing boxes of food alongside your cigarettes: containers that lacked the refinement of store bought meals. One for you, and one sheepishly thrust out to him with a smile bright as burst yolk and as messy as it too. Consequently, he returned a wobbly, unsure smile back at you—not mentioning that the vegetables were slightly burnt, slightly too salty. But that was fine. The more lunches you brought, the more skilled your hands became—until he never felt truly full unless he was eating what you gave him.

In return, he cracked open his soul: pried its rusted walls with bleeding fingernails in a gesture never before seen, not since his childhood when he still knew what hope meant. Dokja for once didn’t blubber apologies and pleas for mercy—but became a teenager rather than a groveller. He complained about teachers, he discussed Ways of Survival at length (noting how you listened even when you showed no particular interest in reading it), he finally developed his own, modest aspirations for his own life. Lying in his bed in his lonely apartament, it suddenly didn’t feel so claustrophobic (yet somehow far too big for one) when you were there with your shoulder just brushing his own.

You were not as cold as you seemed: though this was always obvious from that fateful Tuesday. You made fun of and empathised with the eternal regressor; you diligently stood at his half-broken stove frying meat and vegetables; and you talked at length about whatever band you were currently into—“I’ll take you to one of their concerts when we’re older,” leaving your lips, for your dense black-hole hearts did not conceptualise a future where the other was not present. He saw your loneliness—heard the rumours of you bouncing around from orphanage to orphanage, roaming the streets and working nights rather than return to that boreal home.

So, more nights than not, he woke up from his nightmares to see you sleeping on the small couch in his home—legs just about peeking over the armrest, for your avarice didn’t only cover the abstract but the heaps of food you swiped from the canteen (and over the past two years he’d known you, you got your growth spurt far more obviously than he had). It partly contributed to almost skittish aversion his tormentors had of him—one you never did acknowledge, and so he learnt quickly to not mention it either. In this way, he too never mentioned why he invited you to sleep over more nights than not. And so, neither of your selfish hearts ever spoke a word of pity, but rather conveyed an unspoken understanding that bound the two of you in this merger.

This routine continued.

He enlisted after graduating from the local university, and so did you—suffering the eighteen months of hazing with the smoke lingering on your skin and that same, humourless smile he first saw on your face. Frigid mornings turned his own lips as blue as the sky, yet he found it was harder to feel the chill when he saw you. Just like back then, you wore the same smile that brimmed with such colour it was practically incandescent with its heat.

Two outcasts. It was hilariously terrible. Two outcasts, still sharing a pair of earbuds that had seen better days—blaring out the dolorous music that had grown on him, that described this situation perfectly. Stars were strewn in the fabric enveloped around you: memories that would continue to shine even after the world slowly marched towards its apocalypse.

In that cramped bunkroom, it had been just like school—blue nights with the moon just barely peeking through the window, with your leg still hanging off the side of the bunk and within his field of vision. And he still found the steady rise and fall of your breathing far more comforting than any white noise: like a guard dog, almost, you still shielded him by his proximity to you throughout the brutal eighteen months of mandated service.

Adulthood had crept up unbidden. In his single-room apartment, he sat on his couch with your legs sprawled just as lazy as they had been eight years prior. Though, your appearance certainly had changed—beneath the loose material of your tank top, he could see the ink seeping and decorating your skin. He’d gone with you to the underground artists right after the discharge: worriedly biting his lip while you simply grinned at him as if there wasn’t a needle pressing into you. And despite his initial concern, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away—sneaking glances even as he browsed through job sites since the winding patterns under the fabric and silver jewellery was oddly entrancing to the eye.

In the end, he applied to the same company you had done on a whim: Minosoft, where you carefully wiped off the black residue on your lips and the smudged pencil round your eyes. You still shared your earbud with him on the subway (though you’d sent him your playlist aeons ago), you still smoked the same brand you did eight years ago, you still occasionally put on those rings you’d kept as prized trophies, you still made two sets of lunches for work. You still listened over drinks while hammered Dokja updated you on the latest update of Ways of Survival. You still angled your body just so, so that you would bear the brunt of Han Myungoh’s scolding rather than him.

You hadn’t changed.

But in some ways, he could no longer see the same boyish guy who’d awkwardly offered him his earbuds nine years ago. The look in your eyes was far more intense, the messy smiles splitting your cheeks were sharper, more overwhelming, and there was no longer any clumsiness in your movements from your sudden growth spurt from years prior. Even the very hand that occasionally clasped his shoulder, even the legs that you still casually flung over his on his beaten old couch, were far more scorching than he remembered.

You had changed.

And in the end, it was him who was left behind.

Eternal loser, Kim Dokja.

Though, he could never find fault with you for that. Not when you leaned over the tangle of limbs on his couch, not when he caught the thread of oud lingering beneath the smoke on your throat, and not when you thrust your phone screen at his face with that stupidly boyish grin that only peeked out when you brimmed with excitement—with a “look, I finally got us tickets for this festival!”. And he knew at that moment that you weren’t leaving him behind: stretching out your rough palm just like you had more than a decade ago.

He let you tousle his hair to give it more spikes. He let you dress him up in your clothes—they sat too large on his frame, but he found himself unconsciously burying his body in the fabric that smelled like your laundry. He let you slip your rings onto his fingers: slender digits jolting at the sensation of the cool metal and the action itself.

Finally, he let you rub your dark pencil on his lashline—lids fluttering up at yours while he did his best to not avert his stare. His gaze traced the bold lines of your brows and eyes, and finally onto the dark stain on your lips as you bit them in concentration. “There,” you’d murmured, gently grasping his chin. “That looks pretty.”

And just like the loser he was, he felt his chest tighten at the casual compliment, for seemingly no reason.

Over the din of the hall, he could barely hear the ebb and flow of music. Goth chords jostled him, weaving past the throes of post-punk and metal as band after band took the stage. In this crush of people, he was more focused on how your index finger threaded through his left-most belt loop; linking the two of you just enough that he wouldn’t get thrown into the mosh pit. No doubt the buzz of cheap liquor contributed to his distracted train of thoughts—he never was the best at handling alcohol. His hazy gaze distorted his view of your side profile; in the dim lights, obviously the wide smile (yolk-like, as was your grin years back) couldn’t possibly be that bright.

It was at this moment that sentimentality got to him. He was thankful that his friend had stuck by his side for so long: gazing so softly at your happy expression he was unaware of his look himself.

This was the night before the apocalypse began.

When the crowds trickled out, when the reverb of bass still played through the club, you hugged him tight for coming with you. Outcast with the outcast, you’d thought introspectively. There were cheap spirits clouding your mind that night—a hangover would surely strike you come morning—which was why you weren’t as reserved as you usually were. As you leaned down to press the man into your arms, your lips had brushed past his cheek accidentally, and you could feel the black hole in the centre of your chest constrict.

Profanities had whirled through your mind when the dark smudge remained on his cheek, and especially so as he made no move to wipe the umbrous gloss off on the subway back. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed—not with the flush on his cheeks from the alcohol in his system. There was a terrible, discordant crescendo to your pulse as you gazed at him. The gloss, from where it smeared slightly past the boundaries of your lips, burned your skin. But you made no moves to wipe the corners either—for this night only, there was something linking Kim Dokja to you.

Thus, for the first time since he was a mere babe cradled in his mother’s arms, there was a kiss planted on his cheek that wasn’t from a fist. An accidental one, but one that could not be considered devoid of affection. And though neither of you remembered it after the hazy stupor faded, it did not change the fact that it happened nonetheless.

A small snippet of joy in the bleak landscape. A caesura found within the long, winding elegy of this world. A reprieve before tragedy.

It was a fitting conclusion for the night before the end.

✦ . 　⁺

[The free service has now been terminated.]

Back in the carriage, wedged between Yoo Sangah and Kim Dokja, the two of you had shared a glance confirming the unspoken truth. Minds intrinsically linked together—he did not need to speak for you to understand his thoughts immediately. And Yoo Sangah had recognised this—as did she remember the devoted gleam in your eyes whenever you spoke to or of the man seated adjacent to you. Yet ultimately, her lips would remain closed.

When the scenarios began, it was Kim Dokja’s turn to repay you. He would be your shield moving forward—protecting your messy smile even as the world burned away. He vowed this to himself, and though the promise was heard only by him, it did not change the fact that the constellations watching him and his companions could see the oath brimming from him as he put you first.

[Almighty Sun has sponsored you.]

Even when Apollo chose you as his incarnation, even when you were just as capable as you had been before the cataclysm occurred—he could not help but feel his fists clench as you put yourself in danger.

“Hold on,” you’d murmured, rings flashing as you’d caught his wrist in your firm grasp. Even with his coins improving his stats, he still felt so much weaker than you—still the boy who ran to the rooftops while your fists bruised against the faces of those who tormented him.

Had your touch always been so scalding?

Privately, he thought Apollo had chosen the right person—smile bright as the sun, skilled fingers deft enough to play the electric guitar you’d bought on a whim, presence practically a healing balm for his soul.

“You’re injured, Dokja-ya.” And the words had made him shiver as the syllables ghosted over his flesh—your face was too close to his chest where he’d been slashed by a monster, while the affectionate tone added to his name made this situation far worse than it was. Secluded like this, in an abandoned corner of the station, it was easy to misread the situation; this was the only reason his face flushed red. His friend was far too close. When those aforementioned fingertips brushed over the wound—just grazing the wounded flesh—he jolted. From the pain, of course.

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire has sponsored 200 coins.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire would like to see more action.]

“Steady.” You eased him against a pillar while ignoring the message—ignoring how your pulse was now leaden in your mouth, how the golden gleam stitching flesh back together seemed far more shaky than usual. Though, you couldn’t ignore the pain you felt as you saw the rise and fall of his torso grow shallow; you were useless when it counted—arrows meeting their target far too late.

“Dokja-ya,” you breathed, sweeping the hair that plastered to his clammy forehead. He didn’t meet your eyes, and the heavy feeling in your chest grew more burdensome. He was supposed to tell you what was wrong; as his best friend, you duly heard his complaints and dealt with them where you could. More often than not, you could intuitively tell what bothered him; much like you had from the very first day you saw him all those years ago. And as time passed, the object of your adoration only grew easier to read.

But he was never avoidant like this.

What happened? As you watched him leave with heavy steps and not a glance spared back, you could feel the crushing weight of the sky drop back down on your shoulders. Fuck. Burying your face in your hands, you barely registered the message that popped up.

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire expresses her sympathy.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire says she knows how the two of you can make up.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire sponsors 69 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun tells the Demon-like Judge of Fire to not be stingy.]

[The Almighty Sun sponsors 6969 coins.]

[The Almighty Sun empathises with a lover’s quarrel.]

“Shut up,” you seethed, and the bad mood carried on late into the night. It was obvious to anyone with eyes; the conjured lamps lining the perimeter of camp had seethed with you. Gold had been interspersed with bleeding red—crackling like true fire, though it was anything but. Even the tattoos that lined your skin had begun eroding into ember-like patterns, as though lava was breaking through the dermis of your skin.

Unsurprisingly, it was Yoo Sangah that had approached first: past the harsh glow of your lamps, gracefully weaving through the brightness with the light steps that belied her nebula. She’d taken a glance at the incandescent splintering of your body, your hands furiously working away at the guitar plugged into your practically-bulletproof earphones, and finally the imposing frame of Yoo Joonghyuk only a few metres away as he stood guard tonight.

But when you paused, when you hastily yanked the buds from your ears, she could also see the wobble in your lip. The furrow in your brows wasn’t angry, it was anguished, while the fearsome glare in your eyes contained only pain. If she was being honest, it was hard to approach you at work and even nowadays—with ease, you picked off enemies from a distance and your longbow conveniently morphed into two curved daggers when it came down to it. You were a maelstrom with the capacity to take lives—stained with blood as you bared your proverbial teeth at any threats to Dokja. But it was precisely that that allowed her to see your stupidly blind adoration of this man.

(“Your devotion will only hurt you,” she says, as if that will dissuade you. You’ll take whatever feeling he gives you: greedily swallowing each and every morsel of emotion. Tender is your heart, but tender is good. It means you aren’t going mad over the situation you’re in.

“Yoo Sangah, I appreciate the advice,” you reply politely—you do respect her, after all. “But I do not mind that.”)

Yoo Joonghyuk had bemusedly watched as she left: staring the the dim red tattoos strewn across your body as if they could possibly help him decipher the fool in front of him. His Sage’s Eye flashed as golden as your lamps for a brief moment—detecting that your statement had, in fact, been true.

Fool, he’d said as your hands flew over the fretboard once more. Fool, as you disappeared up the stairs to the rooftop. Fool, when your lips had pressed together tightly against one another.

You did mind, even when you thought it was the unequivocal truth that you didn’t.

Maybe it was futile to even think it, but he thought that idiot didn’t deserve the long-standing care in your hands, and the veneration in the timbres of your voice. It was pointless to get attached to someone like that—especially when the end of the world was upon you.

But you wouldn’t know that, since you could not read his mind. But you wouldn’t know that, since he would never explicitly say it. But you wouldn’t know that, since you’d long-since accepted your self-torture as perfectly and utterly a part of what came with knowing Kim Dokja for as long as you did.

The rooftop was like all other rooftops. Similar. The same. Azurine fog was at your fingertips: just like that day all those years ago. Except this time, Kim Dokja was not in your sights, and you were left alone with wisps of smoke trailing from your lips and no other company save the glowing stick in your fingers. Just like it had been; before you met the boy with a heart as greedy and all-consuming as yours. Before the merger between two black holes occurred. Before he ran up to the rooftops with bruises on his face and placed new stars in the endless vacuum of your universe.

There was no charge in your phone, but the song that played that day still rested heavy in your neurons as you sprawled out on the bench. Mindlessly, you summoned the lyre-turned-guitar: doleful chords germinated, flourished and withered away once more under distressed fingertips. It was a night between scenarios; another caesura in this ceaseless tragedy. Though those days were filled with an empty stomach and an endless struggle, they were your halcyon days.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, it was a blue Monday once more.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, you didn’t hear the heavy run of footsteps through the heavy burr of music.

Just like that time almost twelve years back, Kim Dokja’s black hole heart pulsed with each discordant twang of chords—though this time the link was acutely clear to him.

The boy who once tasted the mist and tilted his body into oblivion was no longer there: replaced by a man who’d faithfully stayed by him for more than a decade. Though you hadn’t changed, not at all; not when he could still see the rings you took off his bullies, gracing your fingers just as they had back then. A trophy, dedicated to his protection. When his plans involved his sacrifice, you were the first to reach him. Your face was the first he saw, tears brimming from your lash line. For despite how you’d grown into your looks, you wore your emotions clear on your face. Your heart had been taken from the cavity in your chest and replaced with a dense core that greedily always wanted; yet it had been sewn messily onto your sleeve rather than discarded.

Kim Dokja suddenly remembered another interlude. A club, where the amorphous ebb and flow of bodies could not sweep him away from your side—since you kept him there, treasured his presence enough that you hooked your finger firmly into his belt loop and rooted him there. An anchor: you’ve always been the rock beneath his shaky feet, after all. He remembered that, and not the endless churn of music that made your face glow with happiness.

(A black smear of gloss left on his cheek. His hands, carefully wiping eye pencil away yet not touching the remnants of your lips—not until it smudged away on its own, forgotten for all of time but this day.)

A sun of his own. The reader trod his slow orbit around you long before he could conceptualise the gravity that drew two masses towards each other. Newton’s theory of universal gravitation be damned; you were the only centre of the universe, the only body that ever existed to draw others towards your brilliant light.

His eyes flickered over the smoke in your lips: the dim embers of a glow from the lines in your skin made it seem as though you were alight yourself. Instinctively, physically, he was compelled towards the patterns just like he had been all those years ago: your music, your stupid piercings and your stupid discussions about bands and the stupid way you listened attentively to his yapping about Ways of Survival. Stupid, because why did you do that? Why did you convince him to make a shrine for you in his heart? Stupid, because why is it only now that he can see what exactly lays atop the stone altar?

“Kim Dokja,” you spoke through your plumes, formal in the way he knew you spoke when you were upset and trying to keep it together. He swallowed, and he could feel the same pitter-patter of his pulse as he did all those years ago—heartbeat colliding loudly in his ear drums while he steps towards you, unsure. You didn’t let up with the strum of strings: electric in the drizzle of rain and wind and cold Seoul air.

For once, he was the one looking down at your impassive face. He was the one brushing his fingers through your hair, he was the one whose hands made themselves comfortable on shoulders—for it’s always been you wrapped around him, you whose legs wedge on top of his domestically on his shitty couch in his shitty studio flat.

“It’s Dokja-ya,” he corrected: tongue thick and leaden. It constricted his larynx and made his cadence oh so small at this moment. Tentative. Because he was your close friend and you his. He was the one who knows all your expressions—even the ones you deliberately tried to hide from everyone. He was the one who’s been with you the longest: always staring up at the muscle of your back while you act as his shield. He was the one who’s been blind.

Your fingers halted against the strings and the instrument dissolved into the wind; the concert for two had reached its conclusion, just like it had all those months ago. For despite being packed full of people, the club only ever had two people in it for him.

Lazily, those same hands that have bruised for him—but somehow had a touch that was far more painful than any torment that was physically inflicted on him—wrapped round his own that rested neatly on your shoulders.

“Dokja-ya,” you answered, and the axis the world tilted on is finally righted. This man, Dokja thought—and his umbrous eyes traced down the warm lines of your face, stopping on your lips. Bittersweet.

“Don’t leave me,” he all but begged—voice only a whisper. Don’t die on me, the black hole wanted to say instead; selfishly wishing for you to always be by his side so he doesn’t see you depart this world first. That would end him more than anything else.

“I can’t leave you,” you murmured, and oh, the hand brushing his tear-stained cheek suddenly made more sense. “Dokja-ya, I should be telling you that.”

He pressed his face into your warm palm—scorching even with the boreal damp settling over his skin. There was something twisted within him that revels in your admission: that you, too, feared him abandoning you just as he feared you leaving him behind.

“Idiot.” And he twined his fingers in yours, seeing the surprise on your face bloom—for he’s already established that you’re ever so easy to read. Idiot, because it’s ludicrous to even think that he’d ever willingly walk away from you like that.

“You’re the idiot,” you whispered as your phantasmal hand ghosted from his cheek to his collar, yanking him so he fell onto the firm sprawl of your legs—in a way he’s never felt. So warm, he thought through the haze as he straddled your languid body—fit so right against you that there was none of the tension nor the anticipation that he might’ve felt. His hands splayed out onto your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart, tracing the glowing lines he adored on your body.

So warm, he thought as your hands gently cupped his face—for you’ve never been anything but soft with this stupid man perched on your lap.

So warm, as your lips met his and he melted into your body. He could taste the acrid smoke on your tongue, but he could also taste the food you’d prepared earlier for him, and the traces of whiskey you’d scavenged. All traces of you; his insatiable heart could not help but want to merge into you.

So warm, as your tongue melded against his and he could feel the seam of his mouth against yours grow ever more ragged and messy. His hands desperately curled into your shirt, and he could feel your palms pressing harshly against his waist and canting his torso into yours more—something which his avaricious heart eagerly swallowed.

On a blue Monday just like this one, two boys met for the first time once more on a rooftop just like this one.

Again. Like and like created a merger for the second time, or perhaps it was already the third. Or fourth. Or the thousand-eight-hundred-and-sixty-third time this has happened—over and over and over and over.

Fate has a funny way of bringing people together, or maybe it’s just the intrinsic law of gravitation that binds two black holes in a binary system.

Blue Monday. What a silly notion, when the man beneath Kim Dokja is as warm as the brilliant sun.

✦ . 　⁺

Fellas is it gay to pine after your best friend for over ten years and have oddly homoerotic moments with them

✦ . 　⁺

EXTRAS

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire returns from her work and asks what she missed.]

[The Almighty Sun keeps his lips shut.]

[The Abyssal Flame Black Dragon stays silent.]

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, perhaps not fearing his imminent hair loss, opens his mouth.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire promptly goes catatonic and explodes.]

142 notes · View notes

etheries1015 · 11 months

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Cause no hun.

My airhead ass would probably try eating the fucking flowers at first sight😭

*Nom Nom Nom* thanks for the food Rollo

This doesn't seem very...healthy... are you okay my friend? Why are you eating the flowers? Must I put you on a collar and leash?? No eating the magic sucking flowers! *Bonks*

But this is kind of funny lol I imagine two scenarios:

1) While picking the flowers , you cant help but just...stare at it for a second. Why does it look oddly appetizing? All sense leaves you and you just...pop it in your mouth and start chewing. Not realizing that everyone had stopped picking and began starting at you with their jaws to the floor, before Malleus follows suit and takes a bite out of a flower out of curiosity. You're a bad influence

2) Rollo just stares at u as you nonchalantly start munching on a flower, a mix of confusion and disgust. This...this is the NRC prefect? Is this something all people from your world do? Eat wild life without the knowledge of its side effects? Surely that can't be healthy. He takes it upon himself to lecture you first, and world domination second.

And a bonus one:

If we were BOTH there together, I fear i'd have to bonk you constantly. Lovingly, of course. With sisterly love. We are both pulling weeds and I look over to the side to witness you popping a bloom into your mouth. With a disappointed sigh I bonk the back of your head.

"Spit that out."

Cue me having to keep a watchful eye on my...concerning dorm mate who keeps, for whatever reason, deciding that eating the flora was far more productive and oddly sattisfying than plucking them from the ground.

What an interesting team we would make, for better or for worse. 😐

(Fun fact, one of my younger sisters used to actually do this. She would eat dandelions when we were younger, and paper, And grass. So unfortunately, you would not be the first person I have known to put strange objects in their mouth to digest.)

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst headcannons #twisted wonderland headcannon #glorious masquerade #rollo #rollo twst #rolloe flamme

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midnightblues444 · 1 year

Text

Hades!Choso x Persephone! Reader

Summary: Choso adores you, will do anything you ask and you'd like to return the favor

Warnings: mildly explicit, some inaccuracies, m receiving oral,

Listen to: La leçon particulière- Francis Lai

Hades, the god of the underworld or Choso as you've come to call him, stared at you lovingly while you tend to your garden that he provided for the duration of your stay in the underworld.

By the stars are you beautiful he thinks to himself

When Choso is with you he actively tries to be gentle . Opposed to his exterior, the dark broad man has a soft spot, and has given you his heart. Contrary to what the other Gods would have done, he was taking his time with you, in all honesty because he has zero experience with this kind of stuff.

For instance when you first arrived in the underworld, it was a messy ordeal. His feelings overwhelmed him and the next thing he knew he scooped you down into the underworld with him. You were confused and scared initially, only thinking about your poor mother and how worried she would be, even refusing to eat.

Choso was also scared, he didn't know what the hell he had just done. Trying to figure out what to do with you, and with himself. He tried to be kind and warm, and make you comfortable but naturally it took time. Until the day he begged you to eat something, stating he wasnt trying to starve you to death.

While you ate you asked him questions, starting with why he took you in the first place. Bluntly he stated because he didn't know what to do with his feelings for you. Making you laugh for the first time, you then joined him in other parts of his home. Nervously he led you, explaining how women dont usually visit, making you laugh again.

He wanted you to laugh more, your laugh made him happy. So you spent more time together, he tried to make you laugh more , starting to earn each others trust, even adding a garden for you to his kingdom.

The first time you kissed, it was you who initiated it. After he offered that you sleep in his chambers you felt the gesture was sweet and before you shut your eyes, you tenderly kissed him goodnight. From then on it was like your love bloomed, like a plant or something.

But you still haven't "done it"He didnt know how to initiate anything sexual.

Today as he sits and watches you tend to the garden, his fond smile grows larger when you excitedly approach. Flowers in hand, you had woven him a flower crown, filled with blood red roses.

You sit on his lap without thought, carefully placing the crown on his head fixing his hair to suit the crown, you were squirming on his crotch quite a lot. Choso tries to keep his composure, but can feel blood rushing with every gentle tug of his hair.

His size made his erection hard to conceal, and immediately you feel him prodding at your thigh. Stiffening you both look at each other flustered. He apologizes and goes to move you but you plant your hands firmly on his shoulders.

"It's okay Choso, I can help you, if you let me" you gently affirm, he nods. You kiss his cheek, and his neck, making way to his chest, moving off his lap to fit between his legs to kiss his thighs. Moving his robes to free him, and his pretty leaky tip.

You kiss it before wrapping your lips around him, earning a whimper from the man. Encouraging you to take him further down your throat you slowly bob your head. He whines and claws at your hair, when you teasingly look him in his eyes and he loses any shred of composure he had.

He cant help but push your head to his thrusts, you gag, "'m sorry angel can't help it" he manages between moans. His neediness mixed with his whines goes straight between your legs and you rub your thighs together using your hands to stimulate other parts of him.

"You dont have to swallow- ha~" he says, letting you know hes close. You swallow anyways, kissing him effectively after, he whines into the kiss clearly still sensitive.

"Its okay baby" you coo, "m gonna need you to help me too baby, could you do that f'me?" you ask sweetly, guiding his hands between your legs, showing him just how wet you are, he nods vigorously.

"Anything for you darling" he says, in his mind that means fuck all those things about taking it slow. If his angel needs help, he's gonna help her the best.

#choso x reader #choso smut #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #choso x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk manga #choso kamo #choso kamo x reader #choso kamo smut

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cycle-hit · 7 months

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kotoko's timeline based on moon phases

(in chronological order)

minute 1:00 in harrow, the first glimpse of a moon phase:

waning crescent, comes right before a new moon.

1:54 in harrow, the second glimpse of a moon phase:

still a waning crescent. the events we see in those 54 seconds happen within a week of each other!

3:01 in harrow, the third and final time we see a moon phase:

full moon! its been quite a bit since 1:54, where she beat up that guy in the alleyway and sat emo in front of her bulletin board of crime. between that point and 3:01 (her getting information and killing the kidnapper), it's likely been two weeks assuming the crescent we see at 1:54 is at the end of its phase.

0:56 in deep cover, the first glimpse of a moon phase:

waning crescent, again! you have a pattern, kotoko. its been 2 weeks since the ending of harrow/the beginning of deep cover, assuming more cycles of the moon havent passed. i assume she was probably busy with court proceedings in those two weeks.

1:41 in deep cover, the second glimpse of a moon phase:

still a waning crescent! at this point in time, kotoko has finished hunting down all the criminals on her bulletin board in at least a week since 0:56.

1:51 in deep cover, the third glimpse of a moon phase:

last/third quarter, right after the waning crescent at 1:41! (as stated above, its been a week) at this point in time kotoko is seen in the park + in the city with lucky.

2:28 in deep cover, the fourth and final glimpse of a moon phase:

full moon, once more from the top! this passage of time is the largest one so far. its been roughly at least three weeks between the point in time we see kotoko walk off from lucky in the city and whatever event is happening at the end of deep cover.

in total for harrow, all the events took place over the course of 3 weeks.

in total for deep cover, all the events including the 2 weeks between her mvs happen over the course of 6 weeks, or a month and two weeks. excluding the 2 weeks between her mvs, its been 4 weeks/a month.

in total for BOTH harrow and deep cover, the mvs in their entirety cover 9 entire weeks, or two months + a week.

of course, this is all assuming that the moon phases actually correlate to time passing and arent just symbolism, as well as assuming that no extra cycles have passed.

i can also give a very rough guess of the months- in harrow the sticky notes on her map mention that through the 7th to 31st of a month shes investigating what's presumably the warehouse. this rules out february, november and september for harrow. based on the fact theres also flower on the streets without them beginning to wither, its likely not autumn or winter as well. plus, there is one (1) green tree in harrow

that leaves us at summer or spring! personally for harrow my vote is that it takes place in spring just bc i think itd fit her "newly born" thing. yknow. the season of "new life". summer in harrow would also make a lot more sense though, especially since in deep cover you can argue that the trees here

are starting to take on yellowish or red hues, plus two trees there are barren! signaling that deep cover may take place in autumn. if we use this theory, it means "harrow" likely took place in the entirety of august. this would also fit for the two flowers here that i can identify-

pink roses and longiflorum hybrids lilies. pink roses bloom early-spring to late fall (meaning theyd still be blooming in the summer, which fits since there seems to be unbloomed parts of it if that isnt a tulip), while longiflorum hybrid lilies bloom mid to late summer. its entirely possible the tiny white flowers could go against this evidence by blooming in like. winter or something but i physically cant tell what those are.

so, harrow's in the entirety of august most likely, while deep cover spans september to october!

#THIS TOOK SO MUCH TIME AND SO MUCH MATH AND IT ISNT EVEN THE MAIN THEORY I WANTED TO POST TONIGHT #IM SOOOOOOOOO. anyways if you notice any mistakes in my math feel free to call me out. im bad at math #KOTOKO YUZURIHA MADE ME DO MATH. I HOPE SHE EXPLODES.#milgram #kotoko yuzuriha #yuzuriha kotoko #milgram theory #milgram analysis

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jewbeloved · 6 months

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heyyyy! I saw the thing with Craig with a s/o who has the same powers as Isabella and it was so cute! so I'm asking if you can a one of the main 4 seperatley (I CANT FOCKING SPELL IT) with a s/o (f!reader if you don't mind) who has the same powers, and like what happens in the movie, reader has the mindset that she needs to be perfect, but they help her realize she doesn't need to and kinda goes wild with her powers (again, like what happens in the movie)

thank you so so much if you do this! but either way have an amazing week!

--Rei

Sure thing! ^^

Team Stan with a s/o who can bloom flowers like Isabella✿𖣘ᰔᩚ

Warnings: None

Gender: Neutral

💙 Stan Marsh 🍼

Tbh he never knew about your powers until you pranked him and his friends while they were playing superheroes.

Cartman cursed you out while Stan was just staring at you in awe. You were planning on showing Stan your powers but you decided to do it in a mischievous way.

He doesn't have much to say except the fact that he really loves your ability. (100% wanted you to be on the freedom pals team after he invited you to come play superheroes.)

"Can you make poison flowers bloom?".

"No Stan I don't wanna kill anyone.... except for the fatass".

"Aye!".

Definitely will vomit anytime you make him a gift made from the flowers you bloom.

💙💙💙💙💙💙

💚 Kyle Broflovski ✡️

Just casually waking up in the morning only for him to look out his window and see you doing the family guy death pose on a.....lily flower...?

Rubs his eyes multiple times to make sure he isn't seeing things.

Surprised pikachu face when you created a flower from underneath him and lifted him up into the air.

Doesn't stay surprised for long because he has pretty much seen so many crazy stuff nowadays. He can't muster up the energy to say shocked for too long.

Also thinks your ability is pretty unique and cool! Can you make Cartman's room look like a prison jungle-?

No seriously, what else can you do besides make them bloom outta nowhere? Tell him (⁠☆⁠▽⁠☆⁠).💚💚💚💚💚

❤️ Eric Cartman 💅

Believe it or not he actually had a dream about you having some crazy ass weird ability causing mayhem with it.

You blooming daisy flower prison bars over his door to prank him confirms his dream has came to reality.

Cartman has a bunch of stuff going through his mind so he probably believes in supernatural and doesn't really care that you have the ability to bloom flowers out of nowhere.

Obviously will exploit your powers to rip people off of their money or use it to plot revenge plans on his enemies.

You spoil and put up with his psychopathic devious self. So you indulge Cartman in helping him with his plans to see how far he gets before he screws himself over XD

You and Cartman mess with Kyle for the rest of the week. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

🧡 Kenny Mccormick 💀

He saw your ability right after you accidentally impaled and killed him by blooming roses that had sharp thorns on them.

Cue you apologizing to him many times the next day he regenerates and tells you it's okay. He thinks your powers are neat! ✨

You showcase all of the flowers you can bloom to him. He might even ask if you could make a vase full of flowers that he can give to his sister. ♥️

Either it's your clumsy summoning or Kenny's bad luck.

But the amount of times this dude has died from being impaled or shot up into the skies and hitting the ground hard from you blooming flowers without noticing Kenny is right there. 💀

Kenny doesn't really mind, at least you always remember his deaths unlike everyone who just forgets he even died in the first place.🧡🧡🧡🧡

Did I just use "bloom" so many times while writing this? I swear, I'm so insecure about how I write my stories sometimes 😭😭😭😭

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literallys-illiteracy · 2 months

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The floor of technological sciences:

ahhhh i realised that the other one had some things that i wanted to change so i thought that i might as well upload it all in one post.

this one is longer than Malkuth's, shorter than Tiphereth's (i dont think that any are going to get to that length)

The harms of Technology, Capitalism and selling your soul to the devil:

i dont know if this title is better than the one i had before but i have a headache and cant be bothered titling it any better than this

Forsaken murderer was at one point in the past, a murderer on death row; rather than execution he served as a test subject so that scientists may learn how to cure a disease, though injections and chemicals his violent tendencies, along with humanity, were removed.

Following these experiments he was no longer considered dangerous, as he had seemingly no intention to attack, meaning he was unrestrained, after this, the murder began having delusions, specifically of his head turning into metal (hence the EGO line for meursault) which caused him to begin bashing his head into solid objects - in the time following this, an incident occurred involving the murder of one of the researchers, leading to the murderer to be dissected.

Though the helper was designed to assist humanity, to recognise and assist human behaviour, it is never able to do so, its instruments being replaced with sharp blades rather than cleaning tools; The helper does not act from a will to help however, it simply follows its programming, there is no reason for it to question these instructions, rather it need just act them out as it was ordered.

Singing machine doesn't really have a backstory like others, it's simply the machine itself, and the obsession that it induces over its music; the noises produced are so addicting that those who seek it will sacrifice other employees into the grinder for it to continue; or, if we dissect it as a metaphor, the machine rewards those who willingly sacrifice others in order to succeed (yup its capitalism)

“They're bound to the company the moment they enter. Even if they do resign, they are doomed to stay here forever."

The Funeral of Dead Butterflies tells the story of a pious man who entered the company carrying a coffin to mourn those who could not leave, who soon became trapped inside the company walls himself, becoming a husk with burning memories of an empty faith.

The Funeral of dead butterflies can be separated into 3 thematic faucets, although all connecting back to the abnormality and floor as a whole.

The first is shown primarily in its, and the city’s, story as a whole: The concept of a corporatocracy.

As you enter the company, you sign the contract, you may never leave, even if one retires, they are bound to stay with the company forever.

The second is the funeral, formerly the religious man, coming to mourn those who’s souls are bound to these company walls, to act as a saviour; The Funeral too is trapped inside the company, slowly losing their sense of self, endlessly walking the halls without meaning.

The third is the Kaleidoscope of butterflies, the souls of those who were mourned in the company, trapped inside the confines of this coffin.

The thematic of the butterflies is best demonstrated through a quote from the Abnormality’s story:

“Butterflies are supposed to pollinate flowers, but not a single proper flower blooms in this place. There is no choice but to wait. After all, there must be an end to every world”

In this, the Funeral of dead butterflies embodies the concept of death. Not only does it represent death in the sense of mortality, the Funeral relates to the concept of death and change, the embodiment of endings and new beginnings.

The butterflies being cocooned inside the coffin, the employees being trapped within the company; Through the ending of the company, the souls will be free to fly forth, to live as a human does, rather than a slave to those better off.

Der Freischütz, German for “The Freeshooter” is based off of figure in german folklore of the same name, who sold their soul to the devil for 7 bullets, the first 6 able to hit any target the marksman desired, but the last of which would only follow the will of the devil himself; a story of selling your soul

In their backstory within Lobotomy Corporation, Freischütz, before taking this deal, murdered all their beloved, so that the destined bullet would have no target, yet in the end it pierced his heart.

The Freischütz then wondered across different worlds, acting purely off of base impulse, having lost their soul long ago; The Freischütz did not only lose their soul when the devil pierced their heart, but when they gave up their loved ones in an attempt to trick the devil, but the devil seeks only suffering, which the Freischütz has long caused.

Floor Realisation links:

…I am Angela, your AI secretary whose role is to assist you in adjusting to your new workplace.

Linking Angela to our abnormalities of this floor, a new link begins to reveal itself, all linking back to Angela’s imprisonment, her lack of discretion throughout Lobotomy Corporation:

In her past, Angela was a puppet to the script, being directed, given orders she could not understand nor refuse; Her life written in stone, orchestrated by Ayin.

Though she was designed to assist the facilities, act as a helper, an assistant, she soon realised that she could not act on emotions.

Ayin’s script allowed no room for humanity, each step must be enacted as it was written, each order to be followed exactly and without question.

Though one may argue Angela to be cruel throughout Lobotomy Corporation, these sufferings were not made under her discretion, rather, this pain was merely an outcome of her script, the one she could never disobey.

After all:

A machine had no use for values. There was no point discerning between good and bad when the principles were already set in stone.

Though witnessing, causing and abiding by these sufferings, Angela was not in a place to question this, for she was in the same suffering as all others trapped within the company.

There was a time when I was sick of seeing any more death.

Despite Angela’s stoic nature throughout Lobotomy Corporation, Anglea was not willing in these sacrifices made in the plan, seeing countless, horrible gruesome deaths, yet shedding a tear would dampen the wings, and the play would reset; In this mourning, Angela embodies the funeral, yet should others not also mourn for her? Can the sufferings, the sacrifices made by others compare to how she has suffered?

Angela was too mourned in the coffin, being trapped within the company, yet she was never allowed the rest that this confinement provided, she need endlessly fly towards the end, Angela is both the mourner and the mourned in this story, she is the butterfly inside the butterfly’s coffin inside the butterfly’s coffin (inside a bag of milk).

“Butterflies are supposed to pollinate flowers, but not a single proper flower blooms in this place. There is no choice but to wait. After all, there must be an end to every world”

And, just as the butterflies are meant to pollinate, those with a soul are meant to live freely, not confined inside the corporation, not dictated by a script, but with discretion and on their own accord; Just as the Funeral says, there is no life worth living within this place, so Angela must bring an end to her confinement, break free from her chains, and pollinate flowers i guess?

A morbid script written for the purpose of treatment, and a machine slowly becoming numb in the act, losing her sense of guilt…

Along the course of her confinement, Angela’s sense of self withered away; Akin to the Forsaken murderer she was, for lack of a better word, forsaken, by the script, by her creator.

Though Angela suffered in their stead she was never rewarded, never applauded on the stage alongside the others; Chained to her role, never given a chance to live, never given a reason, her humanity began to erode, her guilt for these actions, her grief at witnessing these deaths faded, and in their place came a burning resentment, a hate towards those who put her here, who confined her, who decided that she would suffer before others, and that she would never be thanked for her role.

Just like the Murderer, Angela was trapped, an unceasing loop of ending, beginning, ends. Begins. Ends. Begins. Until… it ended, in a final rest for the murderer, and in the first life for Angela.

“Am I not allowed to help that person…? But they seem to be in so much pain…” …The sound of weakness.

reflecting the past of Lobotomy Corp alongside mirroring our current Angela, the singing machine represents her past, yet also her lack of reason. While she seeks freedom, she is a prisoner to the library, lacking any discretion, and suffering being the only path:

Angela was long a bystander to the machinations of Lobotomy Corporation, being powerless to help those who suffered for the greater cause, fed to corporation for Ayin’s plan, yet she also may manifest as the sacrifice herself;

Angela was cast aside by Ayin, abandoned to be the only one in the machine, left aside even at the end, never hearing the melody that she suffered so long for; For this, in order to spite Ayin's plan, she now takes the role of the maddened employee.

We all take the sacrifice of others for granted, so that we can have immediate satisfaction.

Angela’s single minded nature mimics that of those employees who crave the song from the machine, entirely dedicated to pursuing this promised song, not caring for any consequences, never stopping to see what she has caused.

In essence, Angela’s quest for the one true book, makes her a slave to the library, being unable to live without it, no more free than completing Ayin’s plan, her single goal, her only motivation to continue living.

I came to a realisation; perhaps the last bullet was meant to puncture no one else but me.

Angela’s single minded desires, her loss of grief, and her sacrifice, both of others and herself, culminate in her taking on the EGO of Der Freischütz;

No matter how many lives would be lost for her ambitions, no matter how many innocents were in the line of her target, she would not hesitate to pull the trigger, to act out the script despite their suffering and to seek the one true book through the pain of others.

This sacrificing of innocents, this selfish act, is mirrored in the Freischütz bargain, their acceptance of this devil’s deal, their sacrifice of all they called beloved, and finally, of their soul.

Though Angela, as a machine, may not have been born with a soul, she is revealed to have one in the finale of lob corp, manifested through her desires to live, through the fragmented remains of her human nature, through her heart.

It is in this where the story of the Freischütz differs, whereas the bullet may have pierced Angela’s heart long ago, her soul was not claimed, she may have lost her humanity as she lived through her torment, yet she was not without emotions, she felt every second of pain, every moment of grief, of agony within these chains, the bullet never removing what she had not originally.

The finale of the Freischütz leaves them alone, without even the devil to whom they lost their soul, alone in the depths of this hell, much the same as Ayin planned for Angela in the end.

The day I got my hands on this bullet, I sank down upon the ground. Was it despair that the Devil wished for?

In terms of thematics, Angela may resonate much closer to the Schütze, rather that the Freischütz, through the longing, the hope, that one day she may too become the cold machine, uncaring as the Freischütz: Angela, like the Schütze, may have hoped freedom through the loss of their soul, through the freedom brought about by nihilism (note to self, write essay about memento mori by William Woodium).

Not a sliver of impurity is allowed for the mind of those who mourn, it must remain reverent and solemn.

The Rationality to Maintain Discretion:

Gabriel: We thought relying on emotion wouldn’t help a thing. However, it became clear that to accept sadness was just as important. The false rationality we held and clung to only made our hearts rot. It is hard to accept at first. You’ll feel like you’d crumble in. But it’ll get better, I’m sure of it. - Yesod

Following Elijah's Death in the events before Lobotomy Corporation, Gabriel, now Yesod, suppressed himself, leaving only his rationality in stead of his emotions.

Gabriel began to be obsessed with safety, compulsively covering every part of his skin except for his head, ensuring that all rules must be followed perfectly, hoping that these rational precautions will be enough to prevent further death.

This obsession lead to psychosis, Gabriel believing that he was rotting from the inside, compulsively scratching at his skin until forced to take a medical checkup preceding his death.

Gabriel's death was caused though his obsessive rationality, believing that he should bury emotions, even those of mourning for Elijah, so that his decisions would not be clouded.

In holding to this false rationality, that he must suppress all his emotions, Gabriel, Yesod, mirrors his floor's abnormalities, foremost being the Der Freischutz.

"The despaired heart couldn’t go out in a passionate flame. It would only burn with a cold fire."

"Now I see; I have been wallowing in despair, for such a long time."

Akin to Angela, Yesod's relation is in the loss of ones soul, or wishing that they had; Gabriel attempted to bury his emotions, sacrifice his soul in the same manner the Freischutz did, to view all this death and suffering without a clouded mind.

The root cause of Gabriel's psychosis was wishing to not see suffering, to not witness the deaths of any others for the research, mirroring the position of Angela's beginning, and the story of the Funeral of dead butterflies, not wishing to see others suffer, yet losing ones self rather than mourning those who are lost to them.

Angela:

Similar to the way that Gabriel, or Yesod, hoped that rationality would be able to prevent death, Angela too wished to not see the death and horrors of Lobotomy Corporation, the reason that her eyes are closed in a majority of the game’s sprites.

Both Angela and Yesod were viewed as cold uncaring machines due to this trait within the events of the game, hoping that a cold emotionless approach would minimise suffering, thinking that clinging to their false rationality would bring the better future they wished for.

In the transition from Lobotomy Corporation to Library of Ruina, Angela begins to show more and more emotions, experiencing situations for the first time, acting without the puppeteer’s strings which controlled her for so long, she no longer needs to maintain her robotic facade.

Despite this, in the earliest sections of the game, Angela is unable to show the full depth of her emotions, attempting to seal the memories of her past behind, to not be driven by her irrational emotions, the same desire held by Gabriel before the events of the first game.

This suppression of emotions in pursuit of rationality is the same pitfall which held both Yesod and Ayin before her.

What Angela lacks is that of emotions, the drive behind her actions is which she views as rational, yet is driven by a suppressed hatred and sorrow, a buried past rearing its head to drive her forward.

While Gabriel’s actions were driven from grief, the loss of Elijah, he maintained the view that he was driven by rationality.

Just like Gabriel in the past, Angela must uncloud her vision in order to pursue her dream of becoming a human

Thanks for reading, find the others of this series below:

Angela Floors:

Roland Floors:

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firemenenthusiast · 5 months

Text

kai voyagers x reader headcannons

warnings: sfw, fluff. kinda sad tbh

- since you were little kids you’ve been almost inseparable, doing almost everything together

- he had his eyes set on you when all of you were introduced to each other in the playroom and as a kid he had approached to befriend you without thinking

- the blue makes them emotionless, cant feel happy, cant feel sad, cant feel love— yet he knows deep down he feels something for you. he just didn’t know what it was

- and the something he feels since you were little wasn’t necessarily love, but what he is sure of is that he’d always pick you in a room full of people

- richard noticed how both of you would play together, do chores together and was becoming a pair. a one for two deal. so he let the both of you be

- the best thing about living on the ship is when all of you are given a free day of the week. where you could just do whatever you feel like doing, no chores, no schedules, for the whole day

- so he would knock on your compound first thing in the morning, making sure to be the earliest so you can have the whole day to spend time together

- you as a child was so cute, so he would pick a blooming small flower from the garden, picking out the most vibrant of them all because he couldn’t tell what was pretty and what was not

- the flower he’d pick would be tucked behind your ear, making you look even cuter to him

- the feeling you both have for each other would at times pound at your chests yet there’s nothing you could do about it, the blue supressing them all

- he wished he could describe or atleast tell you that he loves spending time with you but he didnt know how, he didn’t know that was a thing

- despite not understanding or knowing what the two of you have, you continue doing everything with him cuz you feel the most at ease beside him

- the two of you have always been around each other since there wasn’t much difference in your height so when kai started growing so tall, you have to crane your neck to look at him

- free days are always both your favourites, up until you’ve both grown up as teenagers. especially now, you spend more time just sitting together at the ship’s viewpoint, pointing at the nearest burning star, you resting your head against his shoulder

- so when the whole ship stopped taking the blue, the feelings you have for each other became elevated. like you had just now discovering a deep connection with each other

- the lack of blue in your systems makes the two of you happier, finally being able to feel the rush of running around the ship, laughing and giggling at each other,,

- and cry together at your designated spot, the viewpoint while watching the stars in private after they had found richards stash of his photos on earth

- you don’t understand the fault of your existence that you have to be shipped away in a swallowing abyss of darkness, away from the shining sun on earth

- he doesn’t know what it feels like to sit on the grass, basking in the sunlight like richard used to do in those pictures, but he bet it feels nice

- and he wants nothing more than to feel how nice it is to lay on the grassy field, with your hand in his, you on his side for hours on end

- living on the ship is full of uncertainty, they don’t know who they actually are most of the times

- but one thing kai knows that even if it’s the end of the world, he wants you to always be with him

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imunderthegoddamnwater · 2 months

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I missed the Dreamtale twins....well, my version of them atleast

Honestly I redesigned Nightmare and Dream because I hate the creator and since she throws a tantrum like a baby whenever someone makes a change in her au I use it to make her mad :]

Anyways here is a bit of lore about them:

-Dream and Nightmare arent really "a version of sans", they never been one

-Dream has some plant features in his sans form just like his Mother (he hates it lol)

-Dream uses a sans look like appearance because he doesnt wants to scare people he helps, after all, Both Dream and Nightmare are the sons of an Angel (Yes they do technicaly have a dad), and looking at an Angel like creature is hard and kind of disturbing for mortals, its not hard for their friends to look at them since their eyes have got used to it, but someone Who just met Dream or Nightmare wont be that okay with it

-Nightmare and Dream can be called she, it, he or anything else, they dont label things, That also counts for sexualities, races, genders and more, they are whatever you call them, they wont really care

-Dream and Nightmare has an older brother called "Savior" (Who looks like a papyrus)

-Dream and Nightmare hates their mom, Nim ruined Nightmare by manipulating him to do shit she's not able to do herself and also was one of the reasons for the Apple incident, Dream was neglected a lot by Nim since she was more focused on Nightmare, she was manipulative towards him as well

-Nightmare and Dream made a truce almost a decade ago, they are mostly okay with eachother (they both technicaly are good guys in their own way)

-The only thing Dream and Nightmare has in common with a sans is their love for junk food and bad puns

-Nightmare turning Dream into stone bit might not be in this au (Im not sure yet)

-Nightmare usually doesnt uses a sans disguise since he has trauma related to the incident with it, he usually uses an Undyne disguise if he needs to, Also her second favorite disguise is Asgore

-Nightmare can have a disguise but he cant hide what happened to his eye, that part stays the same

-Sometimes flowers blooms on top of Dream’s head if he's happy or frustered

-Nightmare sees his team as his kids (and talks about them like they are his kids) while Dream sees his team as friends

-Dream's best friend is İnk

-Nightmare and Dream are in good terms

-Dream and Nightmare shares a similiar hate towards mortals like their mom, but ofcourse they have expections

-Nightmare's best friends are Ccino and Abby/Abolitionist Chara

-Dream dates Fresh while Nightmare is with Reaper Sans 🤭

-Nightmare likes reading and tea

-Both Dream and Nightmare will outlive their teams :(

-Dream keeps forgetting that his friends are mortals and they need stuff like sleep and eating at times, meanwhile Nightmare was forced to learn since everyone in his castle are insane and ignores their own needs, meaning Nightmare had to learn to take care of them

-Both Nightmare and Dream are physicaly very strong

-Both Dream and Nightmare can consume rotten food without any issue, they are literal gods of Negativity and Positivity, they cant get sick that easily

-Dream is nice but he isnt weak or dumb, he also does NOT has the mind set of a child, he will kick ass if he needs to

-Both Dream and Nightmare has issues with the english launguage since some words were very different, as an example, the word gay meant "joyful" and "happy" in the past....I dont think I need to explain what kind of train wrack this cauzed

-Savior is a good older brother so both Dream and Nightmare loves him

-Both of the guardians teams did several tests behind Dream and Nightmare's backs to see if they are plants or not, neither of them find the answer yet...

-Dream and Nightmare suspects they might turn into a tree when they become older, they dont like the idea :(

Thats all that I can remember

#undertale multiverse #Dreamtale #my au #my design #nightmare #passive nightmare sans #Dream #dream sans #gacha life 2 #Nim #Bad sanses #star sanses #undertale au #nightmare sans

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unforgivenn · 7 months

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WORD COUNT :424

CW: Failed escape attempt, pet whump?, beating, captivity, abuse, power dynamics, creepy and intimidating whumper

In the dimly lit basement of an old, dilapidated house, a figure huddled in the corner, trembling with fear. Whumpee trembled. They should've never tried running away. Everything was going so good and they-.. they just had to ruin it.. Please oh god I cant take this.. Whumpee curled up in a ball, their heart pounding with dread, they knew there punishment would be sever.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the basement, signaling Whumper's approach. Whumpee's breath caught in their throat as the door swung open, revealing the towering figure of their tormentor. Whumper's eyes glinted with malice as he advanced towards whumpee, a sadistic smile curling his lips.

"You thought you could escape from me, didn't you, boy?" Whumper's voice was low and menacing, sending shivers down Whumpee's spine.

"I-I'm sorry," Whumpee stammered, their voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to disobey you."

"Sorry isn't good enough," Whumper growled, grabbing whumpee by the collar and hauling them to their feet. "You need to learn your place, and I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

Without warning, Whumper lashed out, his fist connecting with Whumpee's jaw with a sickening thud. They cried out in pain, feeling the metallic tang of blood fill their mouth as their head spun from the impact.

Blows rained down upon whumpee, each one more punishing than the last. They cried out in agony, their body convulsing with pain as Whumper's rage consumed them. Bruises bloomed on whumpee's skin like dark flowers, and tears streamed down their face, mingling with the blood that trickled from their wounds.

Again and again, Whumper struck out with brutal precision, each blow landing with the force of a sledgehammer. Whumpee cried out in pain, their body wracked with agony as they tried in vain to shield themselves from the onslaught.

The whumpee's cries of agony echoed off the cold stone walls, each hit leaving behind a searing trail of pain. With each strike, they felt their spirit breaking, the weight of their disobedience bearing down upon them like a crushing weight.

Eventually, the onslaught ceased, and Whumpee was left lying on the cold concrete floor, bruised and bloodied, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Through tear-blurred eyes, they saw Whumper looming over them, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"Remember this moment, boy," Whumper sneered. "Remember who owns you, and never dare to defy me again."

With that ominous warning, Whumper turned and left Whumpee alone in the darkness, his words ringing in the air like a death knell.

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thequietkid-moonie · 4 months

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Violet Evergarden with a reader who used to fight against her on the enemy side during the war and hc’s about

How they meet again, what do they think of each other at first, how they fall in love with each other, and how they get together please.

Falling in love with an ex soldier enemy

[ ONE-SHOT ] [ Violent Evergarden ]

I started to watch the anime again because i want to see the movies now too and brooooo I being crying a loooot!!!

Also, i think i made a really good job with this one, I think is cute and fluffy (also, maybe a little bit too cheesy but you cant blame me! im a hopless romantic!) ❤️ I hope you like it as much as I did writing it!

After the war finished Violet was finally able to live her life, learning to be just herself and not a weapon for the war. Her job as auto memory doll give her the opportunity to truly enjoy the life and even meet new people

A war is a really cruel and infortunate event, is quite common to people who lived in any of the countries that are involved try to move to another in hopes to get a better quality of life, either during the was or even after the war finished since the aftermath of the war is just as cruel as the war itself. It doesn't matter the military rank you used to have, no matter how much battles you were in or the horrors you you had to witness, the important is that is over and now you can try and have a peaceful life, try to forget all that happened

You two meeting was a mere coincidence, you two only constantly meet while walking the same streets in your way to work, even if it was a small stretch of the road you two always saw each other

Because of Violet's personality the only way you two will met and actively see each other has to be because you two see each other constantly and you start talking to her, honestly a simple greeting everyday, like telling her just a good morning everytime you cross paths or even just wishing her a good day is more than enough to make an impact on her, if it happens everyday it becomes part of her day to the point when if you ever go missing one day Violet will get a little worried and may even wait for a moment in the point where you two usually met in hopes that you are just running a little late

It take a while but at some point Violet herself will try to start a conversation because now she wants to talk more with you, she doesn't really get why but now she now is more curious and want to get to know you a little more, even if your conversations are just about how pretty the day is or wishing you luck for the day, or even Violet giving you advice for something trivial you commented without thinking much but that she have take too serious, it take a long time but your friendship bloom like the prettiest flower, it was small and probably base on small interactions, but for both it was truly meaningful

When you two are together, talking about the most trivial things in the world, even if is just for a few minutes both can feel like if you two were just normal people, as if your life doesn't have a trail of blood behind you, as if you have being like this always, those minutes together is a simple moment of peace, even if non of you were already used to a simple civilian life or are still hunted by the past, all of that is ereased for the few moments when you two stop to greet each other

The feelings grow slowly, just like your friendship, it take a while to pass from a simple feeling of comfortness to love, with her new life it came new people, new places and new feelings, what she feels for you is completely diferent from what she felt for the major, but at the same time holds the same meaning and intensity, you aren't all she has now but she knows she wants to be with you, and even if the feeling is similar she still need time to understand her feelings

Everyone in CH Postal Company can notice the change on Violet, is small and invisible for anyone who doesn't know her enough, but for them is almost obvious that there is something that is making her really happy, and, honestly, everyone is happy for her, cheering for her to don't lose what makes her happy (and, also, trying to pry on her to get to know what it is, specially if is someone)

Ex soldiers tent to have a slow recovery and has problems to readapt to live a normal life, but since you two share the same past then you two can understand the heavy burden that it represents without even knowing, both can go as as slowly as you need because the other need to go to the same rythm, agreeding without even having to say it

Despite not having a problem with talking about it, Violet has never told you that she used to be a soldier just because the topic never came to the conversation, but at some point one of you end up sliping a comment about your past, about the war in a perspective that only a soldier could have, and just with that simple comment both understand that you two share the same past, but with a little more talking, even if one of you just say small coments quickly you two realice that both were fighting on diferent sides

After that is almost as if your relationship have broke, non of you could mutter any other word because it simple doesn't leave your mouth, non of you were even able to see each other again without looking away troubled, not because you were enemies but because of the insecurity and the shame, both have their hands dirt with blood of innocent, both of you feel ashame of what you had to do because of the orders of your superiors, both undestand what it is to be hunted by the pain in your hearts because of the screams and the relentless terrors of the battlefield, but also both share the same feeling that trouble your hearts how am I supouse to look at you after what I have done to your people?

Violet return to be reserved and quite, ashame of her actions on the war and shutting herself, returning to just do her job and trying to easy her mind with all the insecurities, she tries to don't stuck her mind on what happened but her heart hurts, she feels like she is losing you just like she lost the major, even more when she doesn't greet you on your usual spot anymore or whenever she sees you walking with your head down to don't look at her

After a while Violet pass from feeling ashame to be more curious about you again, she constantly catch herself thinking on you, wondering if you have nightmares about being in the battlefield too, wondering if your body also have the scars of the war, if you also feel this heavy burden in her heart and mind for all those you had to kill, if you were also only used as a weapon for the war

After a long time, and some reasurance of her friends (who tries to comfort her without even knowing what happened since Violet doesn't really want to share it with anyone) she finally decides that she wants to know the answer of all those questions, she wants to know how you feel, what you feel, and most important, she now understand that she doesn't want to lose you, so with determination she imediatly take her typewriter and did what she thinks is the best for now, write you a letter

The very next day of writing the letter she waited patiently in the spot where you used to met, even making sure she get there early so she don't miss you out, standing in front of you once you appear she introduce herself as the auto memory doll and give you the letter, just saying that someone have send it to you before saying bye and going to her work. The letter was from herself and express all the worries and sadness that has being bugging her, all her feelings and the fear she has of losing you, of losing what you two had, even making clear that she still doesn't understand what she truly feel for you but she is sure that she doesn't want to lose you

Later that day, Violet recived a special commission, someone that came to CH Postal Company and asked for her services to write an answer of a letter that has recived recently, you were there to answer her letter with another letter, expressing your own worries and what bugged you, but also that you have missed her all this days you couldn't even look at her at her face, admiting that the idea of losing her break your heart and that you hope you two could continue where you left it

After this your relasionship started again, but this time with more strenght, now that you two know that you can understand each other better you can apreciate your friendship even more, and even if you two were taking your time it wouldn't take much time before relice that this relationship were more than a simple friendship, it holds more value and meaning, the feeling are more stronge anc comforting to be just a simple friendship

#violet evergarden #violet evergarden x reader #violet x reader #x reader #x gn reader #anime x reader

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konigsblog · 1 year

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toxic! price/ regular price headcannons/general analysis? pretty pleaseee. (sfw and nsfw🥺) im trying to write him for the first time and im struggling!! (would also love to hear your general analysis/hcs on the other boys as well!) ((you’re like my favorite cod blog and you’re just so talented i had to ask you)

lots of love and well wishes<3

- 🥐

thank you so so much!!! im so glad to be your favourite blog, it means a lot to me <33 i cant thank you enough for your support, thank you 🫶💐!!;

price analysis, and toxic!price headcannons.

TRIGGER WARNING; HEAVY MENTIONS FOR SUICIDAL, SELF HATRED AND SELF HARM THOUGHTS AND INTENTIONS, cheating, misogyny, being an ALCOHOLIC and addicted to alcohol, manipulative behaviour, price makes you feel worthless, being used for your body, toxic behaviour from price. (message me if i missed any)

my personal analysis. (read tw above)

price is a captain, he believes he's always right and never takes the blame for any wrongdoing - unless it's from a mission or death. he's an alcoholic due to the stress of the soldiers, their life on the line. laswell may try to get him to stop, but no therapy can help this hardened soldier.

he never really believes he's good enough. overworking himself and drinking multiple coffees to stay awake just to write hundreds of reports, rushed. he doesn't sleep, barely atleast. he'll stay up, contemplating suicide as he thinks about the many soldiers he's lost. it may be the reason he can't bring himself to start a family; the fear of losing everything, either from suicide, death, or his unstoppable alcoholic behaviour that only get worse as he continues to live.

he's definitely planned out his entire suicide, a gun always beside him. price tells people it's for safety, but is it really safety if the life that's on the line is his? that he could be pointing that at his forehead and pushing the trigger, guts and bloods all over the bathroom floor. but he won't, because of simon. simon views price as a father, how caring he is for the others mental health, no one ever checking up on him.

simon is like a son to price, the way he admires and looks up to him like a father, the father he never had and the son he'll never have. he's caring and affectionate which is why he wants kids of his own, to sew them bloom like a flower of gardens, pretty colours of crayons covering the white walls.

laswell and price had a relationship, both desperate for love after years without it. laswell realised she was a lesbian and price agreed that this wasn't the best relationship, because it wasn't. but a part of john didn't want to let go; saying he was unmarried in his forties felt odd, unnatural. he really wants someone to love, someone to care for him and give you a reason to stay, but without that, he's suicidal.

if he ever did let someone in, he wouldn't feel as if he deserves them, unlovable. pushing them away or lashing out whilst drunk, crying when you still comfort him despite his yelling. looking at himself in the mirror and seeing a monster - knuckles bloodied with pieces of glass stuck in his fist and layering the ground. forcing his hands into the shards to make himself bleed, believing he deserves pain. you wrap him up in gauze and keel him beside you, but he can never truly feel comfortable. the idea of being loved despite having blood stained on his boots makes his skin crawl. you deserve better.

personally, my analysis on his character is that he's cold-hearted and can't let anyone in even if he's so desperate for love, no one to warm his lonely heart. he takes pride in being a captain, his boys, his team mean everything to him. it's why he won't kill himself, won't pull the trigger on himself. he can't see gaz's face at the news, soaps humorous personality slowly withering away, or witness simon lose himself, losing the father that was never his.

toxic!price headcannons.

toxic!price who uses you for your body. he doesn't bother denying it; your tight pussy and perky tits, or when you suck his cock so nicely like that, drives him wild. you're mainly there to benefit him, like a servant, his slave.

gets so pissy when you don't listen. he's a borderline alcoholic and needs his beer, so when you get into screaming matches about his behaviour, he grits his teeth grabbing a beer from the fridge and gives you a cold hard look - not appreciating the efforts you put it to get him better.

toxic!price who's the biggest asshole you've ever met. who scoffs and rolls his eyes when you bring up feminism, saying something sexist or misogynistic just to get under your skin. or who doesn't care about your own personal needs, you're just some fucktoy he can use whenever he likes.

toxic!price who uses manipulative behaviour. who controls your lift and calls you a slag for mentioning enjoying some time at a bar, that you're just asking for attention. even if you tell him that you're just meeting with some friends, he'll force you back into the bathroom and make you wash away the makeup.

toxic!price who says you look ill when you don't have makeup on, that you look different (and he doesn't say it in a nice way.) he's the man to roll his eyes and say you look ugly when you're crying just so you stop making so much noise, who doesn't care about your personal feelings.

he pushes your body against his own as he sleeps, mindlessly, asleep. he doesn't do it on purpose but it gives you butterflies in your stomach, knowing you shouldn't feel this way about a toxic man like him.

he's cheated on you before, multiple times. he'd came home with women and made out with them on his lap, kissing them the same way you do, maybe nicer. god, you're lying if you say you didn't care, because you felt your heart break into a million pieces.

you don't know how to react, packing a few thingss into your purse and leaving the house, him throwing the woman off his lap to chase after you. forcing her out the house as he goes after you, grabbing you and pinning you against an alleyway wall, whispering aggressively to you under his breath. he genuinely doesn't really understand why you care so much, after all, you're just a fleshlight, right?

toxic!price who forces you to come home. and after that, he'll beg you for sex because that other woman didn't feel as tight as you did. it makes you feel horrible; insecure and lost. and he'll get all upset and annoyed when you refuse, that you're tired or not in the mood.

toxic!price who refers to you as a bitch, whore. he's the person to call you ‘woman’ as if it's a derogatory term, even though it's not. you'll berate him for this, “you're just a cumsleeve, doll, c'mon, let's be honest with ourselves.”

finding yourself between his thighs more times than not. your lips wrapped around his meaty cock while he forces you further down his shaft, complimenting you for being such a good girl for him - the only time he'll praise you; for sucking cock.

too bad he cums so much, all sticky and pearly running down your throat, making you gag from the smell of his musky balls and gross tasting semen. he laughs and forces your face into his balls, humping your pretty face when you refuse to suck his balls.

you broke up with him once and somehow ended up back in this mess, but now you're married and divorcing is too expensive so you're stuck with this dickhead forever :(

#orla speaks #call of duty modern warfare #modern warefare ii #captain price #john price #captain john price #price #captain price x y/n #captain price x you #john price x reader #price call of duty #cod price #price cod #price mw2 #mw2 price #price x you #price x reader #john price x female reader #john price x you

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tothemeadow · 2 years

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Is there anyway you could do a fic with pegging inosuke from Demon Slayer? I've read the one with Tanjiro but I cant seem to find any sub Inosuke fics.

alright, so this is a bit different from how I usually write, but I hope this is still enjoyable!

'breathtaking beauty' / Inosuke x Reader

warnings: NSFW, dominant reader

words: 1,404

notes: aged-up character, imperial AU, concubine Inosuke, no pronouns used but female terminology used, like, once

The ways of a woman are soft, gentle. A tender touch here, whispers of a flowery nothing, delicate skin flushed and supple. It’s all so delightfully pure, beautifully charismatic. How could one not be persuaded by such luxury, to hold petite frames filled with curves?

To Inosuke, though, he’s far from the feminine charms.

His face carries such particular beauty: a shapely jaw, slender nose, doe eyes with impossibly long lashes. His lips are no different than a rose at full bloom. His hair is soft to the touch and smells of springtime. He’s gorgeous for every explainable reason, yet he lacks the luscious bosom and backside of his counterparts. He’s rather sturdy and chiseled with hard lines corded with muscle. It’d make more sense to model for those risqué novels held in the study – the ones tucked away from wandering eyes, the ones with drawings of men in the throes of passion.

Despite his impeccable looks, his behavior and speech are much to be desired. He’s often told to keep his pretty mouth shut. His deep voice doesn’t match his appearance, not in the slightest. It’s rather funny how his existence is a juxtaposition to itself.

You’re rather particular in the type of employees you take under your wing. The handmaidens and guards aren’t lacking in the attractive department; hell, even the horses in the stables are the most exquisite of the bunch. The concubines living on the estate are no different. Each lady is prettier than the last, the entirety of their numbers more akin to freshly plucked flowers than people bought off the streets or gifted from their fathers.

Naturally, a bigwig such as yourself only wants the best. The other noblemen and women living on the grounds hold no candle to your level of power and authority. No one can argue against you without being humiliated beyond belief; even when you pick up the sword, you are a force to be reckoned with. As the saying goes, the devil is in the details; on your long journey of climbing to the top, you tore others from their pedestals and kicked them while they were down.

Inosuke would be lying if he said he didn’t admire your ruthless ambition. Rather than being someone’s trophy wife or a senator’s arm candy, you chose your own fate. Now, as the governor of the state, you’re only a few steps below the great emperor himself. It’s impressive, to say the least.

It has nothing to do with you handpicking Inosuke off the streets. At the time, he was a bloodsucking leech, working for meager wages to keep the ratty clothes on his back and something hot in his stomach. Even covered in a thick layer of dirt and dust, he stood out from the other street rats; the other concubines even said his eyes were his finest point. Shining like brilliant emeralds, you caught them in the crowd and decided right then and there that you wanted them.

And so, only a couple months later, Inosuke has shed his former shell and lives in a life of luxury.

It beats having to fight others for scraps or doing backbreaking work on the docks. Frankly, Inosuke would rather cut his tongue out then lug another sack of rice. While it’s physically uncapable of carrying future generations (he side eyes a few pregnant concubines as he thinks this), Inosuke does possess certain qualities that makes him stand out from the rest.

He is your favorite, after all.

At first, Inosuke thought this blatant bias was all a show. You had countless people working beneath you, all stunning to the eye and willing to do anything, yet you chose him. Now, Inosuke isn’t the bashful type – hell no. He’ll proudly boast about his special ranking, declare how incredible he is. He’s the all-powerful Inosuke, after all! How dare the other servants and concubines compare themselves to him?

It’s not like he purposely throws his weight around to catch your attention. His big mouth does all the work for him, with or without a careful thought. You just happen to like putting him in his place, that’s all.

Inosuke simply won’t admit that he enjoys it.

You find his boisterous behavior annoying and unsightly. In front of visitors, he is to keep quiet and look pretty. His voice is too deep to sound natural if he raises the pitch or intentionally makes himself sound squeaky. He is to be a good concubine, to make others jealous of how you snatched such a delectable snack off the side of the road.

His high ranking comes with “special treatment.” Like the man-on-man smut novels in the study, you have other ones – more tasteful. (That’s how you describe it, anyway. Inosuke can’t read.) Your preference tends to lean the dominant direction, naturally. Apparently, the power outside the bedroom isn’t enough to make your ego inflate.

The red rope always looks so stunning compared to the fairness of Inosuke’s skin or the brilliance of his eyes. You always take your time, carefully threading each knot into their correct positions. It leaves Inosuke breathless. The blush on his face and the swelling of his cock gives him away long before he voices any pleasure.

He’s so pretty. Those petal lips gasp for breath, red and swollen from the searing kisses you press to them. He pants while your tabi-clad foot massages his cock, your toe catching on the underside of the head. He always makes a mess of himself, precum soaking his thighs and the floormats below. No problem, you tell him. It makes things more exciting.

Inosuke wonders what he did in a previous life to deserve such treatment. He feels safe cradled in your palm, never caring about the fact that you could crush him into fine dust if you truly wished for it. Your words remain soft while your palm is sharp against his skin. The concubine is supposed to be the one whispering such sweet words, yet it’s you who talks to him like you’re softly berating a child.

He’s completely powerless when you use your tongue on him. Whether it’s the wet heat of your mouth encasing his cock or that delicate muscle licking his hole, Inosuke reduces himself to a sweating, panting mess. He truly becomes the whore you took him in to be.

And when you bring out that fine wooden toy, he nearly cries in joy. Of course, you only bring it out when you’ve already made him cum numerous times; he’ll already be wet from your spit and the lavender oil, his cock a drooling mess between his milky thighs. The sight of you strapping the toy to yourself with the leather harness has long since ingrained itself into his brain.

You don’t seem to mind his lack of a pussy. You’re rather obscene with your gentle murmurs, actually. Sometimes, when you’re in the mood, you’ll refer to that tight ring of muscle as the female counterpart, call him your precious princess, and tell him you’ll stuff him so full of seed that he’ll bear a set of triplets. It’s so filthy, so degrading, but Inosuke lives for every second of it.

He’s a crying, shaking mess when you press the dildo into him, your hands tight on his lithe waist. While he doesn’t have a feminine body, he’s still beautiful. You tell him time again and again that he doesn’t need breasts or a weeping pussy to make you want him. It’s even more delightful when ragged moans and whimpers spill from his mouth, each sound piteous.

His walls clench hard around the intruding object, desperate to suck it in further. Gone are his arrogant words; eager pleas of more, more, please! echo in their stead. Inosuke doesn’t mind others listening to his whorish noises or the wet sounds of you fucking him thoroughly – and you don’t either.

Even when he cums for the nth time, you proceed to fuck him, not stopping until he’s a blubbering, slobbering mess. Somehow, Inosuke still retains his ethereal beauty when covered in cum, sweat, and snot. His blissed expression is more breathtaking when you ride him to completion, his body limp yet willing. You’ll coo as you kiss him, telling him how wonderful he is for you.

And yes, while he lacks a female’s undeniable charm, he holds his own for being a perfect little slut.

#demon slayer #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #inosuke hashibira x reader #hashibira inosuke x reader #inosuke x reader #kny smut #request

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