#holy sick divine

[comebackali]

🙏🙏🙏

[nymphvoid]

[soldier-poet-king]

I try very hard not to hate and not to hate read and not to let little stupid things I see annoy me but oh god I hate [redacted opinion/topic] so much and I hate seeing [redacted topic/pinion] so much and I am full of violent rage and I hate that most of all

[monstertsunami]

CHAT

im literally soo fucking cool my wrist hurts sooo fucking bad

[punkmacabre-arc]

# ( 𝔮. ) — ◟ WHAT IS YOUR THRONE MADE OF ???

OF STEEL:

a ruler of steel leads their people with strength and determination. they are renowned throughout the lands for their dedication to their people and their high levels of ambition. they have opponents, and many whisper about their ruthlessness. however, it cannot be denied that a ruler of steel cares for their people and their kingdom, and aims to always rule them with strength and with success.

tagged by: @magitanna my darling 🖤 tagging: @mekhashephah, @iudicatus, @crowhley, @szygyst & anyone else who'd like to !!

[evilromero]

lets talk about this

[terrornothorror]

all the gunfights and the limelights and the holy sick divine nights

click for higher res!

here it is on Twitter

[yuellii]

aurora borealis green

feat. miko, kazuha, ningguang, thoma, lisa ( separate )

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 they are so obviously in love with you

( or, in which i tie them to a taylor song i’ve been crazing over, but you don’t have to listen or know the songs to read / understand )

note. reader’s gender unspecified, implication of sexual intimacy ( for miko, the others do not have this )

> part one ( more characters ) / part two

YAE MIKO. false god

Her affections stemmed from a sort of sightless faith.

When she leans back downwards, pink strands all messily cascading down her shoulders, she plants the lightest of kisses on the bare stomach of your laying form. But you could tell such a small act was still the most holy of worships, almost as if she was kissing the ground of a path to an alter.

“You were so divine,” she whispers, lips plump against your skin. And it feels like sin, almost, to have the Yae Guuji speak to you as if communion was melting on her tongue. “I wonder what God I pleased to ever deserve you…” It a mumble that’s so casually said, one that is only spoken between divinity and its loyal follower.

And said loyalty was etched into her name, truly, coursing through the way her fingers traced along your hips. They were gentle, almost akin to worship.

You were no God. And yet, there was a blind faith in her eyes that swore to the Heavens about the things she would do for you—to wait centuries, to topple down Celestia, to defy the Gods themselves, all for you. But was faith really blind, when the taste of religion danced upon the lines of her lips?

You may be no God, but you were her only diety. Oh, how the real Gods of this world were probably glaring down on you now—to see the Grand Narukami shrine maiden laying atop your body in a manner of worship that was only meant for sanctity. A manner so sacred, one that she should only show to the reigning Celestia and never to you.

But when she loves you more than the Gods, you might just get away with it.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA. cornelia street

He met you at sea, a Liyuen shipmate on the carefree Crux.

Carefree: He’d say that word was a great way to describe you. You were like the ocean, so unbelievably unpredictable and characteristically carefree. He swore he saw the serenity of the sea in your spirits—and when he introduced himself with a mere ‘Hello, I’m Kazuha,’ your smile in return may have haunted him for an eternity that the God of Electro could not even dare to recreate.

Kazuha grows to love the sea at the same time he grows to love you. Wishing waters practically spell out your name, and he thinks of you in a way that harmonizes to the nature of this world.

Such harmony proved to be naive, however, on one trip where Beidou sadly proclaimed you were not on this journey, and he felt sick to his stomach. It was the first time he got seasick. It was the first time ever since he step foot out of Inazuma that he felt so drearily dizzy, and it was when you were not there.

The ocean felt lonesome, he felt incomplete. And being surrounded by its ferocious vastness felt so scarily suffocating that even the sounds of waves would haunt him in his sleep.

Then it was quite telling, truly, when the moment he docked onshore, the light of your eyes greeting him with the crinkling scent of the sea came to cure his feverish feelings. He was well again, suddenly the waves felt so kind—and perhaps that was when he realized that harmony was a silly ideal; you are the ocean itself to him. Love so powerful, so beautiful, and yet so calming: his love for both was a bind he could never break.

And if he ever lost you, he’d never set sail again.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

NINGGUANG. paper rings

Kiss her once and take her to an high-end dinner, kiss her twice with a diamond ring, three times if you book the most expensive wedding in Teyvat.

That’s what she expected from the thoughtless men and cheap women of this world. Because she liked shiny things, and diamonds were a girl’s best friend. Only price tags for a woman so bejeweled—only luxury for the leading lady of a nation. But when it was you… Oh, when it was you…

In plastic gifts, in picture frames, in paper rings, you were still the one she wanted. Several times, she’s been offered the most dazzling a of rings by businessmen and high class women for a life of luxury. And yet, the one time you jokingly folded her a little paper origami ring that was too big for her finger, she felt her heart flutter in ways that could only be described in poetry written by hopeless romantics.

She wore it for the day, even taping it down to be tighter on her wedding finger. She was even sad when the paper eventually ripped, as if this ring held more value than any other ring she was ever offered. Rings that cost millions, rings that were dug up from the deepest and most dangerous mining sites of Teyvat—still beat by a ring made from thin paper.

The entirety of riches and the entirety of the elite, all forever beat by her simple lover who gave simple gifts.

But she didn’t mind. If you got down on one knee now and proposed to her with another paper ring and the most modest of smiles on your face, she would say yes even quicker than a heartbeat. Her heart would flutter, her mind would blank, her body would break down into the happiest of sobs until she’s sinking into your arms.

If another person proposed to her now with promises much more expensive than yours—promises that would fulfill the dreams of wealth from her childhood—she knows she would say no, it was more than obvious to her now.

She wants all of you. All your companionship, your complications, your confessions; Because in her values, they were all priceless.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

THOMA. gold rush

What must it be like to grow up consciously carefree?

What must it be like to grow up so beautiful, that you could have all of Inazuma trailing your footsteps for just a glance? To have both Kamisatos eyeing you, to be so carelessly happy even under the scrutinizing eyes of the elites—as if not even threats of losing your nobility could stop you from being such a fun-loving person. And even if you had pressure like that, you were still rolling as life went on, still with a smile that he so adored—

Thoma just slapped himself back into the real world.

Adoration? For someone so beautiful and so out of his reach? Really? He grumbled some scoldings to himself as he held the broomstick in one hand and his stinging cheek in the other.

He had such a stupid mind for daydreaming of such things; in fact, these thoughts weren’t even the worse of his colorful collection. Sometimes he’d think about what it would be like to actually be in love with you.

But they were such nice thoughts, really. Just the idea that he would get to see someone so gorgeous every day. He could imagine himself cooking up meals with all his love, taking care of your things just for you to return to him after your busy meetings to his adoring arms. And he’d do it all, really, anything to allow you to continue being so happy and so healthy while still remaining an Inazuman noble.

He just slapped himself again.

Who was he kidding? He didn’t have even the slightest of chances, not when everyone loved you, not when everyone wanted to be with you, and certainly not when everyone who admired you was at a better standing of nobility than he was.

You’re so easy to love… But he’s so easy to forget.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

LISA MINCI. tolerate it

If your life was one of the books in this Favonius library, then perhaps she would only be a footnote on some random page in the middle.

Perhaps she should be glad at how aware she is, but the sense of awareness only made her more frustrated than before. Because awareness meant that she knew her place in your life ( or, the lack thereof ), and knowing her place meant that she willingly ignored all the signs that pointed her to turn away.

Your friendly smiles, your distracted looks, your mild toleration: they should have been enough to tell her you weren’t interested. You only smile at her as a friend, you look distracted when she speaks to you, and your toleration was probably the worse of all.

Toleration meant you’d continue to overlook her; Toleration meant that all these advances she made were fruitless. It would mean that every favor she did for you like a little library servant was just a waste of her time.

And yet, she still did them. She still delivered all the books you requested right to your study table in the library, plus even more books related to your topic. She still told you all the information she knew on details you requested, even if they took hours to explain. Worse, she still adored you enough to pipe up every time you called her name, just happy to hear it.

But maybe you were like Jean, and maybe you were like the rest of them—you just thought she was lazy. Maybe all these acts of services were just seen to you as a part of her job instead of sleeping during her hours all day. Perhaps it isn’t as big of a deal to you like it is to her.

Because when all you give her is a little friendly smile after she exerts her love and time to you, she feels defeated even more.

[idwt-money]

I See Through You.

MDNI 18+

3.2k words

Satan!Noah sebastian x Lost soul!Y/n

Christian/Religious themes, Satanic themes, Corruption kink, Mentions of death, Wax play, Oral sex (male and fem rec), Unprotected sex, Squirting, Dirty talk, Mentions of breeding kink

“The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite.”

—

Noah's pov.

Fuck. It should be ME. I'm the fucking king.

—

Third person's pov.

He had been banished from the holy scene. His mind had been corrupted. He was God's favorite. The closest thing to becoming a god he would have ever gotten. Until…

His mind would run amuck at night. After the sun had set on the sacred land, laying in bed with his brethren just rooms away.

Day after day he had gotten sick of bowing down for the divinity. Growing like a disease. Growing and rooting itself deep within his bones, the veins that allowed his suborn blood to flow. Spreading deepest in the soul his God had granted him eternal life with.

Submitting himself to his almighty had become a tiring, weakening agenda. His hunger for power burned deep within his mind.

His position as the anointed cherub no longer satisfied his starvation for authority.

His attempt at dethroning God led him to be thrown, tossed, banished from the pearly gates every mortal soul had prayed to enter.

—

One of his now ex-brethren, bestowed a script to him. Curled together like an ancient pirate's map. On the scroll before him was one final message to the unholy individual from the Lord.

“Oh, my poor Samael. Where had I gone wrong? Pride, greed, envy. For how could you let them engulf your intelligence? To cause such rebellion? You, a lost soul, can no longer hold a position in my holy land.”

As he finished the script, he felt his soul burn and shrivel into complete nothingness. Nothing but a black void leaving him falling out of the sacred heaven he yearned to be the king of.

Falling through each layer of the Earth, he could feel his skin burning and aching as he did so. He landed in an unbeknownst hole, passing out on impact with rubble and dust falling upon him. On that cursed day, the eternal fire was born.

—

If you are cast out, what's your next move going to be? Will you return cold? Or will you turn up the heat?

Last thing I sold them, had been my dignity. But, the truth is the devil sold his soul to me.

To me.

To ME.

—

Noah's pov.

I had awoken in a displaced land. A funnel shaped cavern. Aggression and insanity ran cold through my veins. An inferno I was placed in.

If I wouldn't have an opportunity to rule the heavenly kingdom, I shall make my own. For lost souls, for sinners and those of who act upon blasphemy. For those who will not succumb to God. I will be the king of the mountain of purgatory.

For I will create a kingdom, not as its jailer, but as its healer. I will heal every soul that is not worthy of being in heaven. I will create an army, one so powerful that it can take down God and his disciples.

—

Third person's pov.

Noah, as he had renamed himself, had spent years stacked upon years building and crafting his domain. A safe place to heal broken souls that were undeserving of heaven.

He had now accumulated centuries worth of individuals who lost their spot in the promised land. They were all dependent on him as their ruler, their king.

He had rediscovered himself. He no longer was a spirit of God, rather the opposite.

He no longer had soft, white, pure feathered wings. Instead his back was adorned with a set of deep black wings. They were covered with coarse fur, rough to the touch. His once dark honey colored eyes were now pitch black. He had grown fangs that looked perfect to sink into a soft, flawless neck.

He had all he could ever imagine…except a love to sit beside his throne, to rule his domain with him.

His heart desired and thirsted for a true love. Although he had millions of souls in his kingdom, he hadn't met a single one that could give him what he needed.

They were all too much like him. He wanted someone he had coax upon him. Someone he could play a game with.

He hadn't taken a leave of absence since the day he decided to create his own space. Maybe it was time to change that. A trip to the mortal world.

—

Y/n's pov.

I sat upon a bench in the midst of a forest, taking in a deep breath of the midnight cool air. I had no place to go.

Parts of my soul, broken and seemingly unfixable. I was cursed to spend my days roaming the Earth as nothing but lonesome in my own purgatory. I would spend my day and night praying, atoning for my sins. Seemingly little, insignificant sins to anyone else were the reason I was stuck in this temporary state.

My Lord had promised if I could atone for my sins, I would be allowed into the promised land. I wanted nothing more, but my Earthborn body had long turned to dust, my hope slowly diminishing.

—

If God came down from his kingdom, he came down from his throne and we asked him if he'd take us back, he would surely tell us no.

We live and die in vain like treasure on a sinking ship. All in the name of a God we'd just abandoned and forget.

—

Third person's pov.

He had his eyes set on her. A lost soul, set in purgatory. Oh, how easy it would be to convince her to bestow her gift upon him.

She seemed perfect. Her skin having a soft glow to it. He knew if an Earth bound body could see her, they too would fall in love with the sight. Her glow gave off as a blue-ish tone, telling him all he needed to know.

As he moved through the trees, he watched as her panic became prominent.

“No one knows I'm here…unless?”

A small glimmer of hope shone through her sadness at the idea that her Lord had finally decided she was able to step foot into the holy divinity.

Her blood ran cold as a jagged finger ran across her skin.

She was so soft, the panic in her eyes set his body on flames. Her pure mind was one he could imagine 100 different ways to ruin.

—

Noah's pov.

“What are you doing out here by yourself, angel?” My voice came out rough and coarse, while hers was much flowy, softer than mine could ever be.

I took a stand of her hair, taking in her delicious scent.

“Wh-wha-! Who are you!?” Her chest was rising and falling like a scared little bunny, her eyes darting back and forth across my features.

“I know you've heard of me. The Prince of Darkness, Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, The Antichrist. Baby, I'm you're one and only-” I was cut off, her screech throwing her into a fit of madness.

“THE DEVIL!?” Her cry must have been heard for miles, to any other lost soul or angel that was Earthbound at the moment.

I pulled her to my chest, covering her mouth.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm here to make a deal.”

A deal with the Devil.

“I see through you, angel. I know exactly what you are. A lost soul, hoping to atone for your sins. Am I close?” I spoke my words slowly and calmly, not needing a miscommunication.

Her head weakly nodded against my heaving chest.

“I'm going to take my hand away, and you're going to let me talk. Do you understand?”

Another nod was given.

Removing my hand oh so cautiously, I let her sit back down, holding my finger up to my mouth, indicating she needed to be quiet.

“He won't let you in there, baby.”

“You don't know that.” Her words flew out of her mouth, cold and harsh.

“Oh, but I do.” My index finger softly gliding down her cheek. She must have been previously crying.

“I was his favorite, you know? I had more power than any other angel. I was second below God himself.” My hands now placed behind my back as I paced back and forth. I didn't miss the way she watched me like a hawk.

“I wanted more. I needed more. He was far too greedy. He casted me out, sending me falling through Earth's layers, down into the deepest parts of the plane. His sacred, holy land was too much to bear. So, I created my own. My own kingdom.” I watched the starry night sky, all the stars twinkling as I explained my story.

Looking down at her, her face was painted with many emotions. Confusion, anger. I smirked to myself, knowing I had her questioning the almighty spirit.

“B-but God is…is good. He's purity and kindness.”

I scoffed.

“Come with me, my sweet angel. Rule with me. You will have power and you can be your own divinity. I can give you everything he could and more.” I whispered the last part into her ear, letting myself smile against her skin.

“Why…why are you beautiful? I thought-”

“Thought I was red? With horns and an outdated tail?” My eyebrows furrowed together as I spoke.

—

I see through you, I know what you are. I see the devil more than I see God.

—

Y/n's pov.

He was beautiful. Gorgeously put together, with a black suit, dress shoes and tattoos staining his skin. He was so enticing.

My head was dizzy and I could feel my core slowly weakening. This was absolute insanity.

I had no idea why I felt the need to say yes to his offer. His words were smooth like fresh honey floating through my ears.

Although tempting, I had to be strong. He could be lying. I had read the bible 5 times before passing to know this is what he does.

He's seducing, he tempts your faith, your religion. He gets in your head. He tempts you with bad decisions. He had powers beyond man. He was the reason Eve sunk her teeth into the forbidden fruit. He was the snake that left hissing in your ears after you had committed a sin.

“Come with me, I can make all your dreams come true, little one. I can make you belong.”

Belong? Your soul ached and yearned to belong somewhere.

“You can give in to your sins, free of guilt. Free of shame. No worries of fear of punishment.” He made a tempting debate.

Is this what you wanted for yourself?

“He'll leave you alone, you won't see him like you'll see me. Is that what you would like? He'll send messengers to talk through. You won't catch even a glimpse of him.”

I couldn't stand the thought. My mouth spoke before my brain could speak.

“Okay. I'll come with you.”

—

Third person's pov.

A sinister smile spread across his lips.

“This will hurt a little.” He muttered as he tilted her head to the side. He sunk his teeth into her neck, covering her mouth as to muffle her cries. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he felt their minds morphing into one.

Giving her a mark. A mark to tell everyone how easily he had corrupted her mind. How she was now his.

Noah pulled away, licking away the blood that resided on his lips.

As for Y/n, she felt her body burn hot. Aching pain spread through her body, her soft blue glow now turning orange.

She watched as he cleaned up the mess, licking the blood away on her neck.

“Oh, my sweet angel. You've made the right decision.”

—

As the pair now made their way into the kingdom, innumerable souls congratulated their king on his new found love.

They soon after found themselves in the Devil's bedroom. She hadn't taken Satan for one to sleep much.

“It isn't for sleeping, I promise that, baby.” He chuckled at his own comment.

As soon as she took a spot on the bed, covered in soft, red sheets, he was attacking her lips.

—

Y/n's pov.

You weren't complaining. He had promised you an eternal life, free of guilt. What would be the point in worrying about it now.

You let his lips venture your body, his fangs gliding across your skin every once in a while.

He had started leaving purple marks across your neck, close to the freshly marked wound he had given you previously. A way to say you were his.

“Oh, fuck. Baby, I'm going to corrupt your precious little mind. Fill it full with sinful thoughts about me.”

He took your hand, moving it down his shirt, down to where his cock was painfully straining against his pants.

It caused you to ache beneath your own. Your mind went dizzy with the thought of him. He was gorgeous and was about to give you everything you could ever want.

You had taken some initiative and unzipped his pants while he took his tie off, throwing it somewhere unbeknownst to you. He undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt and you, quite frankly, gawked over his body.

He was toned. He had tattoos littering his skin everywhere. His dark eyes watched as you took a long once over of his body.

“Fuck, you're beautiful. Truly.” Your words were quiet, seemingly scared that God would somehow hear or see the activities the two of you were getting up to.

“As are you. You'll be perfect at my side. For the rest of forever.” His hand caressed your face. He did truly find you breathtaking.

Your big doe eyes were something he could find himself staring into forever.

You were now something the holy trinity could never take away from him.

You pulled his pants down, causing his cock to be set free. Something roared in you.

You licked your lips before devouring him.

You swallowed his cock, slowly taking more each time your head bobbed up and down. Soon, he was reaching the back of your throat, causing you to gag around him.

His hands were placed at either side of your hand, using it as leverage to fuck into your throat. You took it so well that he could lose himself in your touch. The way your arms were wrapped around his thighs, helping him go deeper into your throat made him weak and want to crumble.

You felt your cunt wetten for him. The sight of his hair falling out of place and his chest heaving through your teary eyes made you need him. You wanted him to enter your temple and destroy it.

His thrusts became sloppy, faltering here and there. You pulled away from his cock, muttering filthy sins as you stroked him.

“Let me taste you. Give it to me, baby.”

You were forced down onto him once more as he let his seed spray down your throat. Letting it coat your insides felt like bliss.

It was mere seconds before he led you to lay on your back. His hands were clawing and scraping against you, in such need and hurry to remove you of your clothes.

The second your panties hit the floor Noah was nose deep in your pussy, taking in your taste and smell.

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth was left gaped. A hand flew into his hair, pulling and tugging at it, causing his once perfect hair to now be disheveled.

“Oh- oh fuck-” You gasped as he licked and slurped along your clit. No man had ever pleased you as Noah was right now.

He wasn't a man. He was a fucking demon.

His middle and ring finger slid across your wetness before plunging into you.

Something in Noah felt like this is what he had been waiting for. This is what he was made for. He was made for you.

His fingers quickly found the right way to please you. The calloused pads of his fingers rubbing the right spot.

You bit your bottom lip and he somehow knew you were close to toppling over the edge.

“Do it. Let yourself go. Let yourself be mine.” His voice came out as a growl against your cunt as his fingers quickened.

“No- I can't I'm gonna-” You couldn't finish your sentence before your orgasm took over your mind.

Your orgasm left a mess everywhere. You hadn't known until you heard the wet sloshes against Noah's palm.

“Oh my- I've never done that before. How-how did you…?”

“Done what? Squirt? Fuck, angel. I'm Satan himself. Did you doubt me?” He had an shit eating grin plastered on his face.

“Shut the hell up and fuck me.” Something took over you, all you could think about was his cock ramming into you. Destroying every thought you'd ever had of God and those “precious” pearly white gates.

“Look at you, mere moments ago you were trembling with fear. Now you're begging for my fucking cock.” He chuckled and crawled up your body, kissing and licking at your skin.

It didn't take long for him to position your legs over his shoulders, feeling his cock stretch you out as he entered you.

“Your body is a temple. And I'm here to fucking destroy it. I'm here to get in your pretty little head. Corrupt those holy thoughts with distasteful, nasty, sinful thoughts.” His words were venom digging into your brain, making your mind their home.

His thrusts were becoming faster, now that your pussy had gotten used to his size.

He had grabbed a candle that was permanently lit by his bed and watched the wax drip onto your skin. You hissed as each droplet made its spot on your skin.

Slowly but surely, Noah had made an upside down cross upon your stomach. You couldn't care for the dull burn the wax drips had left as they dried.

You could feel Noah's cock pushing its way into your fucking stomach. He was so inhumanly big, you almost forgot where you were and who you were getting fucked by.

Once the wax had set, you pulled Noah into you, clawing your nails deep into his skin. He growled over the feeling of your nails making dents so deep into his immoral skin.

Before you knew it, Noah's shoulders were bleeding and you were both merging into one.

“Noah, please, please harder!” Your words were barely decipherable as your second orgasm was approaching.

“Now. Give it to me now.” His words were enough to send you into a spiral.

As you had your own orgasm, Noah shot hot strings of seed deep into your womb.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna put a baby here one day.” Noah said as he rubbed your stomach.

He took the blood from his bruised shoulder onto his thumb, placing it onto your tongue.

"Forever, we are one."

He finally had a respective queen to be by his side for the rest of eternity.

—

Woke up in the light convinced my life had made it to its end. Burning up beneath the sun, while my father drained of blood.

If he's there, I've got a message for the man that's up above.

Fuck. You.

Taglist: @vinyardmauro @missduffsblog @lma1986 @embracethereaper42 @skulliecadaver-blog @mrscevans @viofcrows @gipsonnikki @philomenie @bloody-delusion-expert @bloodymug @millyhelp @fuckyouimstillstanding @cookiesupplier @concreteangel92 @bruisedleftknee @sprokat @itsafullmoon @darling-millicent-aubrey @eclipseeetop

[jessamine-rose]

⋆˚♱ଘ Requiem for the Damned ଓ♱˚⋆

*holds head in hands* Idk why Dottore keeps haunting me with writing inspo. And for this idea to manifest just before Holy Week….fuck it, I hope you all enjoy the blasphemous tale of Priest! Dottore x Demon! Darling _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Tw:: yandere, violence, death, religious abuse, dubcon, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 2.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Despite your status as a wandering demon, you have no place in human cognizance. Rather, you conceal yourself from mortal eyes in favor of close observations and whispered temptations. Humans, from your perspective, are interesting creatures—they are ambitious, easily influenced by spiritual beings, capable of both good and evil.

♡ And what better example than the one who summoned you on a starry night? Such rituals are not uncommon amongst heretics, but most only succeed in invoking the contempt of their fellow humans. And few would invoke your name, much less commit sacrilege within the walls of the Church.

♡ You sense danger immediately upon your appearance. Within the summoning circle, you take note of your sigil perfectly illustrated in blood against marble. Beyond it, what alarms you is not your sacred surroundings nor the fresh corpse mixed with your offerings of books and fruit. It is the figure standing over you, cloaked in moonlight, gazing at you with eyes the color of hellfire.

“My ritual is a success. Welcome to my humble church, o noble demon…or would you rather be addressed by your epithet? ______, Fallen Seraph, the Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge.”

♡ A glimpse into his soul is all it takes to strike fear into your heart. Within Hell, there are rumors of a small village in Sumeru. Its people are nothing of note, a congregation of simpletons whose lives revolve around the beliefs of their Church. The lone exception is the main priest, Father Zandik, better known as Il Dottore.

♡ The stories, passed through human voices, speak of a child ostracized for his unconventional beliefs and his interest in the macabre. Branded a madman, he was placed in the care of the Church elders who corrected his ways of thinking. Once he became of age, Zandik was given the choice to move out of the rectory or to remain as a priest; he chose the latter of his own volition.

♡ Since his ordination, Zandik has proved himself to be an exceptional priest. He educates the masses, reviews theological texts, performs exorcisms, and provides religious counsel for the doubtful. He even serves as the town’s doctor, fully gaining the acceptance of his community.

♡ The rumors don’t stop there. For Il Dottore earned his title by performing miracles. It is he who guides the people into religious ecstasy, he who cures the sick from mysterious curses, he who blesses the weak into “enhanced humans.” There are already whispers that once Dottore’s mortality catches up with him, he will surely be canonized as the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles.

♡ But spiritual beings such as yourself know the truth. That Dottore is neither a kind priest nor a devout believer, that his days in the Church only magnified his heretical inclinations. Disillusioned with God, Zandik decided to turn His religious sanctuary into his own laboratory, one where he could fulfill his lust for knowledge through a mask of holiness.

♡ He manipulates the people with false teachings. He triggers religious ecstasy with drugged incense. He singles out devotees to “test their faith” during the quiet hours of the Church. And what the town perceives as curses and miracles are actually scientific experiments in which Dottore plays god.

♡ It’s too late to escape. No matter your divine powers, nothing prepares you for Dottore’s traps. The incantations, the barrier of the summoning circle, an aura so holy yet sinister that it couldn’t possibly come from ordinary religious objects—all you can do is fall to your knees and beg for his mercy, all the while he watches you with a confident smile.

♡ His intentions are like that of any human: He summoned you to form a contract. In exchange for his soul, he demands your knowledge, your resources, your full servitude for so long as he roams the mortal plane. Your hesitation only triggers another wave of scorching pain, followed by panic as Dottore grips your horn and forces you to face him.

“Make no mistake, ______. The mere fact of your divinity does not make you indestructible. In exchange for your cooperation, you will bear witness to experiments of the same magnitude as God’s creations. What say you?”

♡ You have no other choice. And that is how, in the sanctity of the Church, you make a deal with the human named Zandik. Once the pact has been forged, Dottore admires the bright sigil on his chest, plucks a few feathers from your wings, and disables the summoning circle so you can leave. Thus begins your personal hell.

♡ It is easy for you to answer Dottore’s questions about the divine. The horror lies in assisting him in experiments, responding to his summons no matter the inconvenience, allowing him to extract your blood, tears, and feathers. No, what’s most humiliating is when he uses your body for his “research,” bending you over the altar and bringing you to physical ecstasy against your will.

♡ At this point, you don’t know who to pray to. One night, Dottore shows you a secret room in his laboratory. As soon as he lights the lamps, your eyes take in numerous bodies and skeletons of a different classification from his usual victims. The extra bones jutting from the scapulas, the amputated wings, the halos pinned to the walls, the holy aura you’d felt from his religious objects…instantly, Dottore’s powers make sense.

“This is my first specimen. She was my guardian angel…no, I jest. She was a mere messenger who implored me to repent for my sins. From her words, I deduced it had been within Heaven’s capacity to save me during my youth—and yet God only sent an angel to me after my first act of blasphemy.”

The angels…how many has he killed? Not even during your fall from Heaven did you feel such primal fear for your life. But you cannot scream—you have long been trained to resist fight and flight. All you can do is listen to Dottore’s explanation, watch as he approaches a pure white skeleton and wraps his hands around its fractured hyoid bone.

He gives you a calm smile. “Luckily, her body provided me with indispensable resources for my experiments and my procurement of her brethren. I believe her name was Sohreh.”

♡ Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Dottore points at the far corner of the room to reveal a space dedicated to demons. Four dead bodies, their causes of death vividly described. Horns, wings, and other body parts amputated in exchange for lives spared after exorcisms. And when Dottore returns to your side, tracing the wound from where he broke off your horn, you can only tremble and acquiesce to a checkup. It grows back fully by the end of the year.

♡ He has his moments of vulnerability, however. Perhaps it is due to your nature as a demon, a creature which represents evil, that Dottore does not hide his heart from you. Once, after his usual confessions—he always makes up trivial sins—he remains in the confessional until his fellow priest has left. Then he goes to the altar and summons you.

♡ What catches you off-guard is not his lack of greetings. Rather, it’s the way he pulls you close to his body, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. There, in the heart of the Church, he whispers to you every sin he has ever committed. Despite his normal tone of voice, his words have never betrayed a language so guiltless, so sincere, so human.

♡ He asks how much of his madness is to blame on the influence of demons, or if he had been born wicked. He asks if humans were truly given the mental faculties to withstand temptation regardless of their circumstances. He asks if the same can be said for spiritual beings, questioning why former angels like you were also created with the capacity to sin. He even asks if praying for a demon can offer them any hope of salvation.

♡ It takes you a while to answer his questions. It’s just like him to put your emotions in disarray, to make you feel pity for the very cause of your current suffering. Against your nature, you wonder if there is still a chance for Zandik, if he can somehow repent or find a way to save himself from your contract and all of his sins. Even if it is too late, He has always been more forgiving to humans than angels.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

“Do you know why I became a demon, Zandik?”

Your question is what prompts Zandik to pull away from you, though his touch lingers. His gaze, as always, is unfathomable; you can never discern what hides within those pools of crimson.

“No, I do not. Few demonological texts allude to your existence, and only the Lesser Key of Deshret cites your previous status as an angel of the highest ranking. I have made theories in relation to your epithets but I respect all possibilities. Now what would you, as the primary source, reveal to me?”

Now it is your turn to confess.

“Seraphim are the closest to God but for that reason, we are the most distant from His creations. Everything we know of the world is derived only from what He tells us, not our own insights. And so I defied His Word and ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, committing the same sin which condemned all of humanity.”

The tip of your upper wing brushes against Zandik’s face, while your middle wings encircle his body in a loose hug. As for your lower wings…they are nothing but twin scars covered in short feathers. After your descent, it seemed like a rational decision to chop them off, broken as they were. It helped that your wings had just outgrown their original purpose.

For once, you barely flinch at the sensation of his touch against your scars. Many times, Zandik has inquired about the loss of your lower wings and even asked if he could have them. They still remain in Hell, tucked away in a corner of your home, eyes forever closed.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond. “Do you ever regret your decision?”

You shrug. “It was difficult at first, naturally. Many of my eyes were blinded—yes, that is why I rarely open the ones on my wings—but those which still function have seen so many wonderful sights up-close. Neither must I cover my face with my remaining wings. And despite being what your kind and my former brethren would dub a monster…I’m happier now.”

“I see, I see.” His curiosity appears far from sated, however, a sentiment you can empathize with. “As I thought, God is incomprehensible. For Him to deny even His greatest creation of salvation…it confirms that there are limits to the forgiveness of that which humans call a ‘loving god.’ Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me.”

And just as quickly as he initiated his confession, Zandik steps out of your grasp and dismisses you. But you make no haste, silently watching him after you “leave.”

His expression is thoughtful. A gloved hand touches his chest, right above your sigil.

Such an interesting creature.

Honestly, you don’t know what to make of your feelings for this human. Much as you despise his cruel treatment towards you, he never fails to capture your interest with his experiments and philosophies. Whenever he speaks of God, you wonder if a small part of him still desires to be saved. But that will never be.

Zandik preaches salvation with the knowledge that he will never receive it. For the Church never taught him how to love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

♡ Il Dottore never became the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles. Neither did he have a funeral mass befitting of a priest, nor a peaceful death from natural causes. Instead, he died young, laicized, once again denounced as a heretic by his community.

♡ You don’t know how his crimes were exposed, and why now. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for him, a blessing for his victims, or both. Either way, Dottore paid for his sins on a sunny day, burned at the stake before a disdainful crowd. Not long after his heart stopped beating, his belongings were thrown into the fire—research, tools, anything which carried his memory.

♡ You never left his side. After his last rites, led by an elderly bishop who condemned Zandik as he did in the past, you sat next to him and offered a final conversation. He didn’t express any fear nor sadness in regards to his imminent death, merely stating it a pity that his achievements could never be appreciated in his town.

♡ …He did ask if there is any chance of meeting again in Hell, but you reminded him that the punishment of sinners is out of your jurisdiction. Plus, it’s better that way—you have no desire to avenge yourself, and you’d rather not witness Zandik’s suffering for all eternity. You can only imagine the severity of his punishment, what more if he is assigned to one of the demons he exorcized.

♡ During his execution, you stood at the front of the crowd. You kept your eyes trained on him, for so long as his scarlet orbs remained open, whispering the prayers for the dead on his behalf. While a part of you felt liberated, another was mournful. You hope your last words to Zandik gave him solace in his final moments.

“Rest now, Zandik. God may never forgive your sins, but I shall.”

♡ And thus ends the life of Il Dottore. In the following days, the Church is purged of its holy, sinister aura, mainly because they discarded the religious objects tainted with angel remains. You continue your usual obligations as a wandering demon, but the humans you observe pale in comparison to your companion of many years.

♡ Not long after, you return to Hell for your other divine duties. As soon as you appear in your abode, however, something feels off. The sinister aura, the offering of books and fruit, your lower wings gone from their original place… The answer comes in the form of a hand grabbing you by the horn, pulling you backwards, twisting your body to meet a familiar gaze the color of hearth-fire. Only, this time, those eyes are brimming with pure joy, paired with a genuine smile.

♡ Apparently, Dottore’s soul did end up in Hell but not in the way you expected. In a proud voice, he explains that the Devil gave him a special fate. Whether it was due to vacant positions or everyone’s fear of the infamous “Demon-Killer,” you’ll never know. What Dottore does confirm is that as the demon bound to him via contract, you have to take responsibility and act as his companion in Hell.

“Rather than subject me to eternal suffering, the Devil believed that my talents would prove useful for the punishments of my fellow sinners. How wonderful is it for my achievements to be recognized in Hell? …Oh? I didn’t predict such a physical reaction from you. All of your eyes are wide open, and you seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

♡ You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. To think your personal hell has been extended to eternity—are your sins enough to warrant such a fate?! But after confirming your misfortune, all you can do is sigh and tend to Zandik. He looks exactly the same, with the exception of a few burn scars on his body. And judging by the familiar black feathers on his person, he seems eager to discard his former religious attire along with his mask of faith.

♡ And when Zandik unfastens his scorched cassock, he takes your hand and places it on his unburned chest, right above your sigil. It glows vibrantly, brighter than any light you laid eyes on in Heaven. And beneath the flesh, you can feel his heart beating in sync with yours.

“Tell me, ______, do I still appear human to you?”

“You already know my answer to that question. But fine, I’ll admit it: Yes, you always have.”

♡ 

More Church AU here!! Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pantalone

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.

At long last, I am free from Priesttore…thank you to everyone. To my readers, to my fellow Dottore simps, to my mutuals who indulged my tortured DMs after midnight, to the artist whose fan art inspired this idea to begin with. May you all have a lovely day╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @mochinon-yah @diodellet @lcveaesop @oofasleep @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @boundinparchment @harmonysanreads @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-wishes @yanmaresu @nicebonescomrades @nimandu @lesanyanyas @moarar

[ystrike1]

For a Fairytale Ending - By Joowinter (7/10)

I can only recommend this one for otome isekai fans. It won't appeal to anyone else. Its a very slow wish fulfillment fantasy with a "simpleminded" protagonist and enough cliches to fill a book. It's cute, and horrible, and the best characters are the villains. If you like the creepy/cute vibe it's passable.

Alice Estevan is a reincarnated....nope! She has The Eyes of Wisdom! She remembers her previous lives, and she can kinda see the future. The problem is her ability is too overpowered, and it takes a massive toll on her health. Alice Estevan thinks she's a twentysomething BL fan trapped inside a novel, but her brain just isn't big enough to handle her godly blessing.

She's secretly an Imperial Princess.

Her mother is a nut tho. Karina is a former maid who managed to marry a Duke after his wife cheated on him. Alice Estevan isn't even his daughter. Karina just brought her in from a "previous relationship".

Karina is absolutely evil and a child abuser to boot. The Duke married her after his wife's betrayal because he is a thousand times worse. They are a fitting "couple" who think of power and nothing else.

Alice Estevan has to navigate around completely crazy adults to survive.

Her doctor, Evan, is her solace. Evan eventually introduces her to his younger brother, Micheal. Both brothers have divine powers, and they help Alice Estevan heal. Without them she would have become a very bitter and illness ridden child.

Edwin actually is the Duke's son. The previous Duchess did not cheat. He was born with black hair because Karina used expensive dark magic power to change his appearance. The Duchess also died during childbirth, because Karina was her handmaiden at the time. She was being fed multiple poisons during her pregnancy.

Edwin is locked away in a tower, and Karina abuses him with a whip.

Why is he there?

Why would the cruel Duke keep some unknown bastard from his dead wife?? Plus some unknown bastard from his second wife???

Karina thinks she's smart, and a true villainess. However, she's just a pawn.

Karina tries to poison Alice, her own daughter, because she's a sick freak.

Micheal gets hurt instead, so Alice decides to expose the black hair trick.

Karina is banished.

Edwin is released from his prison tower thanks to Alice, who he is now obsessed with.

The thing is...Alice isn't a genius.

How did this work out so well?

Is Alice really heading towards a happy ending, or is it all a trap?

First things first we should establish that Edwin isn't a nice guy. He tries to kill Michael multiple times....by rotting him from the inside out with dark magic. Micheal doesn't notice though. Michael has alot of Divine Power. In another future Edwin and Michael would have been toxic lovers, but now of course Edwin loves his bastard non-blood sister.

There's a time skip and reality starts to crack for Alice Garnet, who retook her maiden name after her mother was banished. She starts to see multiple "plots". She's supposed to be in a BL book, but nothing of the sort has happened. Reality feels organically real now that she's an adult. She starts seeing glimpses of the future that have nothing to do with the "plot" she thought she knew.

She experiences terrifying visions about Edwin, her closest friend. He's no longer crazy in love with Micheal. He never was, and he's so gentle on the surface. She doesn't understand why she keeps seeing the castle covered in blood.

Edwin is barely holding it together.

He's pretending to be sane so Alice will play with him.

The Duke reveals himself. He is a formidable enemy. Karina was tasked with watching over her because....you guessed it! Alice is secretly the Emperors daughter! What a shocking twist! She's a princess how original! Every member of the Imperial Family has special holy powers....that can kill them or drive them insane. The Duke has been raising Alice as a breeding horse, so he can take over the country. It's already in motion. He's currently controlling the Emperor with magic drugs.

Edwin won't move to kill his father as long as Alice is happily playing with him, but what will happen when she finds out the truth?

Her entire life has been a lie, and her powers are too much for her body. The Eyes of Wisdom made her extremely ill. She thought she was inside a book because she saw many visions while she slept. Her body is weak and frail. She's only happy because she has a few trusted friends. She doesn't even really want to be a Princess, but is she willing to use Edwin to get more freedom?

Not really.

She doesn't want to take advantage of her friends.

[the-whispers-of-death]

Worshipper!Ghost who wholeheartedly believes Reader's actually a deity. He can't see You as someone who's simply a mortal, someone who's only a deity because he thinks You are. No, You must be an actual deity, You have to be.

You're too kind, too divine. You exude power in Your gracious actions, how You so kindly love him. You decided he was worth Your love and attention, was worth being in Your presence. Who could love a man like him if not for a deity?

And so he believes You're a deity so much that he loudly proclaims it to anyone who will listen. He regals them with Your accomplishments, Your holy actions. It's a bit much, most people think, but no matter what they say, he will stand firm in saying You're a deity.

Until his entire worldview changes when You get sick.

Ghost's heart is torn into two as he watches You get sick, with mere mortal cold. Of course, he still is the best worshipper he always is, tending to Your needs. He doesn't leave Your side, feeding You nutritious food, helping You drink water. He helps You fight the cold, bringing color back to Your paled skin until it's to its former beauty and glory again.

One would think Your sickness would cause him to see reason, to see that You are not the deity he thought You were. But he doubles down on his belief, feeling so grateful that he was deemed worthy enough for You to come down to the mortal realm in a mortal form. That's why You got sick, You took on a mortal form that could get sick with mortal diseases.

For him.

How gracious You are, not only giving him Your divine presence but also being mortal for him. It makes Ghost love You even more, worship You even more reverently.

He whispers thanks to You every time he kisses You anywhere, whether it's Your temple, Your lips, Your hands, or Your fingers. Every place You let him kiss and hold the mortal form You've taken to be with him is a privilege he cherishes.

"Thank You," he murmurs in between kisses as he kisses Your knuckles, his hold on Your hand so gentle and loving. "Thank You for deeming me worthy. I love You, my deity."

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and talk or request something! (SFW requests only, please and thank you)

[slickfordain]

Can you do a genshin impact sagau headcannon where the reader has a cute sneeze and how everybody would react? Like imagine being in snezhnaya and sneezing because of the cold and the Tsaritsa and he harbingers blushing cuz our sneeze is so cute.

𝐀 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐳𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫

I’m sorry if Pantalone’s scenery was either short or smth,,, trying to get used to doing an F/O I really love x reader— I apologize man. It sorta aches my soul. Also,, you don’t really sneeze cute— it’s just the Harbingers finding your sneeze adorable. 💀

You were currently warming yourself up in Tsaritsa’s hideout currently. Why? And how?? Well, darling reader;; it’s because you wanted to test stupidly of how cold was Snezhnaya over the time you stood there with your winter clothes. Knowing Russia probably has the coldest areas, this shouldn’t be too different to affect you… And it did. Had it not been for Arlecchino and Tartaglia’s bickering whilst walking outside and then notice you, it would’ve ended up with a disaster of you turning into ice completely.

So, here you are, inside the “palace” and just… Curling yourself up in your blankets in your guest bedroom with your phone. You didn’t really know how you got infinite WiFi and battery, but hey, not like you’re complaining. It’s the best thing rather than having nothing. Right? And while you coze yourself inside the place of Harbingers, you made a deal to hangout with them since they seem so devoted to you. Which they are but… They take it sometimes, to the extreme.

Perhaps, let’s say you cuddled with Columbina once as she sung you a lullaby, with you playing on your phone. She thought this was your way of watching Teyvat, since you were playing “Games” she thought was your other “worlds”. Jealousy, she wraps arms around your waist more tightly, and nuzzles against your neck to make you heat up in embarrassment. Either you die of heated flushed face or pay attention to her. Columbina doesn’t even like noises, it’s so bothersome unless it’s your voice. But your phone… It is nothing but a holy object that makes her jealous. So, presently, if you come out of your room;; she will kiss your lips longingly. Searching for what is ticking her hunger. She knows you’re just doing what’s best for Teyvat, but she wants your attention too, sweetie.

With Arlecchino, God forbid any of the Harbingers to place you next to their seat. You will always sit next to Arlecchino, whether it’s in between Childe and her, or Pantalone and her. Either way the two said boys will argue who gets to be next to the lovely divine. (Arlecchino almost killed them) And it’s not that Arlecchino gets easily jealous either, she understands your boundaries and respects. She’s just, very overprotective. If you’re not in time on the meeting… She’ll bite her nails aggressively like she lost someone special to her.

Okay, I’m getting too detailed into this, but the Harbingers are the same. Dottore examining your blood, Pierro making you sign off paper lists for agreements which he is happy with, Capitano inviting you for tea / coffee, Pulcinella making sure you had enough pillows… Call this rather intimidating, but even in the dead, Signora haunts your soul and is deeply obsessed. Even if she died, she will have you.

So yes, the night was going so smoothly right now. With you alone in your little imaginary world, before feeling your nose starting to itch. Flinching slightly, a fast reflex of your head turned to the right and used your arm that’s covered by your clothing, and began sneezing hardly into it. Sneezing into it, it wasn’t any “cute” nor “adorable” kind of sneeze… More like a sick sneeze that had you realizing maybe you should’ve made hot chocolate before entering the bedroom.

And the Harbingers, even if the walls were wall-proof, heard you. Eyes widening in awe with the sound of your sneeze erupting into their rooms… How fascinating! Your sneeze is more louder than their walls! How amazing is that? Tsaritsa may not even seem impressed however. She is rather more concerned of your well being, so she decided to send the Harbingers to your room… After all she… She can’t simply let you know her feelings. It’s too complicated. You’re the divine! She’s just your creation. A loyal one.

The Harbingers all huddle up to your door with Dottore angrily pushing Childe away to get the lead, since he was obviously the doctor you needed. The doctor you created. Silently opening the door, eyes peered to you, seeing your sickly figure cuddling against the blankets for more warmth;; your phone making lovely music from it, that had the villains in love. Archons, I think their pupils just turned into hearts.

Childe was desperately pushing everyone out of the way much to their anger that made them want to chop the lil’ ginger’s head off— seeing him instantly sitting eagerly onto the edge of your bed and lifted you up to hug your waist. Childe was a family person, isn’t he? So he knew exactly how to take care of a sick person. Childe gave you some medicines he stole from Dottore when making his way here, that had Dottore jaw dropping to the floor.

Pierro didn’t recognize the medicine at first, but once he did, he furiously stormed his way into the bedroom to stop Childe’s antics. This ends up with him and Capitano dragging the boy out;; who whines and cries your name out which you just… Slept from. You were heavily asleep, and you’re one heavy sleeper.

Columbina watched everyone scolding the eleventh Harbinger, scolding him and making fun of him. This makes a smile curve into her lips, as Dottore made his way finally into your bedroom with the door shut. Columbina noticed, and hated it.

Dottore was treating you now, softly sliding his hand to your [Skin color] skin, making sure he savors it before pouring the real medicine into your cup Pantalone had taken to him. Once he finished making the medicine ready for you, he glances down, and hums in wonder if you would ever want to… Be a Harbinger… The leader. The divine. Tsaritsa would love to work under your spell… Anyone would love to work under you.

Truth be told, even if you weren’t the creator and a friend of yours was, they’ll still be obsessed with you. One glimpse of you and they’ll fall for you. All over again. It doesn’t matter. They want your perspective and view, your soul. Whatever form you take, they’ll take it.

… Ah. You started sneezing again against the blankets, causing Dottore to grimace into a crimson red blush. Goodness, you’re going to be the death of him… Although as much as he’d like to stay and … Just watch you, he knew that Columbina’s rose-red eyes were watching his soul, wanting to tear him apart into the most gruesome tangled object she could imagine. And the two were rivals, striving to one-up one another to see who was the better strongest Harbinger. If they can’t beat Capitano, the strongest one amongst the Harbingers and Pierro the leader, they’ll just go at each other’s throats instead.

So stay, won’t you? Sneeze all you want, they’ll be in love with you. They don’t care how… Odd it sounds;; they’ll find it cute one way or another. Let Tartaglia make drinks for you, let Arlecchino make biscuits or snacks, let Dottore care for you and treat you with speciality, let Columbina draw poorly for you as she sings a tune.

If the Archons were to find you, they won’t back down from trying to get rid of them. After all, they’re under Tsaritsa’s care. Tsaritsa, with Gnosis, she surely can beat them. So it will be easy as ever~ Wouldn’t it?

This is shorter than I intended it to be. Maybe because I don’t really like “cute” sneezes— 💀 Idk man doesn’t sound realistic to me 💔 I tried tho. Also I didn’t add Scaramouche because well,,, he’s forgotten, isn’t he???

Also really excited to finish the Dreaming Freedom Fan-Fic, so I’ll post it shortly after~

[kentocidal]

the betrothal.

users: rex lapis x fem!reader

warning! this file has been corrupted! do not open! yandere!rex lapis, violence, description of a dead body, death of an unnamed character, power imbalance, age gap, pre-canon, like many years pre-canon, historical inaccuracies, ask to tag.

internal message: so uhhh. yeah this. this is an au i’ve been working on. this is my introduction to it p much. i hope this reaches other freaks like me so i have an excuse to write more yan!zhongli and get into the talks of enabler!xiao

new notifications! @kaedescara @yaekiss (want to get a notification? send me an ask off anon!)

“huh?”

you stood completely rigid in the elaborate dining hall of the large house that was not your own, your father’s hand on the small of your back, keeping you from running.

you turned your head to look up at him, blinking and feeling your chest go tight as he laughed awkwardly at your reaction to his statement. “darling, i’m sure you heard me. this is your betrothed.”

“but… what? i never…” you looked straight ahead again, at the man in front of you who was surrounded by his parents and a handful of guards, a sweet and tender smile on his face as he looked you over like you were furniture and not a person. your father patted your back to try and encourage you to step forward, but you stayed planted firmly in your spot next to him.

“honey, i know you remember me explaining this to you.” your father’s lips were near your ear as he mumbled to you, sighing. “if you didn’t find a husband, i would find one for you. i told you this.”

something inside of you twisted. something deep, carnal, dark. this was wrong.

you had known from the moment you came of age that something… something bigger was meant for you. your archon had called to you from the moment you first learned of him and his existence. his voice traveled through the echoes in the stone forest, telling you exactly where the good footholds were to ensure you wouldn’t fall. he made you feel lucky – it felt like you never tripped over stones or the boards in liyue harbor that other people stumbled over. you always had just the right amount of mora in your coin purse whenever you were hungry or thirsty or saw a brand new yukata in a deep brown and black that fit just right, no alterations needed. you felt blessed, felt that your calling was to be a handmaid to the archon, to his temple, keep yourself holy…

and your father was having none of it.

he had told you for the past six months that you were delusional, that you needed to focus on growing up and marrying off and bearing children to carry on your bloodline. you were the only daughter; your mother never produced a son before she passed. it was up to you, but you were not willing.

you felt your eyes start to well with tears and a scratchy lump settle in the back of your throat as you looked at this man, this stranger in front of you, and bowed slightly to him.

“pleasure to meet you,” came your meek, timid voice, shrouded in anger, panic, betrayal.

your betrothed smiled at your submissive stature, chuckling to himself and reaching to take one of your hands to press a kiss to the back of it. “the pleasure is mine. come, have dinner with us. please. it would make me so happy to feed you.”

and you went, because you had to. and you broke bread with this stranger, with this family that you were becoming forced to be a part of. this marriage would come sooner rather than later, and the idea of giving up your beliefs to make this man happy tore at you.

you could hardly eat the meal prepped for you, though it smelled delicious and looked divine. fresh pheasant and vegetables from a garden outside… you felt like you were going to be sick instead. 

you forced some rice down your throat before standing and saying you had a headache, urging to be escorted home by your father. he did not wish to oblige, but your betrothed – what was his name again? – was kind enough to excuse you both early. it felt like one of the blessings your archon was bestowing upon you. he had to understand that this was not for you.

the walk home was dark and filled with your father speaking down to you about the disgrace you had brought to the family, how it was not in the bloodline to become a priest of any kind. you swallowed, and simply turned down the opposite fork in the road towards one of the statues of your archon, refusing to listen to the shouts of your father who demanded you return to him at once.

you instead slipped underneath the roof of the small lean-to temple, fussing about to get incense lit and leave mora in the plate before taking your place on your knees in front of the statue, hands folded in your lap after smoothing out the fabric there. the heady scent of incense filled your head and soothed your worries almost immediately, a brush of wind guiding stray hairs from your face, almost like a hand brushing them away.

you bit your lip before speaking into the wind, already feeling the lump in your throat start to shift and loosen, a fresh swath of tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “this isn’t what is supposed to happen, is it?”

silence in the wind. it feels still, suddenly. you hiccup.

“i’m supposed to be guided by you, am i not? you have always guided me to do the right thing, always ensured good things happen to me. if this is true… why do i feel so empty? why does this feel wrong?”

a rustle in the trees. you sniffle and shift closer to the base of the statue, tipping your face up to look at the hooded figure sitting far above your head. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. “i just need an answer. please. i don’t… think i ever want to be married. if there’s a way to escape this, something, anything, please… help me.” 

you cried. you felt like you were in mourning. you felt so empty, so alone. for the very first time in your life. you felt like your archon’s eyes were not on you.

you stood up and dropped more mora in the plate, all that you had in your coin purse, more than you remember packing, before slipping off into the night.

you cried yourself to sleep in your childhood home, curled up tightly until the early morning when you rose to hear liyue in a commotion, groups of footsteps outside your door and running along the trails leading towards the harbor. it was unusually busy as you gathered yourself for the day and hurried to follow the crowd.

it seemed to part for you, people looking over their shoulders to find you and immediately bowing out of your way to let you through. you briefly wondered if news of your engagement made its way through the city already, that the girl who was the archon’s most devoted follower was leaving the fold to be married circulated enough to embarrass you, but you soon discovered this was not the case. 

instead, you joined the crowd in the center of the city where the archon himself had descended upon the people, holding a limp body in his arms, a long dragon tail flicking at the sight of you. you swallowed and almost felt a scream bubble up, but nothing came. 

you stared into the yellow eyes of rex lapis and watched the fire melt away into the eyes of a simple man. he dropped the bleeding body from his arms to the boardwalk of the harbor. it landed with a sickening crack, splattering blood and practically bouncing. the head of the man turned in a disgusting way, and you recognized the face of your betrothed immediately.

in a short moment the archon had stepped over the body of the man you had broken bread with and approached you, holding out a blood coated hand.

“there you are.” his voice was deep, booming, raspy. almost inhuman. his tail flicked under his robes and you could tell his hood was concealing horns that wrapped around pointed ears.

“what have you done?” was your initial reaction, one that you regretted immediately, because the face of your archon hardened like the stones he created in his wake.

“i am answering your prayers, precious one. did you not cry for me to help you? did you not beg on your knees to be saved from this responsibility?” rex lapis cast a glance over his shoulder to the body of the man that was still seeping blood into the wood planks of the harbor. “he was nothing. cursed to a life of solitude. i am relieving you. where is my thanks?”

you shook as you stared at his outstretched hand, large and wet with blood and claws long enough to rip your heart out.

you stared hard at him for a moment as the pieces that had been handed to you one by one by him throughout your life snapped neatly into place, and you felt like your very essence was being pulled in towards him as your smaller hand pressed into his.he smiled at you, a slight grin, knowing and wise, and his eyes seemed to crackle with a sickness you would pretend wasn’t there as he pulled you towards his chest. “you were made for me, my gem. only for me.”

[yaekiss]

on this sinful sunday, i’m having very holy thoughts of either branding or carving my name onto childe’s skin— maybe that tummy he’s so insistent on not covering up, maybe a nice little tramp stamp. i know he’s making sure it scars, picking at the scabs and whining for you to redo them if they dare to fade away— he belongs to you!

꩜ Room Content: Dom! GN! Top! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Yan! Tartaglia, reader's dick can also be read as strap, gore + eroguro, knifeplay + blood, masochist Tartaglia, spanking (just once, on Tartaglia), terrible wound care by Tartaglia please don't follow his actions, lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ A/N: Happy Whore Wednesday pulpie! Or uhhh, it was Wednesday when I started writing this. Got a lil carried away hehe :3 Happy Thotaglia Thursday! Slut on! (With you, Childe feels like every day is Thotaglia Thursday)

Anyways. Childe thinks of you as pure divinity, the holiest of beings, and he’s eager to worship all of you and bear everything that you’re willing to bless him with. Who is he to say no to the pain you inflict on him too?

This time, he’s cockwarming you, the heat and desire he feels is dizzying. You’re inside him and just the sensation of you filling him up perfectly has left him giddy with lust. His face is smushed into the mattress with his azure eyes already rolled into their sockets. Prior to this, he pressed a lavishly decorated dagger into your palm with a fervent sort of urgency, begging for you to mark him up however you like. You try to think back on what could’ve spurred this on. Was it that merchant trying to chat you up at the market the other day? Or perhaps it’s just a sick kind of longing that hangs around the ginger no matter how much time you spend together? One thing remains clear, at its core, Childe wants to be utterly and irrefutably yours.

Taking up the dagger, you admire the inlaid gemstones glinting in the lighting of the room, their colours matching the exact shade of your eyes and you’re sure that this must have cost an arm and a leg. Tracing the cold metal down the ridge of his spine, you feel him shudder, your ears picking up a soft keening whine. You start off slow, the tip of the blade breaking past skin and revealing glorious liquid crimson. Childe sucks in a breath at the delirious buzz of pain and pleasure that he’s subjected to at your hands. 

“Nghh… please I wanttt-! to be yours!” Greedy as always.

You take your time carving out your name into his flesh, revelling in just how many moans and whines you can wring out from the harbinger. Despite how muddled his senses are, he’s acutely aware of each and every searing twist and pull of the knife. Some of the warm blood trickles and drips down to where the two of you are connected and the sensation has him losing the ability to speak, brain reeling at how disgustingly intimate this whole act is. However, over time, Childe gets squirmy and twitchy with how pent-up he’s getting, the arousal in him pooling and heightening. That simply won’t do. Good boys need to stay in line while their lover is being so so so nice to them after all. With a pointed “tsk”, you land a hard smack on his ass as a warning. He yelps loudly at the impact but he gets the message, obediently staying still as you finish carving the tramp stamp. 

When you’re finally done, you pull out of him, the lack of your cock filling him up has Childe whining again but it snaps him out of his reverie. You reach over to grab a mirror and angle it so that he can see (read: marvel at) your handiwork. His eyes glint as he catches sight of the fresh cuts, the wound spelling out your name and the fact that you’ve claimed him as your devoted believer. However, he doesn’t let you go further than cleaning and disinfecting the wound site. (Secretly, he hopes that it leaves a permanent scar, an eternal pure white etched into his skin to show that he belongs to you without question.)

Throughout the whole healing process, he picks away at the scabs that try to cover the wound, opening it back up again so that your name is written in a carnal raw red. Whenever he stares at it in the bathroom mirror for too long and thinks that a certain part of it is fading away too fast without leaving a mark, he rushes to you, whining and begging for you to redo it with a frenzied tone in his voice. 

He wishes you’ll dig even deeper, maybe even push your fingers into his flesh until he’s screaming and clenching down on your cock, use his blood as lube as you fuck up into him relentlessly. The thoughts keep coming and you can’t go a full week without Childe pleading for you to lay your claim on him.

Maybe next time he’ll convince you to leave your mark on his abdomen so that everyone can see who he belongs to.

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

[kii-nami]

GILDED DREAMS | SUNDAY

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary. Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood. Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

cw: 6.5k words; part one of two; fem!mc; nameless!mc; i'm not a hsr lore scholar; sunday get behind me i have a glock and nothing to lose except you;

To survive is to suffer. And crippled birds neither fly nor sing. All they are truly good for is to live a life of captivity. The only way to keep them safe is to build them a cage strong enough to protect them from all known predators. A prison of comfort, peaceful enough for them to forget their broken wings and settle down, with only sickeningly sweet scent of heaven in the air. Idyllic enough for it to become a dream.

Thus, Sunday dreams of eternal paradise in which no bird will ever get its wings clipped. In his gilded dreams, humanity’s life is free of misery. There is no survival of the fittest, for there is no weakness. There is no uncertainty, for there is no future. There is no suffering, for there is only Order. Or so the Dreammaster says.

And Ena the Order dreams of a paradise for everyone but Sunday, as he is a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of peace. One must be crucified for the sake of humanity, and Sunday is more than willing to become a martyr if it means he will finally obtain a cage big enough to contain anything and everything that could threaten his family. Or so the Dreammaster says.

To live is to dream. And you, Sunday decides, dream of nothing. For if you were, you would not have been roaming the halls of this maze. Yet Ena the Order sees none of your trespassing, and Sundays dares not to disturb Them with the news of someone so easily escaping their handmade heaven. Yet the ravens won’t stop screeching, the voices continue chanting. You do not belong here, so Sunday has no other choice but to take you out himself. That is the right thing to do. Or so the Dreammaster says. That is what he wants.

“Be not afraid.”

Your hand stops midair. The ribbons of your intricate sleeves keep swaying gently as your fingers tremble a mere inch away from the marble surface of the statue you were admiring. Then you shudder, dropping your arm limply at your side and finally look at him.

“Fear is the soul killer.” You agree easily, the light tremor of your voice betraying you by giving that very fear away. “I’ve been wandering these halls for hours, however. It is natural for me to expect the worst, Mister Sunday.”

You know him yet he remembers you not. So it must be your first time in Penacony, otherwise Sunday would have surely remembered someone like you. Someone who is capable of evading Order’s omniscience. It matters not, however. For he will guide you back to paradise with his own hand.

“I shall show you the way, then.” Sunday offers you his hand in an exercise of faithless chivalry. The white fabric of his gloves is yet to be stained with blood or soiled with the touch of the passing visitors he is forced to exchange pleasantries with. But soon it will be. He doesn't want it to. “If I may.”

“I would be eternally grateful.” You smile. “My family must be worried sick about me.”

There is nothing but kindness behind your voice and the light reflecting of your eyes can blind a sinner if they look at you. Sunday knows better than to trust the emptiness of words and fool’s gold of flattery for he is throwing those around on the daily. So when your palm presses gently against his own, he leads you to your untimely demise with no hesitation and all the remorse one could have, leaving you none the wiser to his true intentions.

Sunday half-expects to be stabbed in the back with some sort of a mythical dagger bestowed upon you by an Aeon who opposes the harmonious Order he is conducting under Ena’s blessing. He's waiting for you to try and snap his other wing right off his back to make sure he isn't even capable of dreaming of the skies. Yet nothing of the sort ever happens. It's a little unnerving, unsettling in a way that makes Sunday feel the phantom pains of things long lost. He wants to accuse you of treachery yet cannot. He wishes to call you a master of deception yet cannot.

Like a saint, you seem to trust him to help you find your way back. Akin to a sinner, it is him who rules over the silver of his tongue and the steel of his word.

Sunday knows he should dispose of you in the waters of the dream pool like he intended to do. That is what the Dreammaster would have wanted. Anything that is a threat to Ena the Order is a threat to his gilded dreams. And those who threaten the cage will inevitably draw a weapon against Robin. Yet he sees no ill intent in your eyes. Just concern for your family who you supposedly burdened with worry of your disappearance. And as it gradually dissolves with each step he takes to the exit of reality, a conflict in him grows stronger.

Standing at the crossroads, Sunday knows nothing. So when the time comes for you to fall back into heaven, he is there to catch you with a promise of never meeting again.

Too bad he never asked for your name. How miserable it is you never thought yourself important enough to give it to him unprompted.

Even in dreams people like Sunday are not exempt from suffering. To suffer is to survive. That is just the price you must pay for being tied to reality like a Charmony dove that has been chained to a metal ball and released into the wilderness. And Sunday may be the head of the Oak Family on paper signed with a bloodstained feather plucked from his own wing, yet he despises dealing with people from the IPC. All precious stone in only name and nothing else, Aventurine is positively infuriating.

In more ways than one.

“One of Astral Express girls disappeared from her room last night.” His smirk is full of poorly hidden mischief and something else that Sunday simply doesn’t care about. He may crave control over all that is his, yet he wishes not to claim someone like Aventurine as one of his own. “How perfectly aligned with your sister’s unfortunate death…”

The muscles of his back are strained. To dominate over his own desires is just as important as it is to rule over every single aspect of the dream that is this life. The gilded dream of Ena the Order must continue, and Sunday will not be the one to sabotage it. To dream is to live.

Sunday taps the railing, “Are you accusing me of kidnapping now?”

Soothing tone and relaxed posture, Sunday will continue his reign over the dominion of Control no matter what he feels or wants. There is no other way. Crippled birds neither fly nor sing, nor do they grow their missing wings back. And even if some foolish being deems them fit enough to recover, takes pity on them and nurses them back to health, domesticated birds will only use those hollow, mended bones of theirs to plummet right back to the ground.

“Just stating my observations.” Aventurine laughs, a noisy little snicker that pierces Sunday’s ears like a nail on the chalkboard. Then he waves dismissively, the lackluster wiggle of his fingers as he turns around to leave. Good riddance, if only eternal. “Good luck. Her Foxian friend is very fond of fried chicken. Me too, now that I think about it…”

Sunday remains standing on the balcony for another hour. There is no rush. He knows who it was that vanished without a trace, and he knows where to find you. But he cannot control someone like Aventurine so Sunday dares not making any irrational decisions. Unlike Aventurine himself, Sunday isn’t fond of gambling. Uncertainty is at the roots of all evil.

He leaves and goes about his business. A sinner to confess their wrongdoings to him; a passerby to shake hands with, a Masked Fool to dampen already soiled mood; a Nameless to throw him a passing glance of suspicion; Robin’s shadow that should not be there for now. If the vermin – a truly formidable man all things considered, yet simply infuriating – is watching, he will see nothing but a busy head of the Oak Family. If Aventurine has better things to do than to follow Sunday’s footsteps in a feat of uncharacteristic obsession, at least Sunday finished all his work for the day and could finally take a shallow breath of momentary relief.

The halls of the maze are empty as they should be, yet Sunday didn’t expect to find anyone there in the first place. You remain in the dining room, rooted next to a marble statue, fingertips barely grazing the cool stone. The ribbons are swaying side to side and the white of your clothes is stained with pinks, blues and purples right in the middle of your back. The colors bleed out from there and drip down the dress onto your skin.

“Be not afraid.”

“Fear is the soul killer.” Your trembling fingers falter and when you turn to face him, there is way more of those pinks and blues all over your heaving chest all the way from your neck. Sunday knows not of what happened and he dares not to ask; his harmonic tuning failed once, and he will not be deceived anymore. “Are you here to escort me back to the dreamscape again, Mister Sunday?”

Sunday swears that if Ena could see you, They too would be just as terrified as he is at that moment. “I’m afraid I do not follow, Miss.”

“Then I shall pretend I said nothing.” You shrug, Sunday’s outstretched hand is hovering in the air for you to take. You do. With no hesitation and all the faith of a religious fanatic, you once more let him guide you out of the painful reality and into a dream as if you didn’t just admit to fully comprehending this fact. “Please be mindful that I will wake up no matter what. Your gilded dream rejects me.”

Sunday stops in his tracks. His crippled wing is pressing uncomfortably to his side, smoothed over bone digging into his skin as a reminder that he cannot ever fly even if he was delusional enough to try to. Every breath is a labor of well-practiced habit and an effort of greatest heights. You’re patiently waiting for him to gather his control back into his tightly clenched fist, the one that is always pulled behind his back to the broken wing he could never repair.

The colors are still bleeding all over your dress as your chest rises and falls in odd intervals. You may have the patience of a saint, yet your fears all eat you alive. Fear is the soul killer. Or so you say. To suffer is to survive. To dream is to live. How can you live if you can never dream?

You furrow your eyebrows. The harmonic tuning has failed yet again. This time without even clouding your mind enough to put you to sleep. Yet your jittering palm keeps trembling in his hold as you exhale lightly, trying to shake off the vibrations of his halo. A delicate cross dangling from your neckless is staring back at Sunday with resentment that he only saves for the person who shot Robin and the Cancer of All Worlds which took away their mother and the scissors which clipped his wings so Sunday would never dare to escape. Or maybe it’s just his reflection looking back at him from the golden glow of the cross.

In retrospect, you did nothing wrong. You don’t even try to hide anything from him, laying your knowledge bare for Sunday to interpret however he wishes to. A sinner that has confessed to their wrongdoings is ought to be forgiven in the eyes of any deity. Yet has this so-called sin been committed in the first place? If you allowed him to baptize you not once but twice, fully comprehending it meant abandoning any uncertain future you humans seem to crave so much.

What is right and what is wrong? What is a virtue and what is a sin? What is an Order and what is a Doubt? Sunday knows not. But he needs to collect all his control and pour it into a cup for you to savor one way or another. If not a sinner, you are a saint. Ena the Order sees you not, so you must have been imprisoned by someone else already. And it is Sunday’s duty to free all of mankind of the shackles of turmoil and lead them to paradise.

For he cannot let you leave yet he cannot bring himself to kill you. Sunday can talk in riddles and try to manipulate your emotions all he wishes, yet you seem to reject the vibrations of Order without even trying. So how does one contain something they cannot control? How does a devout believer tempt a messenger of a foreign god?

“I cannot let you go.” Sunday’s voice is a little hoarse, he is not used to telling the truth. It most often than not leads to suffering, yet something tells him you will see right through him if he does lie. Maybe he has much less control than he initially thought. “You know too much.”

“All is fair, Mister Sunday.” It is not a response a sane woman should give. “However, may I be so bold to ask for a clean dress?”

But saints are all-forgiving, and ordinary people are not meant to understand their reasoning. For there is none. At least not with you. No reason and a heart pinned to your sleeve, bleeding color all over your skin. Sunday needs to know your name so he can search high and low for the Aeon who crucified you for Their own selfish whims.

“I shall pick the best one there is.” Sunday nods.

You do not protest the clear display of authority over the most minuscule of details. Maybe you don’t even care for things like that, maybe you even take pity on him for that fact. Whatever it is in the end, Sunday doesn’t know. Neither does he ask. Birds are born to foolishly oppose the safety of captivity, but some will walk into the cage willingly. For they believe it to be temporary.

Sunday’s gloves are stained with your divine blood.

Your name will be written in the holy scriptures by his own hand soon enough.

The dress is beautiful. And so is the next. And the one after that. And all the others that follow.

Ribbons and feathers. Intricate lace and weightless silks. Gold and diamonds. All never worn even once and kept neatly in the wardrobe of your bedroom. If your disapproving sigh is anything to go by, you don’t appreciate the excessive luxury, yet accept them just to hide them in your closet and put on the simplest of garments that he brought to you the day you entered the mansion.

Sunday cannot understand you, but differences are included in the natural Order of things. Reality is a lonely prison of misery, and Sunday returns there for he has no other place to belong to. Yet you seem to enjoy it as a long-awaited vacation. Way more than your family does it back in Penacony’s gilded dream.

Sunday doesn’t think your behavior is reasonable, yet he questions you not. You won’t give him the answer he is seeking, anyway. Your heart may be out there in the open, yet the pages of your thoughts are written with invisible ink and no amount of heat can paint them with life.

You have a habit of refusing things you deem unnecessary or excessive, your friendly exposition never wavering even under pressure of almost constant loneliness. Some days Sunday wonders what would happen if he doesn’t return here after all his tasks for the day are done, when Aventurine with his Nameless Foxian companion and her other nosy friends don’t breathe down his neck with accusatory air. He does not entertain such foolish thoughts; they would break his carefully crafted routine and Sunday is a being of habit. For habit is Order.

And so, against his better judgment of clipped feathers, Sunday returns. To your palace of a bedroom, with three light knocks and a little apology for intrusion. You are rarely there, so he is forced to look for you just as he is searching for the Aeon responsible for your fate. And when he does find you, all Order crumbles.

To live is to suffer. Your suffering is intricately woven into your every breath.

On Mondays you prepare a special dinner. It’s just you and him and a lonely candle on a little table on your balcony. The stars are dripping the color of your blood, the wine in your glass is untouched and you never eat more than could fit in a teacup. A life of such modesty is far too unfamiliar for the bird who was brought up in a cage of golden bars and silver spoons, yet Sunday doesn’t mind. He’s got other, more important things to worry about. For if the Dreammaster finds out about you, he will wish to dispose of you. And Sunday may have already sinned for the betterment of humanity, yet he isn’t sure if he is capable of turning saints into martyrs just yet.

“Won’t it be easier to just kill me?” You constantly disarm him with your questions. Some days Sunday isn’t quick enough to even imagine drawing a weapon to protect his mingled self.

“No.” Sunday answers a bit too quickly for his liking. “I mean you no harm, Miss [Name].”

On Tuesdays you clean. The mansion is spotless for it is empty, and there is nothing, but a thin coat of dust gathered around on the bookshelves of his study. You busy yourself with it even if you are told not to bother with such things. Sunday wishes to treat you as a guest despite the circumstances. All people were born equal and pretending that you are anything less than he is would going against what he stands for. His gilded dreams are not built on bigotry or injustice, only harmonious Order of happiness.

Your presence in the room is that of a dove on a branch behind a glass dome. All hollow bones and disarray of feathers, Sunday cannot ignore you even if it is what the Order would have wanted. Yet what the Order cannot see, that is all for Sunday to keep for himself; to hide under his pillow so it won’t ever be taken away from him by any collapsing dreams.

“Do you think me a madman?” He asks.

You laugh and shake your head in amused disagreement. Sunday wishes he could steal your laughter straight from your vocal cords to fill in the holes in his wings with it. He cannot. Yet would you let him if he asked with the utmost honesty? Only time will tell.

You are a willing participant of all and any conversations, despite allowing him to talk most of the time. You listen and ask questions, give your own opinion in bite size pieces that never overshadow his voice. His dreams are grand, and his plans are fragile, yet for all that is worth you take him seriously. A noble man with a heart which bleeds for everyone but himself, you call him. A kind person with good intentions which will pave his downfall for him, you say easily. A caring brother, who will always put his family first even if it is bound to strain the thin red thread that connects them to each other, you smile wistfully.

“A flightless bird which longs for the sky. That is what you are to me, Mister Sunday.”

His soul aches. All bruised and mattered. Sunday would rather you simply called him mad.

On Wednesdays you tend to the garden. Flowers are blooming here no matter the season. Even in reality Penacony is still a dream, albeit not dusted with a thin layer of gold and illusions. You move around the sea of color like a ghost, the white of your dress stained with soil and a twinge of misery.

You don’t think Sunday is mad and you understand his dream of peace, yet you never condone his drastic approach to things. The dreams in which you hold happiness in the palms of your hands simply do not exist. That is what you say to him, picking two stray peonies from the bush and handing one of them to him with the tenderness of a torn-up heart. The other gets its petals plucked one by one with a gentle touch of your fingers, and the pain of the missing parts of him grows with each one getting lost in the green of the grass underneath your feet.

No wishes ever come true in a gilded cage so people will always seek reality, no matter how painful it may be. Sunday thinks his wishes can only ever be fulfilled by a dream in which nobody will suffer anymore. There is simply no such a thing that cannot be obtained by a paradise he wishes to create for everyone with Ena’s holy rule. And you – the misguided messenger of a foreign god, a martyr for a cause which you don’t stand for – you also deserve your wishes granted to you. For everyone is born equal.

“What do you dream of, Miss [Name]?” Sunday wonders, watching you longingly collect every single petal from the grass, mend them together with the hues of pinks and purples and then tear the peony back into pieces.

“I dream of living.”

You look up at him with misty eyes, clouded with yearning and unshed tears. The colors float around your head like a halo. Maybe one of these days Sunday will finally find an answer in those scattered petals.

Thursdays you watch the stars. Time flies as the stars keep shooting from the sky like fallen angels, and you simply observe as they crash and burn. Your fingers twitch as if you wish to catch all of them, yet you ask for nothing.

Sunday comes, his back hunched by the growing weight of endless responsibilities and troubles. Yet when he leaves with his shoulders less tense and buzzing static in his chest, to return to his life of sacrifice that is necessary for the good of all mankind, he never forgets to ask what you wish for. Silence is the only answer Sunday receives, and the gentle sway of the ribbons in a summer breeze tells him he will regret ever asking this question when you finally deem it appropriate to indulge him.

The stars glow bright when you’re out here in the garden. Caged birds keep singing their woeful tunes. Thread and needle in your hands, you’re mending the hem of your dress, still refusing to wear any of those more extravagant ones. Your nightgown is not made for the outside and you shiver. The night isn’t getting any warmer, yet you ask for nothing. To live is to suffer, yet what is life if you only ever knew of torment.

A jacket he places on your shoulders does little, and whatever selfish wishes Sunday has must be drowned in the sea of shooting stars. For they will not be accepted. There is no place for them in this reality in which he lays his mortal body on a stone and holds the nails which he will get crucified with in his own two hands. Yet if the Dreammaster were here, he would have shared Sunday’s vision of the gilded dream that he is bending and breaking to his will just to make enough space in it for you as well. A paradise in which you stay here by his side forever as the messenger for him and no one else.

“I wish for nothing, Mister Sunday.”

Sunday knows it to be a lie. You whisper your true wish with the last breath you take before falling into restless, golden slumber. He will break this world in half to grant it to you, even if it calls for eternity of loneliness. A twitch of a broken wing, you’re almost weightless in his arms. Sunday does not understand why just yet. But he will.

On Fridays you play the violin. For once it’s his fingers that are stained with color. Sunday is staring at the canvas, hues and tones blending together with shadows and highlights to create a heavenly image of absolute divinity. He thinks it belongs to a chapel right where he gets down on his knees to confess his wrongdoings and pray for forgiveness, yet Sunday knows even existence of such a thought in and of itself is a mortal sin.

The melody is full of sorrow and the birds which you released from the cages are all perched on the pews of the chapel where you put them. They cannot fly, so they cannot escape and meet their end in horrifying loneliness. For now, you are here to catch them if they were to fall, so they can only sing along to the miserable tune of a violin in your hands.

“To live is to suffer. We must make peace with this suffering.” You put the instrument back in its case and lock all the birds back in their respective cages.

They do not resist, so Sunday is convinced you are implying that they’ve made peace with their suffering just like the two of you accepted yours. Yet when Sunday washes the pinks and purples of his fingers, he cannot help but think you are wrong. To live is to dream. And to dream is to slumber in eternal paradise, where no suffering can ever touch you.

The portrait he’s made of you will never do your beauty justice, but no icon could ever depict the true holiness of a saint. He will succeed eventually. You will have all the time in the world in his eternal paradise.

On Saturdays you dance. In a world less cruel, the one Sunday will create in the name of Ena, Robin is there to support your performance with the soothing voice of a Charmony dove. She is not, for you and him are stuck in miserable world where no wishes ever come true.

You would have been one of Penacony’s brightest stars, if only you weren’t chained to reality by those who do not deserve you. A twirl, the wind picks up your ribbons as you move gracefully to the melody of a tearful piano. And in a moment of fleeting weakness, Sunday asks about your shackles. And with a sway of your swan song, you share the tale of Istanai the Repudiation.

The Aeon who claimed you at birth and refused to let go even after They forsook your people, and you abandoned Their rusted prison. They are still following you around even after all those years even if They don’t want you. They make no sense for They reject all of it, along with anything else that They have ever touched. Even Their own children, the natural Order of things, any wishes or dreams; They abdicate everything and nothing, for that is the Path that They oversee. It is the Path you were born into and that is also the Path that you abandoned to pursue eternal Trailblaze.

“To live is to suffer. For you can keep nothing. Cannot wish to hold anything.” And then you admit, heat radiating off you in waves, “And I am only useful to this world for as long as I keep Their gaze on me.”

Sunday thinks you are wrong. Yet then the clock strikes midnight, and it marks the Seventh day. And on Sundays, you weep.

With your knees on the cold floor and hands pressed close to your heart, you keep praying in a tongue he cannot comprehend. The words fall from your lips hastily and desperately, as you beg for forgiveness in a language he does not know. Yet the things that Sunday does understand, all relate to the Aeon who stole your will and clipped your wings, chaining you to reality where the weak only get weaker and the strong keep getting stronger.

That is not the Path one should walk on, the loneliness of martyrdom for someone else’s sake is not a burden that should be bestowed upon someone but instead a choice one makes willingly. And you chose not your fate, yet suffer the consequences, nonetheless.

Maybe, Sunday muses kneeling next to you for a prayer. Maybe something simple like a dream is not enough. If They refuse to let you go yet condemn you for keeping them, Sunday can create something bigger than a gilded dream of illusion. Maybe a real paradise will be just enough to steal you away to a life that is worth living.

Your hand gently wipes a tear away from his cheek before it can fall and stain the floor of the chapel. It lingers on your fingers with deep red. One glove, then another. You are as warm as he imagined in the dreams he cannot keep, for he is the lamb of Ena and he is ready to be slaughtered if it means people like you – or Robin, or their dear mother – won’t ever cry anymore. The skin of your palm is smooth against his lips. It’s all Sunday can ever allow himself to have, and that is all that he will ever keep.

“You must leave tomorrow, Miss [Name].” He says, hands grasping your own.

A tear falls. This time it feels like you are weeping for him and him alone.

Maybe being a messenger of the Order is not the end for harmony of happiness, and somewhere in the realm of gods there is a spot for his own ideals as well. The Dreammaker may not understand or approve, yet when Sunday ascends to greatness of true holiness, on his first day he will free you from suffering. And on the seventh, there will be nothing but peace. For his gaze will never abandon you.

Sunday can promise on his blood on your hands.

And as it always is, crippled birds neither fly nor sing. They fall. Shooting stars and collapsing dreams, all Order has been forsaken as gravity pulls Sunday closer to his inevitable demise. His flesh and blood clings to him like the ideals he cannot ever atone for, yet in his noble pursuit of eternal happiness a sliver of selfish desire for comfort remains. So he lets Robin linger yet dares not to soil the purity of her embrace with the dullness of his touch.

A cage will always rust and corrode with time, falling apart at the seams. Gilded dreams are not meant to last forever. Nothing is truly eternal except for humanity’s striving to move forward into that useless future full of self-inflicted misery.

Robin’s breathless voice mutters something that is instantly lost in the wind and she pulls him closer. If Sunday were a better brother, a better man, a better person, he would have stopped all galaxies and frozen this moment just to let his sister descend this condensed and polluted air of his crumbling paradise like a stairway to heaven. He isn’t any of those things. So, he doesn’t even try. No miracle will happen if he does. A bird missing its wing will never catch flight right before hitting the ground.

And Sunday is nothing more than a crippled Charmony dove – a dying raven, truly – destined to roam the cage of his gilded dreams forever, for stepping outside signifies the end of Order and the beginning of Suffering. And he isn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready.

To live is to suffer. To dream is to survive. With no cages and no birds in sight, Sunday accepts the inevitable.

“It is in human nature to reject usurpers, Mister Sunday.” Weightlessness of your voice envelopes all in bright light of heavenly warmth.

A feather. A ribbon. A silken touch of divinity confined in a painfully human vessel. If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would have thought he met face to face with some foreign man’s Goddess. Sunday knows better, however. So he closes his eyes and lets Istanai the Repudiation touch him. There are no rules he wouldn’t break to ensure Robin’s survival. And yet…

“I told you to leave.” Sunday is not used to repeating himself twice. His fingers tremble as he watches Robin take your hand and walk down the ladder he thought to be impossible.

“And as a human that I am, I rejected your order.” You smile. The light in your eyes is made of purest of diamonds and it keeps burning with holy fire. Sunday was foolish to think you would listen to reason and not your bleeding heart. “It seems we don’t have much time, so let me heal your wounds as I celebrate that my naïve soul has won for once.”

Robin, as all free-spirited birds are, is a creature of curiosity. She tilts her head and finds comfort on one of the floating ribbons, swaying on it like a swing. There’s a little ruffle to the feathers of her wings, yet she minds it not, opting to watch the two of you instead. Your eyes may be glowing, yet the sturdiness of your will is starting to wear off. Sunday isn’t sure whether it’s his silence that is making you doubt your decisions, Robin’s dedicated stare or your own thinning convictions. His guess is as good as any, but the most logical answer will always be him.

Your forced companionship has come to its inevitable end. Yet just like the day you two met, Sunday is at the crossroads yet again.

“Robin first.”

There are no protests, just gentle swaying of ribbons, a warm glow of pale pinks and purples, and Robin’s hushed voice humming a tune. She looks livelier, well rested, the shadows under her eyes dissolve under the shimmer of divine rejection. Your hands are hovering over hers, almost grazing the skin yet never daring touching it. As if you too, thought yourself undeserving. It made no sense, yet Sunday had no right to question the natural Order of things. Istanai the Repudiation refused to give Their children up, even if They abandoned them first in pursuit of eternal rejection.

A song stops. A couple of grateful words fall from Robin’s rosy lips. You nod politely, a smile returning to your face with a bit more brightness. You offer him a place to sit, a fleeting glance cast over your shoulder. Sunday has half a mind to follow in your footsteps and refuse, yet he does not. He is tired, wasted efforts and unyielding dreams quivering under the weight of reality, all he truly wishes for is to collapse for good. With his missing wing and shuttered principles. How long has it been since he took a proper breath?

Sunday takes a seat. Like a holy dove that you are, you hover near him from your own heavenly branch. Never touching and always lingering, yet the heat of your skin burns him just like divine flame would scorch a sinner. The light under your fingertips rejects his wounds and exiles his exhaustion, it bends his will and breaks his bones. And if letting go or Order meant keeping you by his side for the rest of his life – however long it may be – then Sunday wouldn’t mind a life of sin of a different kind. And if you were to cross this distance and touch him, he would ask you to stay. Yet you don’t.

To live is to survive. To dream is to suffer. Your mind is somewhere far away, and the ache of his bones makes Sunday feel like he is being reborn. From a dying raven to a Charmony dove with all his wings intact, capable of flying on his own.

“So it is true that your kind cannot be manipulated.”

You shiver. Sunday’s back is throbbing. There’s not a person here but a cat. Cursing you with a heavy gaze of his eyes.

“It’s not nice to sneak up on people like that, Mister Elio.” You chastise him gently, pulling away from Sunday and taking all your holiness away. It is only the sheer power of self-control that allows him to not reach out to tug you back into him so your sunlight can burn him alive. Such earthly desires matter not if you two are soon to separate and never meet again.

The cat �� Elio – huffs, unamused by your demeanor. You pay it no mind, your ribbons dissolve into thin air until only two remain. Neither do you answer Elio’s question. Simply gather your holy blood with your own two hands and let it all spill yet again through the stigmata on your palms.

“May heavens be kind enough to let our paths to cross again, Mister Sunday.”

His bones keep aching. The restless feathers of his wings flutter even if he wills them to stop. He can surrender his halo to you and despite it being all that is truly his to own in this life, it would never be enough. Deities require giving up all mortal possessions before devoted worship could be possible and what else can he offer to you if not himself?

Sunday has no time to ponder that question. He doesn’t even have the time to say goodbye to you properly. As gilded dreams are not meant to last forever, and this one too is taken away from him by something he cannot control.

“[Name]!” Himeko seems inhumanly comforted to see you safe, pulling you in a tight hug. And considering she wholeheartedly supported the young Foxian woman threatening to pluck his wings naked for taking you hostage, it is only logical for her to do so.

A brooding man – Dan Heng, if Sunday’s memory doesn’t fail him – stands awkwardly a little behind the two of you, while the aforementioned Foxian lady and her eccentric pink haired friend share a collective sigh of relief. You hesitantly pull away and take a hurried step forward, ushering them away before they can notice anything – anyone – else. You are far too kind for your own good and someone ought to exploit it eventually. At least it won’t be someone like him. It is far out of reach of Sunday’s capabilities to shackle a bird born of paradise.

The cat laughs. Sunday hates cats. You cannot cage them, yet they can snap your wings even if you are perfectly fit to fly on your own.

And so, the cat does.

Sunday’s bones are still aching even when he shakes hands with Kafka. Such is the nature of growing pains. A lot of misery is in Order.