unhappy-last-resort

[unhappy-last-resort]

Savior

Fandom: Morimens

Genre: Yandere, smut

Main Characters: Castor, GN Reader

Word Count: 424

Warnings: Yandere, smut, praise kink, sub castor

A/N: @sabotsen ❤️

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

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

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

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

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

Closer, closer, closer.

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you, My Sun."

[unhappy-last-resort]

[unhappy-last-resort]

Pristine Greed

Yandere!OC x Reader

Warnings: Slight infantilization, yandere behavior, general cruelty, bondage, kidnapping.

A/N: Due to IRL stress, it gets a little harder for me to write nowadays. This is just a little writing test that I decided to put up, since this is my “whatever goes” profile. Untagged.

—

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

You half-wondered why your captor would keep such an antique device to keep time. Perhaps it was a mark of her appreciation of the finer things, or perhaps, it was another way to flaunt her endless sea of coins in her unfathomably massive vault, physical or digital. A relic of the past remade in the present by the whims of a woman with far more coins than humanity.

Either way, it provided a distraction, something else to focus on, as you allowed your mind to drift off somewhere, anywhere but this place.

The ceiling has been altered to accomodate your current awkward position, hooks with pink, glowing threads as fine as silk made by nature binding your limbs in an artful pose, as if you were a living trinket to be displayed. Pink and white flood your vision, the colors of your captor, her crisp, white-tailored suit wrapping her curves as she sat on her throne - a throne made of a tangle of limbs of several effigies, a facsimile of a humanlike creature broken and molded into the shape of a furniture. Her long hair, pastel-pink and undeniably beautiful, would have turned heads if it were on anyone else, anyone with a modicum of - the word tasted like ash in your mouth - morals.

“You seem distracted,” she commented as she swirled on a glass of blood-crimson wine. Allen is her name - a name that struck admiration, envy, fear, and hatred all in equal measure. Her full name, Allen P. Illuvastria, was a show of her power, a warning to all that her threads of deception, her chains, extended to the depths of this entire planet she changed the name of into her last name. She had subjugated all the countries until, behind the shadows, everything lies under her command, their secrets, their weaknesses and strengths, their very existence a currency for her to hoard.

Allen carried herself with the grace expected of a highborn who fought for her position, a gilded shroud to cover the depths of the depravity she could sink to if she wished to. “Are you thinking about your would-be saviors?”

The last word were spat out with distaste, a crack to her perfectly schooled facade. Saviors. It was almost funny, how alien invaders clad in gleaming stones and bearing sleek metallic contraptions would be considered fitting to bear such a title, yet, for all their monstrous appearance, for you, they were less of a monster compared to the woman in front of you.

With a wave of Allen’s hand, a card materialized on the floor, and from it, an effigy rose, faceless and with pure-white limbs, similar to the broken, twisted puppets that formed her throne. Another wave of her hand, and the puppet walked out of the door, carrying a tray of cookies still steaming hot. With the sweetness of poison-laced honey, Allen coaxed, a promise of happiness should you give in. “There is no need for you to fear me so. After all, I have never taken a single life.”

She stood up from her throne as the effigy stopped in front of you. The sweet scent of the confectionery made your stomach twist and pang with hunger, a reminder of a pressing biological need, one Allen was all too happy to take advantage of.

“You will be safe in my hands, all your needs taken care of,” Allen stopped inches away from you, the silken pink bonds holding your limbs not slacking even a little, locking you as she trailed a white-gloved finger on your jaw, the caress of the fine material sending goosebumps down your spine. “I just need one word - the name of their leader. That is all.”

The question was deceptively simple, yet, it made your blood boil, your nails pressing crescent-marks onto your palms. A name would be tantamount to sending the hope of a better world under the gallows.

After all, you have discovered, under the help of the supposed invading enemies, that Allen’s unfathomable coffers were built on lives - corpses buried underneath her greed and ambition when those suffering under overwork without appropriate compensation dared to come together and demand better from their superiors. With a word of request from those with more concern for earning gold than preserving lives, the pink-haired beauty would send in puppets clad in a thin veneer of illusion, sowing discord and leaking information until the dream of better treatment were buried as they starved, as they were punished, all for daring to hope.

Seeing your twisted expression, she merely smiled, an almost kind, yet hungry curve of her lips. There was no warmth reflected in her golden eyes, only deep, unending greed.

“It is okay, take your time,” she cooed, as if encouraging a child. “After all, we have all the time in the world to get to know each other better.”

[unhappy-last-resort]

Castor's bday letter.

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

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

True freedom must look like this.

[unhappy-last-resort]

Pristine Greed

Yandere!OC x Reader

Warnings: Slight infantilization, yandere behavior, general cruelty, bondage, kidnapping.

A/N: Due to IRL stress, it gets a little harder for me to write nowadays. This is just a little writing test that I decided to put up, since this is my “whatever goes” profile. Untagged.

—

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

You half-wondered why your captor would keep such an antique device to keep time. Perhaps it was a mark of her appreciation of the finer things, or perhaps, it was another way to flaunt her endless sea of coins in her unfathomably massive vault, physical or digital. A relic of the past remade in the present by the whims of a woman with far more coins than humanity.

Either way, it provided a distraction, something else to focus on, as you allowed your mind to drift off somewhere, anywhere but this place.

The ceiling has been altered to accomodate your current awkward position, hooks with pink, glowing threads as fine as silk made by nature binding your limbs in an artful pose, as if you were a living trinket to be displayed. Pink and white flood your vision, the colors of your captor, her crisp, white-tailored suit wrapping her curves as she sat on her throne - a throne made of a tangle of limbs of several effigies, a facsimile of a humanlike creature broken and molded into the shape of a furniture. Her long hair, pastel-pink and undeniably beautiful, would have turned heads if it were on anyone else, anyone with a modicum of - the word tasted like ash in your mouth - morals.

“You seem distracted,” she commented as she swirled on a glass of blood-crimson wine. Allen is her name - a name that struck admiration, envy, fear, and hatred all in equal measure. Her full name, Allen P. Illuvastria, was a show of her power, a warning to all that her threads of deception, her chains, extended to the depths of this entire planet she changed the name of into her last name. She had subjugated all the countries until, behind the shadows, everything lies under her command, their secrets, their weaknesses and strengths, their very existence a currency for her to hoard.

Allen carried herself with the grace expected of a highborn who fought for her position, a gilded shroud to cover the depths of the depravity she could sink to if she wished to. “Are you thinking about your would-be saviors?”

The last word were spat out with distaste, a crack to her perfectly schooled facade. Saviors. It was almost funny, how alien invaders clad in gleaming stones and bearing sleek metallic contraptions would be considered fitting to bear such a title, yet, for all their monstrous appearance, for you, they were less of a monster compared to the woman in front of you.

With a wave of Allen’s hand, a card materialized on the floor, and from it, an effigy rose, faceless and with pure-white limbs, similar to the broken, twisted puppets that formed her throne. Another wave of her hand, and the puppet walked out of the door, carrying a tray of cookies still steaming hot. With the sweetness of poison-laced honey, Allen coaxed, a promise of happiness should you give in. “There is no need for you to fear me so. After all, I have never taken a single life.”

She stood up from her throne as the effigy stopped in front of you. The sweet scent of the confectionery made your stomach twist and pang with hunger, a reminder of a pressing biological need, one Allen was all too happy to take advantage of.

“You will be safe in my hands, all your needs taken care of,” Allen stopped inches away from you, the silken pink bonds holding your limbs not slacking even a little, locking you as she trailed a white-gloved finger on your jaw, the caress of the fine material sending goosebumps down your spine. “I just need one word - the name of their leader. That is all.”

The question was deceptively simple, yet, it made your blood boil, your nails pressing crescent-marks onto your palms. A name would be tantamount to sending the hope of a better world under the gallows.

After all, you have discovered, under the help of the supposed invading enemies, that Allen’s unfathomable coffers were built on lives - corpses buried underneath her greed and ambition when those suffering under overwork without appropriate compensation dared to come together and demand better from their superiors. With a word of request from those with more concern for earning gold than preserving lives, the pink-haired beauty would send in puppets clad in a thin veneer of illusion, sowing discord and leaking information until the dream of better treatment were buried as they starved, as they were punished, all for daring to hope.

Seeing your twisted expression, she merely smiled, an almost kind, yet hungry curve of her lips. There was no warmth reflected in her golden eyes, only deep, unending greed.

“It is okay, take your time,” she cooed, as if encouraging a child. “After all, we have all the time in the world to get to know each other better.”

[unhappy-last-resort]

ᎬᏝᎽᏕᎨᎯᏁ ᏨᏬᎨᏕᎨᏁᎬ

[unhappy-last-resort]

𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓯 𝓘 𝓭𝓲𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓫𝔂 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 // 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓲𝓯 𝓘 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓲𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾

𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 // 𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻𝔂 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓘 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾

[unhappy-last-resort]

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

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

Tell me, teach me, show me.

[unhappy-last-resort]

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

Oh hahahaha that was a lemon drop, sweetie.

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

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

Castor should have known better.

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

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

Castor can only blame himself.

He had been foolish enough to walk instead of run.

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

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

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

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

Red, red, red, red.

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

[unhappy-last-resort]

Uvhash fic but its with his concept art design instead. Perhaps in the fic this form is g!Uvhash.

Rather than a bloodstained lion upon the gladitorial sands, he is the regal dragon lounging upon the throne overlooking the feast mortals lay at his feet. Fight, slaughter, despair -- throw your pitiful cries to the heavens. Let his goblet fill with crimson, let this dance of death be his entertainment.

[unhappy-last-resort]

It’s an uneasiness that settles in his gut so softly, so slowly. Gradual, yet deep rooted — a single drop of ink that dissolves into the water, tainting everything yet invisible at a glance. It’s there. Just under the metal, itching, itching, itching.

It’s an urge.

It’s a fear.

Irrational. He knows this. He knows this. But his hands still reach out. His fingers still brush back your sleeve to bare your wrist to him. To check, to confirm. To see with his own eyes the pattern that sprawls across your skin. The same one that he once so diligently protected upon his own wrist.

“Lee?”

He doesn’t have to lift his gaze to your face to hear the worry coating your voice. It’s a tone he’s heard more often lately, especially as this irrational panic grows.

“Just checking.” His voice is even only because it has been rehearsed, practiced — perfected, fueled by an unease he cannot trace. “You’re dehydrated.”

His fingers brush against your mark, your pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. You’re safe, you’re here, you’re still his. But even so. Even so….

Something isn’t right. The numbers don’t add up. The variables aren’t all accounted for. There’s something he’s missing. It’s a warning, a blaring siren resounding in his head loud enough to shatter his audio modular. Something is wrong.

Instinct is built upon experience. It’s the brain and body’s natural responses to something the consciousness isn’t aware of. So what is it? What is he missing? What isn’t he seeing?

He has to find it. Has to solve this Rubix cube — because… because…

Lee cradles your hand in his, head bowed and silent even as you gently reach for him to brush the hair hiding his expression. His thumb swipes over your mark and, not for the first time, he feels as if it has been centuries since he saw it.

Distantly, he hears the wail of a siren — a mournful cry. A whale song without an answer.

Far, far, far away and even further beyond, a trapped soul clutches at memories in desperation. He found you, he found you, he found you. He can do it this time, he can save you. Data bleeds together, corrupted and glitching in a corner of a tower all but forgotten. He just has to follow his calculations, his memories, his data — built and bloodied by countless mistakes, corpses. Like a forsaken soul buried too soon, he claws at the cracks and sends data — memories and emotions seeping through like blood from an open wound — through the passage of time. Back to that future past.

This time, for sure.

It will be the perfect beginning.

[tldr tower lee finds a timeline where your soulmate marks match after so long searching and his desperation to save you and be yours, yours, yours bleeds into the Lee beside you so he’s constantly double checking your mark.]

FUCMING FUCK SENSABO I CANT TAKE THIS ANYMORE

im so in.love w/ your writing it isnt even funny my jeart is squeezing and im typing throughtears 'his voice is even only because it has been rehearsed' WWHAT AM INSUPPOSED TO DO W/ MYSELF AFTER READING THAT SABO WHAG DO I DO???????

that entire section where lee doesnt meet your gaze and is jsut taking in your mark is done so beautifully it just,, it feels so innocent, and that contrasts so painfully well w/ the emptiness he feels bc of everything that happened im going to fucking throw myself into a wall IT'S SO GOOD AUGHHHH

his desperation,,,, the way the entire tone of the piece shifts from melancholy to erratic, holy fuck im speechless i legit have no words 'built and bloodied by countless mistakes, corpses' FUCK ME IM GOING TO PUT THAT ON MY GRAVESTONE im gonna hang this entire thing on my wall sensabo you brilliant amazing wonderful phenomenal talented person i am never getting over this

[unhappy-last-resort]

Says the nerd who doesn't have asks available on that account

I am requesting yandere wuwa ideas to be sent to my @lirational-misc please I need ideas

[unhappy-last-resort]

THIS IS SO GOOD

I love how innocent all the things she says are? Like removed from context, nothing she says sounds overtly suspicious it's perfect. I love how ominous the ending is and the way you so aptly described the interaction between Reader and a client. Everything about this is perfection

Scrutiny

Yandere!Carlotta x Reader

Warnings: Kidnapping, dub/non-con, stalking, public humiliation threat, inappropriate use of powers, yandere shenanigans. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, but I guess this is a little tamer than my usual shenanigans so DYING DOVE DO NOT EAT (?)

Smut under the cut - MINORS DNI.

—

You are being watched.

It took every ounce of concentration you could muster to answer the inquiries of the client in front of you, limited concentration allowing you to glean that he was someone important that must be treated with respect - which, to you, was more about ensuring you did nothing to tick him off. If anything, you were in luck, though he was a little haughty, he did not make ridiculous requests, memories of some important customers requesting the highest level of preferential treatment coming to mind even though they were nothing but a tiny goldfish in a pond of sharks.

“Your request have been approved, Sir. Please proceed to the designated area to receive your items,” you handed back the filled, signed form to his assistant. At the very least, he was too occupied with his time being wasted by unimportant due process to notice the slight shiver of your fingers, concentration struggling to hold yourself back from reacting.

Between your legs, there was a pink, blunted crystal, barely hidden from view under your desk and covered by your crossed legs. It jostled with the slightest movement, and sometimes, the object would shudder, commanded by the eyes locked onto you right at this moment. Even though there was no pinpointing the source, the feeling of being watched kept you on edge, your posture too straight on your desk like a ramrod was inserted in place of your spine.

As soon as the customer both left, you glanced at the nearby clock. There was still a few hours to go.

A few hours to tough out this punishment - perhaps less, if you could find a window of opportunity.

Earlier in the day, a small box was left on your dressing table, folded paper bearing the scent of perfume. Inside the box, there was a ring, a multi-toned stone resembling the eyes that haunted your nightmares set on a simple base, as if the ring itself was afraid of competing with the stone’s beauty, the ordinary box highlighting the colors that seem to combine and shift under the slightest change of the light.

You are under my protection. Keep it with you.

A simple message without a name, an order made without seeking your agreement, hiding layers of messages behind the entirety of the gesture. Deep down, you knew who was responsible, and on reflex, you slammed the box shut and threw it into a random drawer before your anger and mortification overtake all reasonable thought. The consequence of your hasty action was swift, as you were taken as soon as you arrived to the doorsteps of your workplace, back pressed to the wall of a secluded corner as the cause of your restless days pressed against your body, gaze intimidating despite her smaller stature.

“I believe you have forgotten something?”

Carlotta’s smile was cordial, projecting the illusion of a business relationship, yet if you had a choice, you would much prefer that she harbors disgust, as that would spare you from this persistent storm. A quick glance nearby revealed that the place was deserted, everyone avoiding the spot as if aware of an instinctual danger at the basest level of reason.

Now, a question was posed to test you.

“My apologies, Miss,” you started, doing your best to sound sheepish, acting like you were regretting the course of action you took, “You must understand, the opalite stone you set on your gift, as beautiful as it may be, is a fragile one. I’m afraid that, if I wear it to work, the stone might chip and scratch as I do my duties, and your gift would be wasted.”

Careful, calculated answer, one you rehearsed and decorated with a kernel of truth, all in an attempt to get through work undisturbed that day.

“Is that so?” Carlotta mused with a hum, dark glint of amusement in her gaze. Perhaps the answer was too rehearsed, or she saw an opportunity, but one thing was clear, such an attitude never meant anything good. “I will make sure to rectify that in the future. However, in the meantime…”

With lightning-quick movements, you were shoved to the wall with your back facing her, restrained from making another move as her hand slipped under your skirt, playing with your panties. Expert touches dispersed your reluctance in short order, your core dripping with desire soon after despite the shame that burned in your veins at the humiliating state you were gently lowered in, even though no one else was there - or perhaps, no one who dared to oppose the woman holding you captive. Two fingers slipped into your cunt, scissoring motions pressing and brushing against that sweet spot, daring you to make a peep.

On the edge of your peripheral vision, you could make out her confident smirk.

You could only pray that the humiliation would be over soon, that you would be allowed to come undone under her fingers and you could go and bring yourself back to a presentable state before forgetting the encounter, but even that was denied from you, as right before you would crash into a shameful release, you felt a shift in the air, a wrongness forcing its way into existence, the feeling of a hard object nestled against your folds.

Carlotta released her hold on you, and as you reach down, she spoke.

“Are you dissatisfied? This should rectify the problem of keeping such a fragile gift safe. See? All you need to do is tell me if there is a problem.” With a palpable tension in the air, you could feel the crystal shift and shudder. “Keep it in for the rest of your shift, and if someone notices, I believe someone with your ability can deal with them.”

She turned around, each clack of her heels against stone a countdown to your demise.

“I will be watching, dear.”

In the time it took for you to blink, she had made herself scarce, but the feeling of being watched never left, the back of your neck still feeling the primal fear of a small animal in the sights of a hunter. Shame had long since left, replaced by the understanding of a clear threat, and there was nothing to do but endure.

—

The combination of the object, and the eyes on you, made you far too keenly aware.

From the creak of the door as someone walked in, the sometimes too-loud clack of shoes against marbled floors, the noise of breathing, created a combination that made time stretch into eternity, each second etched into short-term memory, only to disperse as a sharp glance made the blunted crystal, held only by thin panties, vibrate in a distracting pace, fluctuating between speeds that only left you just enough faculties to function, to a barely distracting hum you could push to the back of your mind with a slightly more concerted effort than usual work duties.

In a way, Carlotta was far from subtle. Even if she remained out of sight, a distinct chill and a feeling of heightened hearing was a reliable enough tell of whenever her attention shifted towards you.

From the hours that had passed, one had to wonder how long she planned to keep this charade.

With that realization, noticing that you had left her sight was simply a matter of trusting instincts, right at the moment of relief that the constant chill had finally dispersed, allowing you the time to make a quick excuse of feeling under the weather. The crimson tinge of your cheeks and ears helped sell the claim, and with that, you were free.

Perhaps, free enough to collect yourself would be more accurate. You ducked into an isolated room to catch your breath, savoring the calm you had finally managed to attain—

“Still a few precious hours of light left. There is no need to be in such a rush.”

There it was again. You could have sworn the temperature of the room dropped several degrees from the reprimand alone, the hand touching the small of your back freezing you into absolute obedience. Her voice was too close, too close, a shiver going down your spine. It was almost preferable that she humiliated you right then and there with the damned gift of hers, the day’s torment already feeling as if it stretched the few hours into multiple eternities.

“Perhaps, if you were too preoccupied to manage a simple instruction, you would enjoy an exclusive invitation better? A few days just for you, where you can learn proper manners?”

She turned you around, your fear reflected in the blue of her eyes.

“See you, (Name).”

Sharp pain pierced the side of your neck, and then, darkness.

[unhappy-last-resort]

Literal perfection. You wrote him so well and the desperation from the reader was so good and as always your prose is immaculate

Blood of the Lamb

Relationship: Salvador & Keeper/Reader

Warnings: Blood, Mild gore (self mutilation), religious devotion

Salvation always comes at a cost.

“Please.”

Something is wrong. 

The sensation sinks into your skin like tar, burning and molten as it peels away delicate flesh. 

“Help me.” 

You notice it, scorching and revolting, before you even register the darkness covering your sight. The sensation of that wrongness so visceral it feels vile against your skin nearly overpowers your other senses — survival thrumming just beneath your skin with the urge to hide, flee. Your hands lift from your face, trembling, and streams of light filter through your fingers. Distantly, you realize the hands before you are not your own — too small, too round with childish fat devoid of the calluses that mar yours. Bruises in the shape of handprints circle your small wrists, deep purple jarring against what should have been unblemished skin. A large shadow shelters you, darkening the hues of your bruises and it takes a moment longer than it should to realize what exactly you cowered under. 

A pew. Curled up against the leg of the church pew, hiding in the shadows beneath the bench like a stray, your scraped knees pulled up to your chest are the next thing you see over the tips of your fingers. 

You’re dreaming. 

But the realization does not diminish the overwhelming wrongness that feels like bile bubbling at the back of your throat. You’ve been here before, cowering on the edge of the precipice — fear and familiarity coil in your throat, sour and acid. 

“Take my gold and silver,” a deep voice rumbles, soft and gentle. 

Something gleams out of the corner of your eye, catching in the fading light just beyond your fingertips. When you dare to glance beyond your hand, you see a bishop clothed in black bathed in the warm hues of sunset further softened through stained glass. He bows over a dirtied, crumpled sinner at his feet, a gold ring and a silver brooch adorned in blue gems shone in the light as he held them out for the sinner. 

The sinner’s hands fly from the bishop’s robes to his hand, gnarled claws swiping the jewelry up and tucking the treasures into their pocket but still they remain at the bishop’s feet. You see a flash of skin blotched and oozing a blackness that pools at the bishop’s feet— the mere sight forces bile to the back of your tongue — wrong, wrong, wrong. 

“It’s not enough,” the sinner cries, clutching and clawing at the bishop. “More. I need more.” 

You watch as the black seeping from their skin seems to shudder and pulse with a heart of its own as the sinner’s hands claw from the hem of the bishop’s robe up to his knees, smearing that black substance in their wake. That sense of familiarity almost rivals the churning sense of wrongness that still pulses like a siren at the back of your skull. You’ve seen this before, like an accursed play set upon the stage at the foot of the altar beneath the stained glass of the holy Shepard and the lamb. Your fingers curl into the tattered rags of cloth you’ve clothed yourself in as you press further into the shadows. 

The sinner’s next plea comes as no surprise as they pull and claw at the bishop’s robe. “Cure me. Save me.” 

The bishop listens in gentle silence, radiating patience. The setting sun filters through the glass behind him, evening hues bathing the white of his hair into something softer — earthly, hallowed light tinged in red. The bishop nods slowly and pulls a small knife from the folds of his robe — a pocket you could not see from your hiding spot. It is only when the bishop shifts his weight that you finally notice it — the large tablet weathered and worn hiding behind him, ever his companion within these hallowed halls. It sat a silent, somber tombstone until he half turned towards it. Without hesitation, he lifts his empty hand to allow the sleeve of his robe to shift and glide down his forearm. Even from your hiding spot, the pallid color of his skin is evident and scattered across the small portion of flesh visible are numerous stitches stark like ink upon snow. But you do not have time to linger overlong on his past injuries, as the bishop emotionlessly glides the blade across his skin, crimson blooming and trailing down his forearm as it glistens in the stained glass light like ill begotten rubies. 

“Then take my blood,” the bishop offers, voice as gentle as sun showers soaking into fresh soil. He places upon the tablet his gloved hand, stained crimson with his own blood as it trails down his arm. From the cold stone emanates a blue light wherever his blood seeped into, the crimson stain visible for only a moment before it seems to burn away against the stone. 

Those soft hues wash over the sinner and even ebb at the shadows where you hide. Something just shy of fear nibbles at the back of your neck — the sight of his blood so bold against his pale skin only exacerbates the unease coiling in your throat.  Tentatively, your small hands reach out, brushing against the blue wisps of light. Faintly, like the whisper of forgotten melody, you just barely sense the hint of warmth against your fingertips. Gentle, kind. For only a fleeting moment, the ache in your wrists abate — pain dulled for only a heartbeat before you withdraw from the blue light’s reach. Wary. Your eyes trail back to his hand pressed against the gray stone, where his blood glimmers in the blue light and drops like tears onto the floor. 

The sinner, bathed wholly in the warmth of that blue light, is not deterred. Their hands reach up, black still oozing from their skin. “It’s not enough,” they cry, clawing and grasping at the man like a drowning soul does to driftwood. “I have seen you bless others — how could you heal them more than me?” The bishop’s robe twists in their grasp as they claw at him, their voice rising sharp and jaded, “Help me, save me!” 

You shudder, huddling as you press against the wooden leg of the pew. You cannot see the sinner’s expression, but you know it. You’ve seen it, time and again. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong — cruel in its fury. Your hands shake, a trembling you can’t fight as you cower in the shadows and the fear that grips you is visceral as it pulses with every bruise and ache in your small body. How many times have you seen this play out? Dragged battered and bruised into these hallowed halls to watch a familiar stranger demand grace from a bloodied lamb on the altar. 

It’s wrong. It’s wrong…don’t listen to them…. 

But the bishop does not hear your prayers. Head bowed, his long white hair tumbles over his shoulder and hides the bandages over his eyes. Blood still seeps from his open wound and glistens on the blade in his other hand, but neither he nor the sinner pay it any mind. There is a shift to him, barely noticeable — but you catch the way the light from the stained glass behind him shimmers as he seems to curve ever so slightly beneath the weight of something upon his shoulders. 

“If it is that is what you need,” the bishop murmurs, a quietness subdued in his voice that wasn’t there prior. He shifts, withdrawing from the sinner just a fraction (which is all the demanding sinner’s claws would allow) as he lifts his bloodied hand from the tablet. The blue light fades, dying out like an ember and bathing the cathedral in the warm hues of sunset once more. Without a word, he bares his injured forearm. The setting sun reflects off the cold silver of the blade still stained crimson as he brings it back to his skin, sharp edge perfectly aligning with the prior cut. As if he has done this time and again, he presses the blade into his flesh and twists his wrist. Crimson arcs and sprays, glistening in the light of the stained glass before splattering on the bishop — bright red stains against the white of his hair and the black of his robe like damnation. But he does not stop or hesitate. The blade cuts a path, curved and precise as he strips away a chunk of his own flesh and muscle. 

“Take my flesh and bone,” the bishop offers, pressing the pound of his flesh against the tablet, where it burns away in blue light, before he once more presses the bloodied hand of his injured arm against the tablet. “Be healed and whole once more, for this is what the Father desires.” 

You watch, pressed into the wood of the pew, small hands clasped over your mouth as you tremble and shake in the shadows with the taste of bile on your tongue. Blood runs down the bishop’s arm, it burns against the tablet and pools at his feet. Crimson gleams off the black leather of his glove pressed against the stone, blue hues of the tablet mixing with the light filtering in from the stained glass. Wrong, wrong, wrong in all the worst ways. 

But the sinner rises from the ground, giddy with a mad glee as the bright blue light washes over them. They do not even pause to worry about the bishop as they scramble from out beneath his shade. “Thank you, bishop, thank you!” Sickness and sin forgotten, they run past you and the flash of their skin you catch as they dart by is devoid of the strange black ooze. They leave you, as they always have, in the shadows of the cathedral in their haste to return. You know, innate like the way you know the tips of your fingers, that when they have had their fill of shifting through the filth for more treasures to steal and sell, they will find and drag you battered and bruised back here again. One more hand before the bishop to demand something that could be sold. 

It’s fine. It’s fine. You press yourself further against the wooden leg of the pew, burying yourself in shadows as you tremble and shake. The bishop has not moved from his spot, blood still pooling at his feet but the blue light of the tablet fades slightly — his blood merely staining and trailing down the stone like mournful tears rather than burning against it. Behind him, the stained glass of the sacrificial lamb dims to the evening cold hues as night rolls in. Shadows seep in from the corners of the cathedral and you pray, pray, pray he does not find you. 

If you’re still, if you’re quiet, if you just close your eyes — maybe he won’t hear you. 

Maybe he will leave, trailing that tablet behind him like a chain and leaving a path of blood in his wake. 

Perhaps the only place prayers are not heard is within the cathedral. Or perhaps your voice is too small and worthless to ever bend the ear of a god. 

The Bishop does not leave. 

Instead, he tilts his head to the side and stands very still for too long of a heartbeat — listening. The only sound is the soft trickle of his blood weeping from the gaping wound on his arm and the pounding of your own heart in your ears. Slowly, as if his eyes were not blinded by the bandages he always wore, he turns his attention in your direction — the weight of his gaze heavy, heavy, heavy despite the shelter of the pew. 

“Come here, little one.”  His voice is a gentle rumble, soft and warm — the lazy coiling heat of a blanket on a chilly night. Kind. Inviting. Harmless. 

But you know the price of his kindness. You have seen it pried from his bones and stained these hallowed halls more than once. 

The bishop’s bloodied hand remains pressed against the face of the tablet, crimson still weeping down his arm and between his fingers. He kneels, black robes instantly soaked in his own blood as his knees press into the cold stone floor. The bloodied knife has disappeared from his other hand and he holds it out palm out towards you, beckoning you closer. “You’re hurt, aren’t you? Come here, let me help.” 

No…. 

You shudder and press against the shadows of the pew, small hands clasped over your mouth as bile climbs up your throat. He is not far enough to reach you kneeling where he is, you both know this but his hand remains outstretched, crimson stains on his glove bleeding to black as the night rolls in. Beside him, the tablet alights once more, blue hues bold and vibrant in the darkening room. It glows, tendrils of light slithering across the floor, devouring shadows as it rolls across the room to reach you. 

No, no, no no no no no no no no no no—

Fear, instinctual and pure, forces your eyes shut as the light washes over you. 

In the darkness, the scent of iron is overwhelming… 

You wake thrashing, with the echoes of a scream on your lips and the taste of iron on your tongue. Polished wood of a pew bench scrapes under your nails as you scramble for purchase, for shelter — anything, anything, anything to flee. The domed ceiling of the cathedral blurs, barely registering in your vision as you scramble, hands digging into  your sleeves as if to tear away tar clinging against your skin. Words tumble from your lips, a mixture of grief and panic blending together into near nonsense. 

You do not near your name called by that deep rumble of a voice, worry tainting every note. Nor do you hear him approach — you never do, he has always been so quiet when he walks. You barely have a heartbeat to notice the flash of black robes as he kneels at your feet, gloved hands gently catching yours. 

“Peace, Pale Flame,” Salvador soothes. 

Your gaze lingers on his gloves — black, black, black — and all you can taste is iron. Still you see that crimson drip from his gloves and when your gaze lifts to his face you see the splatters of red against his pale cheeks and white beard. 

“N…no,” your voice is a fragile, splintered thing, wrung from your chest like broken glass. “You’re hurt, you’re hurt!” 

You do not register the furrow of his brow in confusion or the way his grip on your hands loosens. All you see is his blood seeping into the sleeve of his robe and pooling at his feet. Your hands fly to his forearm, frantic as you hesitate to press against his wound. Would pressure even staunch the bleeding when he carved a literal chunk of his flesh from his arm? What is the procedure for this? How do you heal him? How can you ease his pain? 

Tears blur your vision as you press your trembling hands against his wound, feeling the warmth of his blood bubble and seep between your fingers. “You can’t do this anymore,” you plead. 

“Pale Flame?” Salvdaor’s voice is quiet, hesitant almost. He does not move as you fret and mourn over him. 

“Please, please don’t do this to yourself anymore.” Blood trails between your fingers and curls a path down your wrist. Every shuddering breath that leaves your lungs tastes of iron. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong in all the worst ways. You raise one shaking hand from his forearm and reach for the silver key around your neck. You can help him, you can fix this, you can— 

Blood smears against the key as you grasp it tightly, silver light winding between your fingers as you pour your energy into it. 

Warm leather brushes against your skin, and you register the touch of Salvador’s hand cupping your cheek the same moment your name falls heavy from his lips. He tilts his face up, closer to yours and you feel the firm but grounding touch of his other hand near your elbow. 

“It’s alright,” his voice is a gentle rumble, warm and patient. The steady comfort of a hand in yours in the dark. “No one is injured. You are safe here.”

You blink, tears blurring the edges of your vision. But as you focus on his face you notice — clean, bereft of crimson stains. No blood splatters color his pale cheeks. Your gaze drifts down to where your other hand is still firmly pressed against his forearm. Not a hint of crimson peeks between your fingers or stains his clothes, nor is there a pool glistening around his knees upon the floor. 

“It was just a bad dream,” Salvador smiles softly. His thumb brushes against your cheek and carefully wipes away your tears. 

“Oh.” 

Your head bows, fingers unfurling from around the silver key stiffly. A lump forms in your throat — you can still taste the iron in the air. But it’s not there, it’s not there, it’s not there. You swallow around the taste of iron in your mouth, “I’m sorry.” 

Salvador softly shakes his head, “There is nothing you need apologize for, Pale Flame.” His hand upon your elbow shifts, leathered fingers lightly grazing down your forearm until he finds your hand. His cradles your hand in his gently, as if shielding a flower from a storm, and his hand cradling your cheek brushes against your skin once more before it withdraws and joins his other hand. “Are you alright?”

For once — foolishly, cruelly — you are grateful for the bandages that cover his eyes as your gaze lingers on his hands. Between the edge of his gloves and where the sleeves of his robes have ridden up, you catch a glimpse of pale skin. On his inner arm, you see the tips of pale scars and the black marks of stitches. 

You close your eyes and try to ignore the taste of iron on your tongue. “Yes,” you lie. Carefully, as if placing a flower upon the altar, you place your free hand over both of his. “I was just… worried.” 

Salvador tilts his head to the side, that patient smile still upon his lips. Waiting. 

Where to begin? How do you even ask this man kneeling before you? He has helped you time and again in battle; you have helped him on numerous occasions within these very hallowed halls. But none of them aligned with what you saw. Different. Wrong. Bloodied. Cruel. 

Something small wails at the back of your mind — a voice, a warning. “Salvador,” It presses upon the back of your tongue, pushing through the blood and bile that lingers at the back of your throat. You know his answer before the words even leave your lips. “Is there anything you would not do to yourself in the name of the Father?” 

You can feel his fingers twitch, surprise catching him off guard. He regards you silently for a moment, and though the smile on his lips fades for but a heartbeat, it returns just as gentle as ever. It seems softer, however, in your eyes — more fleeting and ephemeral. Salvador chuckles quietly, as if amused — like a parent laughs when a child asks if the sky will ever fall. His hands shift, grasping yours that had laid atop his and gently cradles your hands in each of his. 

“No,” his answer is simple and honest. “All that I am and all I can give is in the name of the Father. If it might aid you, Pale Flame, as his messenger, or aid his cause then I will give my all — blood, flesh, bone, soul.” 

Salvador bows his head, lightly bringing your knuckles to his forehead in reverence. From behind him, the morning light filters through the stained glass of the shepherd and the sacrificial lamb. It falls upon his bowed form at your feet, soft hues coloring the white of his long hair — coloring him in its stained shadow. 

“You need not even ask. It is yours, wholly.” 

Something akin to grief writhes in your chest as you close your eyes. All you can see in the darkness is the visage of that tall, looming tablet that always follows in his wake. Blue healing light stained crimson. 

For strangers.

For his flock. 

For you. 

Bloodied. Piece by piece, carved from his bones, offered before the altar like a communion meal. An offering, bloodied yet kind. Salvation yet damning all at once.

Yours, he says. 

Salvador holds your hands in his as he lifts his face and smiles. 

It is not the smile of a confidant or friend. Not even the gentle smile of a bishop to a visitor. 

It is simply, purely — honest and heartfelt — wholly and devotedly —

The smile of a Believer to a God. 

‘Yours, wholly.’ 

[unhappy-last-resort]

LITERALLY AMAZING OMFG

This was so good and so beautiful and hopeless, your analogies and wording was so beautiful here it should be put in a book. Your characterization was perfect and I could hear her voice in all the lines you wrote AND THE TWIST

Perfection

I love the little bits where Reader remembers how it used to be with her and both its familiarity and alienness in contrast with what's happening. It's amazing and I love it

This is probably my favorite line rn

Snare

Yandere!Cantarella (Wuthering Waves) x Reader

Warnings: General yandere things, dubious consent, implied established contract relationship (past), kidnapping, written before I did the story.

A/N: It has been a while since I wrote anything and I’m writing for another fandom? Blasphemy! Unfortunately, she has me by the throat and I am going to die on this hill. I am essentially writing this with pure thirst.

—

You felt Cantarella’s presence through her touch.

You felt the cold of her fingers first, pressed against the pulse of your wrist as she caught you in the middle of a promising business talk, then the plush of her chest, as she pressed herself against your back, enveloping you in the abyss that her presence radiated.

It took almost everything you had to recall that you were in a party for the upper class of society, invited by the virtue of your sheer determination, and wasting each precious seconds with your breath caught in your throat was counterproductive to your purpose.

“Do continue your discussion,” her voice tickled your ears. Cold, smooth, laced with something you could not quite describe, the way spoonfuls of honey would be added to conceal the bitter taste of medicine. Even the other party, someone responsible for a rather lucrative sweets business, was stunned into silence, his words caught in his throat as his thoughts on you did a one hundred and eighty.

“We- we were just finishing up,” he finally spoke, hurried, with a trace of fear so real it almost infused the shaky breath he exhaled. “If there is nothing else, I need to go meet my partner. She’d be incensed that I left her alone for too long.”

Partner. You were about to ask, to continue the discussion, anything not to be left alone with the venomous siren currently pressing against you, yet, with the haste he was leaving, you knew that it would be a futile hope. With no one else to serve as a distraction, you were left to bask in the cold of her embrace, your attempt to struggle out with a veneer of politeness withering the moment her hold tightens.

Never painful, only a wordless warning.

“Go on, tell me, something about starting capital?” She whispered. A shiver crawled down your spine, and in that moment, the party dress with a rather generous opening you wore, in an attempt to attract a few possible connections, as unsavory as they may be, felt as if they had dissipated, leaving you even more naked and vulnerable.

Your tense silence, and your pitiful attempts to reply, to ask just why and how she was here, only earned a low laugh from her. “Is there a reason I cannot be here?”

It was as if you had disappeared from view, leaving the two of you the sole people and the rest as merely animated decor. Even as you tried to move, no one paid attention to your struggles, a veil of blue barrier, possessing the visual texture of water, had separated both of you from most of the crowd. It was so faint, it would have blended with the walls of the place, even if all but the most observant gaze upon it. You cannot reply, tongue heavy in your mouth, but she did not see any reason to wait for an answer.

“You are so tense, what frightened you so?”

Cantarella paused for a moment.

“Were you upset that you lost such a pitiful catch?”

“This has nothing to do with you,” you finally snap, each word ground out with such force. “Lady Fisalia, our deal was one of our mutual satisfaction, and it has been completed. We have nothing to do with each other now.”

“Oh, but we do,” her reply was easy, unbothered, laced with authority the way one would chastise children. “Do you know that if you wash the pollen of a flower from your fingers improperly, its substance would still linger?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Merely a simple fact.”

You didn’t miss the way she did not provide a yes or no.

“I am not your property, nor do I wish to be. I will be leaving shortly.”

“Always in such a rush. You should things a little slower,” she replied, her thumb grazing over your lower lip in a slow, intimate touch. You took a step forward, pulling yourself away from her before your anger could shift into repugnance, and perhaps she was finally finished toying with you, to your relief, as she resisted less than you expected, and you were free—

The fleeting illusion shattered, as you feel cold fingers wrap on your hand. Slow, deliberate, giving you a taste of relief before ripping it apart with casual cruelty.

“Case in point.”

She pulled then, wrapping your waist with her other hand as the position forced you to face her. Her smile was one full of sincerity, one that looked polite on the surface, yet with frayed edges that offered a glimpse of her hunger, raw and passionate, treating you with such familiarity in public without regard for the possible fallout. It was a contrast to how your every nerve screamed danger, yet you still had to keep your impression and dignity as intact as possible.

So you bite down your retort, tongue brushing where her thumb touched your lips.

“You will let me have this dance, will you?”

“If I refuse?”

“Then do so, break free of my embrace.”

Cantarella’s grip on your waist held down with the strength of a vise, a feat that contrasts with the rather delicate facade she presented.

Even with knowledge of how deadly it is to tangle with her, the dark and murky waters she would drag and imprison you in should she saw the opportunity and gains from doing so, you were still caught off-guard, searching your scattered thoughts, only for potential answers to slip through your fingers when she took you on a slow dance her grip puppeteered you into following, your half-hearted revenge of trying to step on her feet thwarted as soon as you thought of it, turned into something beautiful as she guided you with a firm hand, humming a slow, ethereal tune without a care to your resistance, or perhaps, she considered it an addition to her haunting song.

She directed you to a slow dip, and it was then, you realized that you were entirely at her mercy. Perhaps if her hold on your waist had slipped, falling flat with embarassment would be a more tolerable fate.

“Go on, what troubles you so, dear (Name)?”

You open your mouth, to answer, but you realized, the world has started to move a little slower.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile, and then, as soon as you were about to answer...

She captured your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.

Even as the world faded with the grace of parting curtains, she did not allow you to look, within her eyes, drowning out most of your vision, your terrified expression was reflected within, while your tongue danced with hers, tangling in a dance that was once familiar, a familiarity Cantarella refused to allow you to forget even for just a moment, a familiarity she coaxed, guided, shaped by wielding her knowledge of your body against you.

However, even through the slowed world, through the clawing, sharp, persistent sensations of her touches, you still hear the voices of conversation that faded into gibberish, before silence reigned the place.

There was only two sets of footsteps.

Silence had allowed realization to pierce through what remained of the illusion.

Fear must have etched itself so clearly on your expression the moment released the kiss. Sweetness still lingered on your tongue, mixed with a faint aftertaste reminiscent of floral tea. She finally released your hand, though her hold on your waist remained firm, as she traced the contours of your face, brushing a stray hair and tucking it behind your ear. The trailing touch of comfort and fire, loathe as you were to admit the former, stopped on your chin, as she tilted you head to look at her.

“I have made sure there is no one to separate us.”

You open your mouth, wanting to ask, to yell, but it felt as if your mind cannot catch up, muddled in a mire made of her manipulation. The place has twisted into an unfamiliar, yet still lavish room, illuminated by silver moonlight that lends an ethereal glow to the walls.

“Where is this—“

“It is always a marvel to see the effect of what your mind could conjure with a little push,” she smiled. “You believed that luck allowed you to sprout wings, ready to soar into the skies,” she spoke, lowering your body, down, until you feel the plush of velvet sofa on your back, “only to wake up as you sink in the cold embrace of the depths.”

She placed one leg between your thighs, keeping them parted.

“You have a choice, would you accept, or do I need to break you in properly?”

A choice offered, yet with the privilege of choosing revoked. Her manicured nails slip through your parted lips, playing with your tongue as her other hand made short work of your clothes. Though the grace that accompanied all her movements remained, she cared little about the material, tearing it apart the way one would set aside wrapping paper on a gift. With embers already burning deep in your belly, higher thinking had started to suffer, and familiarity, muscle memory, took the forefront, tongue dancing with her fingers, soaking in the familiar taste of her.

Though her hand wanders the curve of your body, igniting trails of heat and stoking the burning fire in your belly, her gaze was fixed on yours, filled with a ravenous hunger, the kind of hunger from a living being deprived of her meal for days. Even so, her movements were slow, methodical, savoring each twitch of your expression, each interrupted breath. As your resistance melted away, she coaxed you to press your shamefully wet core on the plush of her thigh, jolts of addicting pleasure becoming an incentive for you to obey.

“Beautiful. In my hands, this is the most fitting state for you,” her breath ghosted over heated skin, marking it, soft lips carving into what would bloom into a myriad of bruises, soothed by the circling of her tongue.

Even with the pleasure of her thigh between your clothed sex, it was not enough. Never enough.

Only to incentivize, to make you pliant.

Even though you attempt to chase the sensation again, she held you still, pulling out perfectly manicured fingers now covered with strings of your own saliva. Embarassment colored your cheeks in a vivid, warm blush.

“Patience, dear,” her whisper drips sugary sweetness, an order of passion promising a cold embrace in her presence. The nights back then, when mutual pleasure were the first thought, eclipsing even the contrast of your titles and positions, guided your movements and hers, all reservations drowned in familiar embrace as she played with your dripping core, coaxing you to sing in a raw tune of the love and obsession entwined in the very fabric of your connection with her.

The coiling heat crashes into a wave of pleasure that for a moment, you saw white, thoughts dispersing in clusters of stardust. Her traces on your bottom lip still tasted deliciously sweet, pulling you from exhaustion as the taste doused the flame in your belly once more. Your expression, all blissed out, reflected in Cantarella’s deep blue eyes, glinting in quiet satisfaction. Her smile ensnares you in her spell, and for a moment, a dark moment, you considered her offer.

Even if it meant sinking into the depths of her embrace, without any hope to taste the fresh air of the surface.

Yet, deep down, realization had already sank in, a choice offered, without the privilege to choose.

“Are you already exhausted?” She mused, amusement lacing her question as she touched your cheek, directing you to focus on her with a deceptively gentle nudge. “The night is still young, and you have not returned the favor.”

Not a threat, a promise.

“Let me guide you, and tomorrow, you will understand your place, even if I have to etch the rules to your bones.”

[unhappy-last-resort]

what do you think adult content is like in teyvat? i’ve been thinking about what the equivalent of a ‘cam girl’ might be . . . saucy kamera pictures sent in scented letters with a scrap of ribbon? a director like xavier working on small-scale pornographic productions and the ardent fans of certain actors? opera and burlesque performers that get just a little too risqué with their stripteases?

(and which characters prefer which type? obviously diluc and dain are the first kind; i think perhaps wriothesley and neuvillette are the last kind. as for the film connoisseurs . . . kaeya and ayato, perhaps)

[unhappy-last-resort]

Compiling a collection of Salvador lore before the event ends and all these crumbs disappear. They are literally driving me insane with grief.

First off, a collection of the stage stories with notes on the title changes for certain ones.

Stage 1: Request (levels titled "Claim" & D-tide level titled "Demand")

Stage 2: Struggle (levels titled "Contest", "Struggle", "Contention" & back to "Struggle")

Stage 3: Reproach (levels titled "Accusation" & D-tide titled "Condemnation")

Stage 4: Paranoia

Stage 5: Repentance (levels titled "Confession" & D-tide titled "Repentance")

The stage descriptions echoing his history/story and how they fucking lynched and burned him at the stake for not "saving them" as they wanted .... oughhh ⚰️

Within the stages themselves ofc you have the boon events. There are three of them.

First one is Desire and at first your only choice is to either face or turn away from the darkness.

[Choice chosen above was facing the darkness]

Later you get the chance to interact in the darkness again.

You’re actually encouraged to face the darkness here and get a sinful boon and, later on, pick up as many symptom cards as you can. The more “ill” and “broken” you are by the time you reach the final event, the “better” your rewards.

The second event is Repent.

If you chose to face the darkness in the first event, the result is often (in my opinion) much better than the random gold relic you get.

The final event is Redemption, which has various branches within it. At first you can only choose to seek external object or ask for blood. As you unlock the event nodes, you can ask for more. You can only ask for more, however, if you are carrying enough symptoms — in other words, you have to be “ill” and “demanding” enough. At that point, you can ask for flesh or his very soul to cure you.

There’s… there’s SO MUCH …. Here…. The fact that he so casually carves out pieces of flesh and bone to press into his tablet to heal people is fucking awful. His skin is littered with scars and stitches, I had no idea it was from himself carving offerings to demanding members of his flock. The fact that he is so willing to pull out parts (if not the whole) of his goddamn soul and use that to heal people when his own flesh and blood is not enough…..

Salvador……

Ending my grief with the event nodes, which make me want to SCREAM.

I’m sure you can interpret it as 3 separate people coming to him but honestly I see it as three halves of his own heart/soul: the sinner, the mottled, the ‘faithful’. Three, which is already such a meaningful number in religion to begin with….. and the fact that even the ‘faithful’ soul (colored grey) starts out on the path constructing a church for purely selfish reasons. Even later in that node’s trail, it still is not worshiping for the innocent desire to be one with the belief but simply bc money it conned from others built the church and what better way to show faith than to build a church, right?

The mottled soul is the lost and confused one — am I wrong? Will this last? I have to believe in the Father that This is the Right Path. It’s actually the one more aligned to truly believing.

And the sinful soul, mired in joy and blood. It echoes the rumors we heard about him in his story about a madman who wrought bloodshed and death wherever he went.

I’m just…. In grief…. There’s so much here. There’s so much to unpack…..

Salvador….