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chococolte · 9 months

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☼ — pietas maris

♱ : my take on sagau childe

including ☆! — him as a worshiper, and his reaction to being your lover ⛧

word count. 5.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, cult au, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl. ୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. now time for me to disappear back into the aether for another 6 months

The abyss is cold.

It is unfeeling, lacking warmth and passion. It is relentless, cruel, and unkind. It corrupts, ruins, and does so freely, without remorse or thought. It leaves you clinging to the hot blood in your veins, curled up and hidden in the dark reaches of its void.

Childe had always been versatile; quick to adapt, even at such a young age. He grew used to the emptiness, the swelling numbness, and the eventual gnawing loneliness left in his abdomen. They became a part of him as his lungs, as integral as air; to be without felt odd, foreign.

The glimmer of your existence kept Childe company. He did not know who you were, or how lucky he was— only that you brought him comfort, like an old lullaby, or a blanket worn from overuse. He reached for you when the darkness grew too much, too heavy a burden on his small shoulders.

He came to you with little offerings; small trinkets, tomes of unreadable text. Useless to him, but perhaps you would take pity on him in exchange, and let him take comfort in your presence for another day. Childe came to you with rubble shaped in hearts, the gentle breath of his voice as he spoke of his anxieties. He did not think of them as offerings then, merely gifts— pleadings for you to stay a little longer.

His hands, then unruined and soft, made you a makeshift altar crafted out of whatever he could find. He made sure to build it where he felt your whispers were strongest, where your light entirely overwhelmed the darkness overhead. Childe didn't think of it as an altar then, just a place to settle his findings, where he could pretend his sad, little effigy made of you was actually you.

The idol didn't look much like a person at all, and at the time, he didn't think of his behavior as odd. He desperately clung to you for survival, and with no other warm body besides his own, you were the only one he could talk too.

At times, he thought he was going insane. There was a pleasant buzzing in his ears whenever he neared your doll, as if it were calling him. Despite the fact that he had made it, proven by the tiny scars on his palms, he still felt as if it was yours.

In the darkness, Childe whispered to you. He said everything his mind could think, childishly exaggerated tales in hopes of impressing you. A foolish endeavor, considering you were a God— but he still hoped that maybe you'd think of him kindly, and let him bask in your protective glow for just one more moment.

He couldn't hear your words, but he could feel them. The twinkle of your laughter was like a soft whistle in his ears. When you were pleased, the air would lightly ruffle his hair. Despite how agonizing his loneliness was, at least he had you by his side.

Childe's innocence, as all things do, eventually withered away in that malevolent black.

He thought of you as his teacher; a guiding hand that trained him, molded him to fit against your palm. When he struggled against the abyssal beasts, he could feel you— a soft brush against his hand, a firm hold on his back, keeping him focused. You taught him when to still his blade and when to strike.

In the arches of his sword and polearm, in the taut and tense pull of his bow, in the whirlwind of his catalyst— you were there, shining from beyond the thin veil separating you.

When Childe was ripped out of the abyss, so was his connection to you. Like a thread snapping, he could no longer feel you; not in the darkness overhead, not in the grip of his blade, of the depths of his soul. You were gone, and he was once again nothing but a boy, lost and alone. Friends and family surround him, thankful for his return, but his mind is still reeling, still stuck in the abyss and the sudden emptiness left in your wake.

Despite himself, Childe had hoped you would have stayed, even once he was out. He thought he was done with being naïve, but that clearly wasn't the case.

He can’t feel you anymore. Where did you go? Why did you leave? What did he do wrong? Questions swirl in his head like whirlpools of thought. Childe feels like he's drowning, suffocating in the mess of his mind. His breaths come out short, quick and sharp. His throat squeezes, constricting his airways, as he realizes what's unfolded.

You left him.

He should've known better. On that first day, all you had done was take pity on him by letting him linger in your light. It was his fault for ever believing that he would never have to be alone again. That even if he had no one else, at least he had you.

This was the result of his own failure. If only he had proven himself worthy.

When his family found him, they found him gripping a small, rudimentary doll. Even when they reached their home, Childe was still clutching the thing as if possessed. When they tried tugging it out of his hands, saying it would help him eat better, he ripped it from their grasp, holding it to his chest.

Childe couldn't accept that you had left him so easily. At night, back in his warm bed, Childe tries to whisper to you again. The familiar warmth sinks into his pores, but it's nothing like yours. He nuzzles closer to the doll, ignoring how it tears into his skin.

"I'm here," he whispers.

Maybe you got confused. He knows you're a God, but even the Seven are not omniscient. When he was torn from the abyss, it was possible you hadn't meant to so cruelly cut the connection between you. Maybe you couldn't find him, and so he just has to tell you where he is.

So he whispers to you in the dark, just as he has so many times before.

Only this time, he's met with silence.

In the years that pass, you linger at the forefront of his mind, haunting him like a wraith. Childe can't bring himself to be rid of you, despite how it hurts every time he thinks about you for a little too long. He's still stuck, perpetually waiting for your return, despite how he knows you've long given him up.

Childe becomes Tartaglia, the 11th Harbinger under the Tsaritsa. He takes a new name, a new mask— he executes her orders dutifully, and he does his role perfectly. He acts as if she's you, despite how desperately he wants to believe otherwise. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend that the cold that seeps into his bones in her presence is yours.

But no matter how many names and identities he takes, he'll always just be your Ajax; the boy who still misses you, despite how short your time together was. And that fact is what burns him the most.

Maybe he should be angry. He knows he has every right to be. Angry that you left him, that you discarded him as if he was nothing. Maybe he should hate you— hate you for leaving him alone, as if you weren't the only thing keeping him sane. Hate you for leaving as if his love didn't matter to you.

He comforts himself by thinking of the time dilation he experienced in the abyss. You cared for him so much that you spun three days into three months. He likes to believe he meant something to you; he must've, because why else would you lengthen your time spent together?

Childe knows it isn't true. He didn't matter enough for you to stay, after all.

At night, Childe finds himself listlessly thinking of you. It's a silent mourning. Quiet tears fall down his cheeks, soaking the pillow beneath his head. He chokes down every heaving sob that threatens to break from his throat; clenches his jaw when they claw too close to his lips. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he's too loud, biting his fingers until they're bloody and marred by his teeth. What would you think if you saw him this weak? Saw the boy you built up crumble, all because he can't feel even the softest traces of your presence anymore?

You would find him pathetic. All he's done is prove that you were right in abandoning him.

When the memory of you is too much to bear, he clutches the effigy in his arms, squeezing it against his chest until it's sharp edges dig into his skin. Even after all these years, he's still kept it close. He tries to feel the visage of you that was once attached to its bearings, whispering for you under the night sky, hoping it'll remind you of your time in the abyss— hoping that tonight he will feel you again, ruffling his hair with tendrils of wind.

He never does.

Childe barely sleeps, but when he does, he dreams of you. You have no body, no face— he can't even begin to imagine what you look like, and he doesn't dare too, even when he knows he has nothing to lose.

He's back in the dark, but you're still there with him, providing him light and comfort. If he knew that leaving would entail being without you, he never would have left at all. Better to be with you than to die without.

Sometimes, he dreams of you staying with him even after he escapes. Your warmth is ever-present. He gifts you riches, now. You have a voice in his dreams, and he can hear you speaking to him. You're kind, and gentle, and he wants for nothing. He has you, and there is nothing more to want.

He dreams he never lost you at all. It makes reality all the more painful.

In a way he knows is pathetic, Childe hopes you at least found him fun. He hopes you found him entertaining, despite how the thought twists his heart and guts into little knots, until he feels vaguely nauseous at the notion. At least then you would have reason to remember him. At least he could say he meant something to you.

In a hidden corner of his room, there sits an altar for you. His wealth as a Harbinger means he has no lack of resources, and so he bejewels the altar until it glimmers even without light. It's obnoxious and opulent to the point of vanity, but he figures that if you like it, he'll earn another whisper of warmth from you— in the vain hope that you hear him at all anymore.

With his hands, now calloused and worn, he carves sigils into whalebone. He doesn't know what they mean, but they were numerous in the abyss; and so he etches them into bone, hoping that whatever they mean, it reaches you.

Childe pushes himself more than he should. His back aches from all the weight he carries on his shoulders, but he trudges forward despite how it hurts. He is more fervent in conflicts, and spectacular scenes of blood and viscera follow him every time he walks onto a battlefield.

His tongue forms words of devotion for the Tsaritsa as he slays another enemy, blood staining his fingers, but in his heart, he only ever speaks of you.

When he fights, Childe can lose himself. He can focus entirely on the movement of his feet, the precision of his blade. He can ignore how badly he misses you, and how in the back of his mind, he desperately hopes that the more blood he sheds with your teachings, you'll find him satisfactory.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and once again he lets himself be drowned by the rush, letting himself forget all of his pain.

Childe is proud of the way that no one can recognize his style of fighting. It is exact and sharp— every strike hitting its target with ease, filled with vigor and intensity. He enjoys the gazes of jealousy, but remains silent when asked. My teacher taught me, he says. He sheds no further light on the matter, and any instance someone shows interest in learning from him, he instantly refuses. Childe wishes to keep you close to his chest, a guarded secret known only to him.

Childish, perhaps. He knows it is. But if he can't have you, then he will have the knowledge of you. He will keep it to himself, and there it will stay, safe in his tight grip.

It drives him insane, the way sees you in everything. When night falls, covering the sky in a blanket of stars, he wonders if you're staring at him from above. When the tides of the sea brush against the shore, he finds himself thinking of you as the moon— you are what anchors him, despite the fact that he hasn't felt you in so long. In his eyes, there is nothing you could not be, and with every breath, he only ever misses you more.

It's during his mission in Liyue that he feels you again. Childe is unable to breathe when he meets the Traveler, sensing you watching from their eyes. His heart thunders in his chest, tempestuous as a storm over the sea.

For a moment, he's happy. You're finally back. He wants nothing more than to run to you, to ask you why you left for so long, to ask how he can make you stay, but then he feels you— a familiar pressure bearing down on him, forcing him to say anything but what he wants to.

Childe watches the Traveler's back fade as it finally clicks for him.

You abandoned him for someone else. You left him... for this. The thought sends him reeling. You left him, just to go spend time with someone else— to give them the same company you gave him, to give them the same guidance you gave him— was he merely replaceable to you?

Was he just a test for you?

He should be angry. And he is, but the heartbreak overwhelms him. He's left choking, battling for air. The agony of having been tossed to the side, of having it be affirmed in front of his eyes. He wants to scream and cry, beg for you to return; but his throat squeezes every time he meets the Traveler, and the words die on his tongue.

You don't want him to speak. He's meant to play along.

Childe had waited for you for so long. Even after all this time, he couldn't get rid of the painful hope that you'd return. He had done his best to bottle his emotions, to keep them shut and locked inside, so that you wouldn't be disappointed in him upon your arrival. Proud that he never doubted you for a moment.

But he had. He had doubted you, cried at the lack of your comfort. Afraid of what it meant to be without you. Fearful of living, never getting to gleam your existence for a second time— and now you want him to pretend as if he never knew you.

As if he can't see the slight smugness in the Traveler's eyes.

His fight with the Traveler is personal. He bares his teeth, snarling like a rabid dog. His every strike is fast, precise with the intent to kill and maim. Childe hopes his emotions reach you, that you know of his bitterness and acrimony. That you know of how long he wished for you, how long he yearned for you to come back— how his frustration has twisted into pure rage, turned into a fine point.

He just has to simply show you how he's better. He has to show you that he's superior in every way to your choice. That you should've chosen him over them.

They are undeserving; watch how he rips through them like they are nothing, slicing through them like they are mist over sea. They are unworthy; see how easily he beats them into submission, how easily they crumble at his feet. The matter of the Gnosis is nothing to him, now— only whether you see how he should be the one you prefer.

It's then that he feels it. Your rage. Your anger at having been battered and bruised. The Traveler stands back up, but something is different now. Their strikes are fluid, prowess and skill increased by an outside force.

You.

Do you hate him that badly? Detest him so much, to go so far as to bless another with your strength so they can prove themselves to be his better? Even in his Foul Legacy form, Childe is forced to retreat; forced to bow his head in defeat, weakened by the burden of his transformation.

The realization leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's done the exact opposite of what he set out to do. All he's proven is that your right.

Childe feels your crushing weight bearing down on him. He spits the words out, calls them 'friend' through clenched teeth. He dances to your whims, just as he had previously. Unnatural, stiff movements and words that speak the opposite of what he means.

And then you're gone, left along with them. He stares at their fading back. He can almost imagine you beside them, walking by their side just as you once did his.

It hurts.

The next time he feels you, there is no sign of the Traveler. Only a tight pulling in his chest.

He doesn't know what it means, or what it entails. But he follows, sensing you at the end, waiting for him. Childe doesn't allow himself to hope; that maybe, you have come around. That maybe you do care. That maybe, you never hated him— not truly. That you missed him just as he missed you.

Maybe he meant something, after all.

When he reaches you, he feels it. You're happy. You're happy with him. He feels you reaching out, tickling him with strands of your will. You brush against his skin, burrow deep inside. Childe lets you, still unable to breathe.

He wonders if this is really happening. Have you come back to him, truly? Have you finally realized how much better he is? He feels you graze his soul, reaching deep within. Childe feels you envelop him, swathing him in warmth and comfort.

You're home, you whisper.

He only hears the ghost of your voice, a chime in the wind; but he hears the intent, the meaning behind your unintelligible words, even though he can't understand them.

Childe breaks.

SANGUINE NATUS ; first meeting/as a worshiper

If even just your breath could leave him weak, then seeing you for the first time makes his knees give out underneath him.

It's a foolishly embarrassing display, but Childe can't find it in himself to care. He falls to his knees quicker than his mind can catch up, unconsciously posturing himself to make himself seem as small and harmless as possible— anything to make you stay, even if it means sabotaging his image.

He tucks his shoulders inward, struggling between looking at you until his eyes burn and your image is seared into the back of his eyelids, or averting his gaze because just touching you with them feels like he's sullying you somehow.

His breath comes out short and sharp, his entire chest heaving with each shuddering, raspy exhale. Before he can even manage a sound, he's sobbing, crumpling to the floor— there's no care taken to your perception of him now, only the wailful cries of one lost in the weight of your eyes. Childe knows he's being pathetic, a mess of airy desperation and red eyes; everything he was when he felt the ghost of you leave him, and everything he wished you'd never see. But it's you, and for the first time, he can truly feel your eyes on him.

It's all too much to bear.

"I-It's you, it's you—!" Childe manages to choke, wet tears caking the apples of his face. His eyes strain, burning to see the visage of you through the blur of his vision. Nausea bites at him, his abdomen a sudden storm from the tears that lick at his cheeks.

Childe has always been austere in his worship; strict, solemn in how he acts out every religious rite. There is an icy silence unlike him as he moves, particularly whenever your sanctity is involved. His fingers still tremble despite his stiffness, the desperation loud in every twitch of his limbs. The desire to see you, after all is said and done.

Seeing you for the first time feels as though a wave has overtaken him, drowning him in brine and the cerulean of muddy waters. There is no hiding what he could barely contain before— jerky movements filled with need and the dolor of one disappointed before.

Childe no longer finds himself able to veil it by lies and rushing fights of adrenaline; now, it lies bare, and there's no burning ache to keep it hidden.

His fervor is relentless; a feverish desire to please you coalescing until it's unbearable for his skin. Your reaction to his cries could have been cruel or kind, and it wouldn't have bothered him; all that matters is whether he has finally proven himself worthy of standing by your side.

His worship is eager words spilling from his lips at night, the echo of your name a murmur from his mouth like the sigh of the ocean's waves-- his blades stained red, limp at his sides-- the burning in the back of his throat that comes from years of pleading.

You're here now, even if he can't be with you at all times; and that knowledge leaves him whispering to you, uttering every thought without a moment of reconsideration. It is a ceaseless endeavor, as every word is listless praise and endless adoration. There isn't a moment where he isn't thinking of you in some way, and the mere thought of the opposite leaves him feeling vaguely sick.

He wants to think of you all the time. Though it's such a small thing, in his mind, he has you all to himself— in the sense that there is no one else to take your eyes off of him— there, he can make you happy; there, he can make you proud of him. In that world, you have no reason to be rid of him.

Childe's always kept his habit of crafting you makeshift gifts. They're rugged, imperfect things, but laden with his fingerprints and the palms of his hands. Before, he could only set them still on his altar for you, and hope that it pleased you somehow. He was only ever met with silence, but he could pretend you were happy with him, and the idea alone was enough.

When he catches sight of a sea conch, its pale marks swirled across its smooth surface, he can only think of handing it to you. It's a beautiful thing, and so simple and crude a gift; but maybe you will find worth in such a thing, the simplicity of its nature, and praise him for it.

He gives them to you physically now, unable to shake the urge to do so. His hands always tremble when he hands them over, his knees threatening to buckle underneath him whenever your fingers brush against his. He will never fail to drown in the sensation, allowing everything that he is to become thoughts of you.

Childe has always worshiped you in bloodshed. In the past, he hoped it would leave you satisfied enough to come back; now, it's to prove how much better he is than everyone else. His fear runs deep, like cracks in the earth far below the water's surface, and the sickening feeling of dread whenever you praise someone else suffocates him.

It's unreasonable, he knows, and he has no reason to fear, not anymore— but his heart still quickens at the thought, and his stomach still twists.

It's an all too familiar feeling. When he was first torn from you, he felt as though his heart had been ripped right out of him; and the panic he feels only reminds him of it.

When he's inevitably forced away from you on another mission, he deals with it as quickly as possible, no matter how bloodied or bruised he leaves it. He is brutally unkind in his workings, his words always terse and clipped; a slight edge that never really seems to go away until he knows you're somewhere nearby.

It's when he's forced to stay away from you for a longer period of time that he breaks completely. Upon his return, he is instantly back at your side, heaving sobs and ugly tears running down his face. He can barely think, and a flurry of slurred words leaves his lips— begging to never leave your side again.

Childe knows better than to think he is deserving of your kindness, but he’s desperate to at least stay in your shadow. There, he could stay near you, even if he was swathed in black— even if his only glimpse of you was your back, he would be in bliss. To be near you in some form is all he could ever ask of you.

For all of the power you have granted him, it's only right that he use it for you. A mere word from anyone that isn't pure praise has his grip on his weapon tightening, the tendons on his hand taut and his knuckles pale. He remains entirely oblivious to any moral ambiguity in your actions— whatever you do is right and just; as you are the only one worthy of judging yourself, he does not dare too.

Instead, Childe draws his blade in judgement of others— he will act as your hand and executioner, the arbiter of your faith; it's with only vigor that he hands out punishment, a ferocity bold and true.

AMANS IN SPINIS IACET ; as your lover

Childe's dreams have begun to take a sudden turn.

It's not anything he can control, despite how hard he tries too. They pleased him at first, even though he still couldn't help the way his heart tightened at the idea of you somehow knowing. At that time, they weren't occurring enough for him to be worried, and the content themselves were innocent enough for him to think nothing of it.

You held him close to you, pressing benign kisses across his freckled cheeks, playing with his hair with soft fingers; little things that he could believe meant nothing at all, just a desire to feel your affection in the only way his mortal heart knew how.

The dreams turn nightly, and Childe finally realizes it's much more than that.

It begins at signs of your favoritism. Glances that last more than they should, summoning him to your chambers more frequently; Childe does not deny you, and he can't help the faint giddiness that clouds his mind every time he feels your gaze linger on him. It's a euphoric sensation to know that he is the one you are looking at; no one else. Only barely does he manage to rein in his emotions every time.

You speak much softer to him, and your touch is more affectionate. He turns drunk on your approval, willingly dancing to your whims if it meant having your fingers coiled in his hair for another moment. Before he can stop himself for even daring to think it, Childe lets himself believe he's special to you— and that is where the problem arises.

The thoughts don't stop. Even if he screams to drown out the noise, they still manage to be so loud. The dreams are relentless, more loving, more vivid. He can feel the warmth of your palms as you caress his cheeks, the weight of your breath when you draw your head near; they feel so real, that for a moment, he thinks you're the one sending them to him.

He feels as though he's dirtying you in some form, as if he is the one committing an unforgivable sin against you; somehow managing to desecrate you with just his thoughts alone. The idea sends him into a panic-induced frenzy, kneeling before his altar with rushed, unintelligible apologies on his lips.

Despite his self-hatred, whenever he wakes from one, Childe is left blissfully dazed, nuzzling into his pillow with hazy clarity— pretending that it's you, instead. He wonders what it would be like if his dreams were real, if he could really be so special to you in such a way; entirely irreplaceable, entirely yours.

It doesn't take long for his will to be eroded by his desperation. His desire to resist was already hanging by a thread, and as the dreams persist, any resistance on his end is lost. He falls ever deeper into an abyss of his own making, allowing himself to be undone by his own creation.

Childe has always been needy, but as his feelings rear their ugly head, it only grows worse. He has always loved you— and he had been struggling to choke his own feelings down for as long as he could, fooling himself into believing that they didn't exist in the first place. In his eyes, it's only right that you be the one to shake the foundation he lay; making him crumble until every dark part of himself is laid bare in front of you, only for your eyes.

There's a drastic increase in his desperation to be near you, and any lack of refusal on your part only exacerbates it. He neglects his duties entirely in favor of staying by you in some way or another, be it either by your side, or following you from a distance like a lost puppy.

Your admittance of feelings only makes Childe more fervent. He can barely hear himself speak, his heart fluttering against his ribcage like a caged canary. He can barely believe anything you're saying, and for a moment, he wonders if he's lost in another dream of his.

At your assurance, Childe doesn't dare to doubt you any longer. He falls entirely into you, allowing you to consume his every thought. He doesn't think to fight back, letting you envelop him until his every breath is coated in your name. He is yours, and he has no desire for anything more.

His desire for your approval now emboldens him. Childe's always acted out of an interest in garnering your attention, and though he now knows of your feelings, it does nothing to satiate him; instead, it leaves him hungrier, greedy with an eagerness to please.

He doesn't take from you without asking, but he asks enough for it to be a nuisance. Your affection is everything to him, and he can't bear to go a moment without it. He asks to lay his head in your lap, for you to play with his hair— the loss of your touch is the loss of himself, and sends him reeling back to memories of when he was without you.

The first time you kiss him, his legs instantly give out underneath him, a small groan leaving his lips. Childe doesn't bother to dull his reactions; you deserve to know how easily weakened he is by your touch, with even a brush of your fingers enough to leave him breathless and wanting.

As your favorite, Childe is quick to be rid of any competition. Whether or not you see them as possible suitors doesn't even cross his mind— the fear that snakes around his heart is ever-present, and if they're better than him in some form, it only grows in persistence. He doesn't hurt them, because surely that would upset you, and any devotee of you is worthy of respect— but he is quick to showcase his superiority, and to do so broadly without shame.

Childe grows used to his new status, and uses it to stay by your side constantly. Any attention you give to others is met with instant jealousy, seething glares sent to whoever stole your gaze, even if they only preoccupied a second of your mind.

He could never be mad at you, as clearly the fault lies within himself.

Any signs of your likes and dislikes are instantly noted. If you compliment someone for their behavior, he begins to emulate it, or at least he tries too. If you like Zhongli for how well he executes your orders, then Childe will be the same; only he will do it better, quicker, and prove himself still deserving of your love.

If he were perfect, then you would have no need for anyone else. If he were perfect, he would never have to worry about whether you'll grow bored of him the moment he stops being entertaining enough.

The thought of you with another leaves Childe sick without fail. He knows he has no control over you, and that if you wished to be rid of him, he would willingly walk into whatever punishment awaited him— but now that he has tasted what it feels like to be so utterly yours, he can't bear to imagine another sharing the same treatment.

You kissing another, holding another, letting someone else lay against you; all of it only serves to further blur his vision. Even if it is sinful of him to feel, he can't stop the emotions from swirling in his chest.

You are everything; the earth laid beneath his feet, the foundation of which he relies on. To be without you is to fall, to be without you means death; and if he must carve his skin and bone to fit the picture you want him to be, then he shall.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #sagau #yandere male #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #self aware genshin #yandere childe #sagau childe #self aware childe #genshin cult au #cult au childe

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qcomicsy · 9 months

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I don't think Bruce is ever angry at Jason. Frustrated? Yeah. But never angry. I think he's angry at himself. How can you hate the child who shoots blindly if it was you who taught them how to hold a gun?

#I have so many thoughts about them so many so many so many thoughts #I can't even bring my self to talk about it yet so I keep rotating them in my mind like a fucked up microwave #jason todd #json todd and beuce wayne #bruce wayne and jason todd #jason todd & bruce wayne #q rants #q rambles #🦇🦇🐦🐦

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unisongakikoeru · 2 months

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hey, in what way do you think your f/o would carry you? bridal style, piggyback ride, potatoes sack style, or anything else that i'm forgetting? and how would you carry your f/o?

proship/comship dni

#writing #imagine your f/o #self ship #self ship community #self ship imagine #self shipping #q #based on me imagining 🦇 carrying me bridal style #🐯 giving me a piggyback ride though......

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sanguineships · 7 days

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self shippers (me) listening to cutesy upbeat love songs while thinking about the worst most sadistic evil person ever (my beloved f/o)

#🦇my prince #i love him #self shipping #self ship #f/o community #self ship community #f/o #shipping #fictional other #selfship

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the-bar-sinister · 18 days

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Imagine telling your villain f/o: "I don't care how much blood is on your hands, I want them on my body."

#dark self ship #f/o imagines #imagine your f/o #imagine your self ship #imagine your selfship #imagine your villainous f/o #killer f/o #self ship #self ship imagine #selfship #selfship imagine #villain f/o #villain imagine #villainous f/o #🦇👁️

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mattodore · 7 months

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it takes a lot out of me to remember myself. i turn my face away from it and my body cracks open, spilling glistening hot viscera onto the floor for the audience to coo at. scenes flash behind me—dark corners, the breeze from the window, the floorboards creaking, a shift in the air. close to me, you look over my shoulder. you tell me, “you kept yourself so still when you were younger.” i want to ask how you know that. how do you know? but you reach out to touch my open body, press my hand to your chest, hold my face. it’s in your eyes. you were a boy once. just like me.

#cw self harm #cw injury #cw blood #simblr #the sims 4 #ts4 #ts4 edit #river dipping #theodore doe #matthias evanoff #echthroi #a burning house to live in #🦇#the link in the caption is to the full version of this image if anyone is curious about the actual details in this edit.......#i'm beating tumblr with so many hammers rn btw #the caption itself is pretty long but i didn't want to cut any of it to make it easily digestible bc theo isn't easy to digest anyway #i don't even know where to begin with this edit...#he's getting up from his knees in the first pose and then limping in the second and slowing to a stop in the third #the first pose is actually meant to be in reference to the sunflowers memory from his 60 questions... :/#his teenage self is definitely the one i put the most work into every step of the way... it's a time for him i don't really talk about #but it's definitely the years that shaped him the most as a character and well... theo doesn't really confront his past #but matthias mirrors theo in a lot of ways and through matthias theo meets himself again #hm. yeah. also doing the lighting from scratch was interesting. the light source here for theo is matthias and vice versa #if you look at the higher quality version of this and zoom in you can see that theo is actually crying pretty blankly in the second pose...#the blood running down his knee came out really well... wish you could see it in the post version :(#also i made a pose where theo is held up in matthias's arms hiding his face in his neck which is attached to this pose set but idk.#decided not to include that picture... plus i'd have to edit it first which would've been... so many more hours.#but anyway... theo's birthday was on the 28th but there were. circumstances. waves hands. so now we're posting this two days late.#in the same vein as matthias's birthday edit from april: here's to the first person to ever show theo love.

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hypocriticaltypwriter · 27 days

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The Bride and her ugly ass grooms!!!

#🍒daily dose of cherry🍒#fruitbats🦇🍒#🦇🤍White Wedding AU 🤍🦇#selfshipping #the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #tlb #tlb 1987 #self shipping #selfshipper #tlb paul #tlb marko #tlb dwayne #tlb david #the lost boys x reader

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canineluvz · 2 months

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thinking about f/o’s that struggle with their own morals. f/o’s who dont know if theyre doing the right thing. f/o’s who dont want to be the villain but dont know any other way to be. f/o’s that need love above everything else because with your love they may be able to do better not only by you, but by themselves too.

#thinking about porter #hes so tragic to me #🦇#♡ canineluvz imagine #self ship #self shipping #selfship #f/o #fictional other #self ship imagine #f/o imagine #proship selfship #proselfship #proship friendly

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mistercage · 21 days

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"you’re not alone with those nightmares anymore. i got you." "thank you…"

batrac comfort does a lil dance . it has also been a while since i drew smth for myself too since ive been sick n before that i only did comms- buuut . it turned out so good wah im kinda proud (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) coloring bruce‘s hair was funky /pos

#‧₊˚ 🦇 • 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙚 .ᐟ #🦇🌌⋆｡ °⋆ 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 #ᯓ 🪄 ⋅ 𝙢𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙩 #ᯓ 🖍️ ⋅ 𝙖𝙧𝙩 #safeship #safeshipping #self ship #selfship #self shipping #selfship art

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hypocriticalspicewrites · 3 months

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🦇💚🦇💚

Pairing: Dwayne, Chrysta, [Self Insert]

Warnings: ⚠️NSFW ahead!⚠️ Minors DNI

Divider made by @/mmadeinheavenn 🩷🩷

Taglist~ @misslavenderlady @themarginalthinker @ria-coolgirl @lostboys1987girl @sweetnspicyfruitlet

Notes: Yall this is my first ever full blown smut drabble so please don't judge me if it's bad 😭

[Likes, reblogs, comments and suggestions are appreciated!🍒🩷]

Dwayne was an animal. Dwayne was a predator.

He uses that dark and mysterious demeanor to all but pull you in. He tempts you with sweet nothings and gentle, shy touches just to lure you into his claws. He acts like a creature, calling you in with cries of heartache and longing. And once he finally has you in too deep, he makes sure you can't get out.

He keeps his teeth buried into your pure flesh, taints it with his crimson stained teeth. His jaw tight around your neck, like a wolf shaking out what life is left in a cornered doe struggling with all the strength in can as to hope to escape without a mark. But Dwayne always leaves a mark. He'd be sure of it.

He growled, low and guttural, feeling it course and ripple across the hot flesh clad against his frigid temperature. Her chest rising and falling pressed against his with those, weak little breaths as she found her lungs caving with the weight atop her and the overall way he just ripped the air directly from her lungs with each rut of his hips clashing roughly with her own.

Chrysta could all but lay there, hands clawing desperately at his dewy skin, leaving imprints of nails carved across his arms and streaked lines down his back. Her legs parted so far out they'd started to ache and grow sore, trembling virgously as they tried to stay coiled around his hips, but his fast, animalistic thrusts left her body unable to keep up. Her mouth opened with nothing, my strings of slurred praises and his name echoing of the caverns of his nest.

It wreaked of sex. The dampness in the air quelling with the ocean just outside and the heat emanating from the small space could have left a haze in the ruins of the hotel.

His eyes stayed trained in her the whole time- even when she couldn't keep her own on him, screwed shut off in her own world of euphoria, a few flutters of her lashes indicating when his dick had stroked that spot that made her eyes roll into the back of her head and her spine curve.

His cock pumped in and out of her needy slit at a verocity that was enough to make any woman cry, filling her walls and leaving no part of her aching cunt untouched by his thick length. Her warmth pulled him in like a temptress, a yearning to feel it over and over again whenever he'd pulled out and quickly plunge back in. He could feel that tension in him that was about to burst- yet he all but tortured himself, edging his body to keep this moment going, and wished it could last so much longer than it already had. His cock twitched and throbbed it almost hurt. Enough Chrysta could hear hisses between grinded teeth and a few harsh quiet 'fuck..' Uttered out whenever her cunt clamped pathetically around his length slowly easing him back into her vice hold on him.

His strained thighs were glossy with her arousal painted across his lower half, her inner-thighs not looking any better whilst he fucked her into an incomprehensible haze, watching the way her wetness just spilled along his veined dick, feeling that pulsing ache in his body knowing it was all because of him.

"Look how fuckin' tight n' wet you are for me." He purred into her ear, hearing her whimper and that flutter of goosebumps crawling across her skin. His thick eyelashes kissed at her jaw, his faint stubble itching across her neck. Any touch that wasn't the feeling of his dick pounding away at her pussy was heightened, making her flinch slightly and her hips that where still held down by his large hands jolt.

He didn't need to hear anything but her moans fill his cavern and his head, like a lulling siren song he'd never ever refuse to hear night after night, wether it were himself eliciting the vocals from her, or one of his other mates. He could hear her thoughts, read those words repeating through her mind. 'More, more, more, more.' And he was willing to give her everything she requested- even if it was the entire world.

One of his hands left her hip, that dark imprint of his hand and splotched bruises of his fingertips caused that stir in him again. His rough palm slowly caressed up toward her stomach, that slight bulge being the swollen head of his cock rolling up and down with each rough thrust. His palm rested atop of it, pressing down firmly enough to watch her stomach compress and a strained breath to escape her mouth- followed by a wanton sob as her hips jolted against him, her back arching.

"Oh, precious.." He cooed, her brain too melted enough to know if it was spoken with true adoration or mocking. His hand continued it's journey or gliding up her body, resting in between her breasts across her sternum. That heavy thumping of her heart nearly pounding out of her ribcage to leap into his hand nearly broke all restrain he had in that moment. He could feel his thick digits curling around the back of her neck, propping her head up with his wrist before he leeched onto her, lips finding her own in a messy kiss of tongue and saliva.

Her moans and whines were swallowed into his mouth, only breaking free when he'd parted just enough to crane his head to a better position or to the other side. That taste of blood invaded her mouth as his tongue languidly entered her mouth, fangs pricking at her bottom lip which he hastily lapped at any blood oozing from his marks.

He could feel her go frigid for a moment, a strangled gasp heaving from her chest as he only parted the kiss for a moment, a tendril of saliva connecting their lips.

"Dwayne." She urged, her voice getting to that higher vocal he was all too familiar with. Her cunt tightened enough it almost made her have to slow down his quick pace as though afraid to break her.

"I know baby." He responded, a grunt and hiss following. "I'll get you there." He promised, thumb tracing circles into her jaw as his head resided into the crook of her neck. He guided his knees underneath her ass, propping her up just a bit against his hips till his dick could go as far as it could inside her, folding her over just a bit while propping her legs up along his hips.

He was about ready to break her. That inhuman energy and vampiric stamina had him bucking his hips so hard it made her body bounce, unable to keep her still underneath him. Her moans increased in pitch and became frequent as he urged her into an orgasm.

"Gonna cum for me, Dollface?" He smirked, a growl purrs from his throat, pressing needy kisses into her neck, feeling her pulse throb against his lips. "Fuck... You're just about ready to pop, aren't you?" He grunted as her cunt milked his length, urging him to just spill that building want into her, to pump his hot cum into her needy slit.

"Dwayne!" She choked out, her hands that were clawing at the sheets above her head finding his hair, tangling her fingers into his long dark tresses as her legs locked around his hips. Her vision started to go white, and her mind blanked, chanting his name as though it's the only thing her brain could comprehend.

He purred, eyes fluttering shut, ache pulsing through his dick now becoming unbearable, to a point one tear escaped from his earthy eyes, streaking down his face and falling onto her collarbone.

He used his unoccupied hand to finally tease her opening, his touch nearly featherlike as his middle-finger rubbed soft circles into the bud of her clit, watching her eyes snap open only to roll into the back of her head, back arching so hard he had to use his own weight to ease her down as a wanton moan falls out of her throat.

Her orgasm washed over her like hot fire, watching her essence pool out of her slit still stuffed with him inside. He gave one final rut of his hips before swiftly pulling out with a growl. Spurts of hot cum fall in ropes across her stomach, glistening in the dim candlelight with an inhuman glittery hue.

He pants heavily with breaths he doesn't even need. His breath fanning across her neck as he takes a moment to let her collect herself, her fingers still ripping at his dark hair. Not that he minded the pain.

"You doing okay, Chrysta?" He asked, his voice slightly husky as he brought his hand from her head, letting it back back into the pillows beneath her, and gentle took her wrists with and removed both her hands from his hair. "Still awake?" He had a wolfish grin you could almost hear as he said it.

"Mhm." She hummed softly, her hands weakly falling back against her chest. She looked rather dazed, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and glazed over with a bliss as she still tried to reform her brain fucked into putty.

He chuckled, throaty and it made her body shake a bit. He propped himself onto his elbows, grabbing at the discarded sheets hanging off the bed and bringing them over to her figure underneath him.

He wiped off his seed oozing off her stomach down her hips, leaving a sparkly residue imprinted in her skin that she now thinks won't be coming out anytime soon. He also took the time to clean her up between her thighs, being as gentle as possible running the cool soft fabric across her sensitive cunt, making her heart flutter just a bit. He then brings it to his dick, cleaning off the concoction of their mixed fluids off his length, then merely tossing the sheet aside and easing himself back on top of her.

He rests his head atop her bare breasts, stroking his thumb across the underside of one before cupping if gently and placing a few stray kisses along the plush fat in his hand.

She sighed softly, running her hand through his hair which earned her a deep groan, his weight going lax on top of her, his other arm creeping under her back and wrapping around her. He didn't need to rest, yet something about having her in his arms after a fuck session like that made it hard not to relax.

"I'll take you home later, 'kay? Don't want to share tonight." He stated bluntly, his voice barely even above a whisper muffled against her skin. He felt a small giggling emit from her, making her chest shift. He could feel her playing with his hair, shifting a few strands into a braid.

"Yeah? I don't mind." She answered sweetly. "I just need a minute." She hummed, earning one back from Dwayne. She stops her braiding, simply running her fingers through his thick brown locks, looking up at the cavern ceiling, staring at nothing specific, just lost in thought.

"Hey, Dwayne?"

"Hm?"

"I love you."

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #🍒daily dose of cherry🍒#lost boys #🍒cherrys spice cabinet🔥#self ship #self insert #fruitbats🦇🍒#tlb 1987 #the lost boys dwayne #dwayne the lost boys #dwayne tlb #tlb dwayne

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chococolte · 6 days

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Your sagau zhongli is my fave! Devotion is soooo good he's so good!! If he were offered a reward, what would he ask for? He definitely deserves good things for being such a dedicated worshipper

word count. 1.6k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, sagau + cult au shit, religious themes, g/n reader.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. hi guys......... sorry i took so long to write this, and im so happy you like my characterization of him!!!! it means so much to me!!!

Your praise.

Zhongli has rarely ever wanted.

When he was young, still arrogant and born of war, Zhongli didn't want— he took. He had no need of envy or desire. What he could not have, he would get in time. Immortality comes with an infinite patience.

If he was still that god, flippant and self-important, maybe he would demand some sort of compensation. Some sort of recompense for past agony.

For as long as Zhongli's lived, he has never wanted; not in the way a mortal yearns for their lover, or the way a dog longs for its owner until it whines. Never in any way that mattered, never before he met you.

Zhongli has had eons to become used to the loneliness that so often encompasses him. And now, knowing that you breathe the same air as him, he's become rather acquainted with the ever consuming desire to nestle close to you, like ink caressing every pore of canvas.

His desire runs through him— barking and loud, rapid and frantic— but when faced with you, a whisper, whimpering in the dark crevices of his ribs. At times, he comes close to asking you to hold him, but decorum and propriety keep him in place, tight and tense.

Liyue was built knowing your gaze followed him. Its foundations set, earth molded, and its rivers bent, hoping they would be fit to your liking. His every breath spent chasing after your favor, desiring to be remade in your image, to be exactly what you want him to be. Afraid that, when finally met with you, you will not like what you see.

Zhongli has rarely ever wanted, and rarer still, has he ever feared.

It's a mortal's fear. The fear of their lord displeased with their harvest. A boyish fear, made up of desperation and the fear of disapproval; one he shouldn't feel, one he should feel no familiarity with. One he suspects many have felt when within his own presence.

When you ask him what he would like in return for all of his efforts— a reward, you say— Zhongli feels his breath seized from him.

Zhongli lived much of his early life against you. At every opportunity, he rebelled at what he thought was a cruel god. Imperious and charged with Guizhong’s death, he would have demanded answers.

For him to have lived while those he cared for perished without a moment's repose, for him to have survived every moment of cruel war when each breath was like a whip against his lungs— he deserved to know, if you were as real as Guizhong so staunchly believed, why he had lived in her place.

Yet, despite centuries of tempered rage, Zhongli has become content to live as nothing more than your servant.

He tells you he wants for nothing. That all he desires now is the simplicity of being beside you; the escape of your laughter, where there's no need to concern himself with anything other than you. He tells you he only wishes to know how to take care of you better, how to align himself with your tastes and desires.

"I insist," you say, and Zhongli realizes it's a command. His mouth turns dry, and every word settles on his tongue like heavy weights, dead and still.

You stare, and his breath hitches, his heart a swell in his chest. Zhongli thinks of every answer, how your reaction to any could either breathe life into him, or leave him broken. How, for a moment, he amuses himself with the idea of asking for your touch— the cusp of your palm on his cheek, your fingers against his spine; how he could ask, and how you might favor him enough to do so.

He then thinks of asking you for reassurance. For affirmation of forgiveness for the actions in his youth. To finally have the certainty that he hasn’t failed you, and maybe, the confirmation that you may care for him.

“Forgive me for my impropriety, Your Grace,” Zhongli begins, voice light and breathy. His hand rests on his chest, fighting the urge to dig into his skin, hoping to calm the pounding of his heart. “But… if I may, I was wondering if I had done right by you?”

You sit inertly in silence for a moment, and Zhongli wonders if it’s on purpose, some sort of punishment for daring to ask such a thing. You had no reason to reward him, and he had been blessed enough to hold your attention for longer than a moment. He had no right to ask for your thoughts, not so directly.

He thought he knew that. It was why he followed you, why he made sure your every request was completed to the highest standard. If you mentioned the taste of your tea being too bitter, or sweet, or that you’d rather he prepare something else for you entirely, he would rush to follow your word. Even if he had been the one to brew it, even if it was him who cultivated the leaves, even if he thought it would be to your liking.

All he needed was to be helpful. All he needed was you. Within you, was his salvation— within you, was love itself. Without you, the once great Lord of Geo was but a fragmented elemental wisp of energy, only ever calling your name.

A spike of adrenaline rushes through him, fear and anxiety denying any sense of hope. All he hears is the solitary sound of his heart in his ears.

“You have only ever done good by me.”

Zhongli’s heart lurches, heat rippling through his body. You say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and his mind feels dizzy at the implication. The ground sways, and his feet feel light.

“You deserve more than that, I think.” You step forward, and Zhongli is so lost within his own thoughts, he takes no notice of your sudden increase in proximity— but his breath still quickens, and red still coats the apples of his cheeks.

“Kneel,” you whisper, and though you say it so softly, it's as though the sky had been torn asunder with the speed he responds. Zhongli’s mind still feels far away, but he hears your orders as if spoken directly into his ear.

He drops to his knees, no care for whether he does so elegantly enough. All he can focus on is the weight of your gaze, and the way he's the only thing under it.

“Do you want me to praise you?” You trace his jawline with your finger, still speaking in a soft, unhurried tone. “Do you want me to tell you how much of a good boy you are?”

Zhongli inhales sharply, fighting every thought that screams at him to eagerly lean into your hand. He stares up at you, russet lashes fluttering and amber eyes swallowed by adoration and worship.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he whispers hoarsely.

Your thumb swipes over his lower lip, and a whine rises to the back of his throat.

“My good boy.” Zhongli’s entire body shudders, his chest heaving. A shaky breath escapes him. “You've been waiting to hear that for so long, haven't you?”

He whimpers, then nods in a way he hopes doesn’t come across as overeager— quickly bereft of any sense of propriety, or care for whether or not he’s making a fool of himself. All he can concern himself with is how close you are, how easily your scent renders him still, how quickly he borders on senseless.

You smile at that, and he bites his tongue to stop himself from whimpering.

“Do you want me to tell you how grateful I am?” Your fingers move across his neck, brushing against his Adam’s Apple, watching it bob as he gulps, trying to keep himself steady and not fall against you. “How you're my favorite?”

An ugly sound rips from Zhongli’s throat, and it's one he's instantly ashamed of. Every part of him feels bare in front of you, laid out messy and without decorum. The mask he’s worn for eons steadily breaks, and every one of his veins and bones scream out for your warmth.

The Lord of Geo wouldn’t have ever allowed himself to be so vulnerable. He never would have amused himself with the thought of pleading for anything, or kneeling and falling apart because he was treated softly— least of all, of being so desperate to know that you love him; that you favor him.

Zhongli, now without his Gnosis, is as mortal as the men he used to lord over. And perhaps it’s his newfound mortality that moves him to lean into your hand, frantically trying to meld your fingers against his skin until his flesh is like clay inlaid with your fingertips; hoping that you’ll rebuild him until he fits your desires, and tell him again that he’s proven to have done good by you.

Every thought is a prayer, another hymn, another psalm.

“Am I? Your favorite?”

His voice trembles, and breathes into a soft whisper. Zhongli doesn’t mean to sound so desperate— he doesn’t mean to be so greedy— but his soul has never felt so full before. His mind is so mired by your touch and voice that he doesn’t realize his lack of formality, or how he might come across as arrogant.

He wants only to think of you, and so he does. Nothing else matters.

“Yes.” You chuckle, and his heart speeds up at the sound, fervent. “Why would I want anyone else?”

Zhongli whines, and faintly, through the blur of fanaticism and worship, thinks that no matter what you asked of him, he would do it without hesitation.

#[🦇] — my writing #genshin impact #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #sagau #cult au #sagau zhongli #yandere zhongli #cult au zhongli #yandere zhongli x reader #yandere male #yandere male x reader #male yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere #self aware genshin au #self aware genshin #gender neutral reader

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