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blkkizzat · 10 days

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'SINS OF THE FATHER'

PRIEST!NANAMI X READER

✟ the liturgy: (summary) Even the most pious of men succumb to temptation and Father Kento is no exception... especially when it comes to you. (Priest!Nanami POV) ✟ the confession: (tw) dark themes, sacrilege, adultery, blasphemy, jealously, exhibitionism, blackmail/manipulation, heavy biblical references, cunnalingus, fingering, riding dick, shoe fucking, blow jobs, panty sniffing, olfactophilia, dacryphilia, lightly suggested altarboy!yuji (aged-up) x reader, oil tycoon!gojo x reader, suggested mentions of reader x other jjk men, corruption, masturbation and angst as you are literally tormenting this poor priest (lol). ✟ the sins: (wc) 4.1k ✟ the opening rites:(a/n) i grew up catholic (got confirmed too) and went to catholic school but haven't stepped inside a church in literal years. i was honestly surprised how many bible references came so easily from pure memory while writing this.

Sanctified conviction radiates off Father Kento as he approaches the inordinately adorned wood carved pulpit with authority to address his congregation.

Despite the uncomfortable Summer heat there is no lack of attendance, a sea of familiar faces packed into the small town chapel. The buzzing song of cicadas and soft oscillation of the large fan circulating humid air through the church are the only sounds heard as the masses eagerly await his homily.

You were among them of course.

Sitting front and center– a small saccharine smile graced your lips while your doe-like eyes, captivated and attentive, were made even bigger as they raised to the podium to meet his own.

Bible open, Father Kento takes a full breath pause before he finally speaks, his gaze is benevolent yet his voice is firm as it projects over the congregation.

“Dear Brothers and Sisters– Let us reflect on the gospel of First Corinthians Chapter 10 Verse 13…and The Lord says– ‘There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man—”

Oh but you– you were anything but common– and irregardless of any higher standing his status as a clergy member bestowed upon him he was still a man of flesh and blood.

No matter the effort exerted, Father Kento had been unable to keep his eyes from yours during the service. The magnetism of unknown and certainly unholy forces drew him to you time and again without fail.

No beauty in town rivaled yours, not with an angelic countenance that complemented your delicate features so gracefully in your every action.

Yours was a form of divine femininity rivaling that of Venus herself.

If that wasn’t beguiling enough, your honeyed voice and syrupy words had the ability to sway even the most feral of temperaments. Leaving those who heard it at your mercy like a gentle but deadly siren.

“—but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able—”

Is God faithful?

Ironic how you had Father Kento questioning the very foundations of his own faith while simultaneously indoctrinating God’s dogma to his faithful parishioners.

If you were a test he had failed.

Many times.

Even the first man, Adam, had fallen to Eve’s allures and not even the warrior strength of Samson was able to overcome Delilah’s seductions.

Who was he to prevail where the biblical idols had fallen?

What actual grace could God give man against the sensual temptation that he had carved from man’s own rib?

Father Kento had felt forsaken of God’s grace ever since you had approached him after mass to quietly request the rites of confession. He should have refused when you kindly solicited him to perform them in the cooler confines of the secluded rectory over the oven-like heat of a chapel confessional box in summer.

Led astray so effortlessly by your genial charms as you looked to him like a lamb lost and addressed him so meekly as “Father Kento”. He would have just as easily given you access to heaven then if it were in his power.

Yet it was you who had so graciously led him to the gates of Zion— which so conveniently happened to reside in the velvety depths between your thighs.

Consequently, the only sins that were confessed in the rectory that day were the moist squelches of your peach-ripened pussy gushing around his cock and coalescing with the frenzied sounds of hot flesh slapping together in unison.

A child of Lilth incarnate to be sure but you looked so pure and celestial, even in ecstasy.

Hair matted to the sides of your face drenched in sweat while your nimble hands clutched onto his clerical collar. Your eyes filled with such loving devotion and you rode him earnestly as if it was your life’s penance.

Father Kento in turn gives you his absolution by taking you from behind. The swell of your plump rear rippling against his hips and shared fluids splashing onto his hard abdomen feverishly drive him closer to God than he’d ever been.

Yes, he is weak.

But Father Kento held the conviction that not even The Vicar of Christ, the Pope himself would be able to resist the vice grip of your silken cunt as if its true purpose was never to bear life but to wring out the very essence of the soul of man.

He’d fallen prey to a day-walking succubus on hallowed holy grounds.

No– Father Kento was certain if this church had ever truly been blessed as a house of God you would have caught aflame the moment you graced its threshold.

“—but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye are able to bear it’.”

Father Kento concluded the passage. Nonetheless, neither it nor any other doctrine had provided him the solace of escape and nor biblical strength did he receive to endure against his temptations.

There was no resisting you.

There was no escaping you.

For anyone you cast your sights on.

This is exemplified by the obvious effect you have on the young alter boy Yuji.

Barely old enough to be called a man, the youth's entire body flinches whenever you spare a sweet glance in his direction.

Has Yuji’s innocence already been stolen?

Father Kento must quell the inkling of jealousy at the thought lest he stumble over his words and shame himself further.

He was a man in every sense of the word and a man of the cloth, he would not compete for your adulterous affections with his own altar boy.

Even so, Father Kento’s lip does curl in disapproval at the deep flush of guilt on Yuji’s cheeks. Yuji clumsily trips over his own feet, nearly permitting the blessed vessels for the rites of eucharist to fall to the ground.

Harlot! Have you really allowed someone other than himself to bathe in the sins of Jezebel?

Maintaining composure through his sermon, Father Kento reminds himself that an inexperienced youth is no threat.

However it is more than likely Yuji– who normally is so oblivious in nature– had likewise become aware of the wicked exhibition of sacrilege occurring beneath the prayer cloth in your lap at the very hands of your own husband– Satoru Gojo.

“So you may ask where does that leave us as followers of Christ? Temptations lure us into doing, saying or thinking something that does not reflect who we really are as sons and daughters of God.”

Neither you nor your husband were Christ’s children so none of these ideologies applied to either of you.

Nefarious philistines the both of you– godless and immoral.

Although Father Kento was for certain your husband, Oil Tycoon, Satoru Gojo– was the only one whose deeds could put yours to shame.

The white haired devil had descended upon the quiet small town like a thief in the night to greedily capture the first few drops of black gold that surged from the earth before it could even fall to the ground. Quickly buying up land and resources, in less than a fortnight Gojo essentially had control over the entire town– its priest included.

But as he became more wealthy, so did the town and its people. Satoru Gojo built up the town around him to match his own gluttony for opulence, taking the town and its people away from simple old time comforts and into the more complex modern age.

Therefore the man was seen as a saintly savior, rather than the lecherous leech he truly was.

To Father Kento’s credit, if he deserved any at all– he had initially held strong in his faith.

He was not a man tempted by the power that would come from a promotion to bishop if a larger church was built. Nor was he tempted by monetary gain. The treasures he had always held most valuable were only those to be found in God’s kingdom.

Familiar with the tricks masked by flamboyant arrays of grandior, Father Kento’s folly had been his own headstrong vainglory in being a man above the lures of temptation. Thus he failed in recognizing you as the seductive snake in sheep's clothing the cunning tycoon Gojo had sent to be his undoing.

And you had never once failed to unravel him.

Even now Father Kento struggles to keep himself together as you inconspicuously lean against your husband, your head resting gently on his shoulder while the dainty fan you are holding obscures the lower half of your face.

What appears as an innocuous attempt to halt the perspiration rolling from your nape into your heaving bosom is merely a front to hide the sinful ‘o’ your cherry lips form.

Your chest softly heaves although your labored breaths aren’t from the humid heat shrouding the church– but the increasing warmth dampening in your loins. All which had been provoked by your husband slipping two fingers through the buttons of your thin sundress and into your pussy, lightly teasing its gooey folds. Gojo’s movements are mostly concealed by the cloth but Father Kento can make out the skillful circular motions stroking your spongy bud and causing the sporadic twitch in your knees.

You had writhed similarly under him. You were always far too sensitive.

Fat tears would never fail to pour from your bright eyes when he would latch his mouth onto your sex. You would be his last supper if ever given the choice. If heaven had a flavor it would surely be akin to the taste of your pink candied cunt and he knew of no sweeter treat on earth.

Twas no wonder then how Father Kento easily loses all sense of self when flicking his tongue into your gaping slit. Swirling the appendage within your gummy walls he gluttonously slurps down the steady stream of your flowing nectar.

Your mewls and cries for him are far lovelier than even the song of cherubim. Father Kento has committed them to memory and as such he knows when they reach a certain octave– your pitch so high it's practically soundless– you're nearing your nirvana.

Arriving at your peak you would thread your hands through his blonde locks and thrust your hips forward as if his mouth were salvation itself. Your manicured nails would dig into his scalp to rock his head deeper into your plump pussy. The actions would beckon his tongue to finally give you its mercy by dragging it flat up your folds to suckle and nip at your swollen clit.

You never called on God then.

Nor your husband.

Only Father Kento.

Coincidentally, Father Kento’s gaze locks with Gojo’s for a brief moment and Gojo’s pale lips curl into smirk.

A fleeting look is shared before contact is broke but the message is clear:

Satoru Gojo own’s everything in this town.

Gojo owns your cunt.

Your cunt owns Father Kento.

Therefore by proxy Gojo owns him.

The revelation has Father Kento showing the white of his knuckles from the intensity of his grip on the pulpit podium as you simultaneously release a silent scream brazenly cumming on your husband’s dexterous fingers in the middle of mass.

“The time now is propitious for us all to make a journey of conversion, led by sincere faith to allow ourselves to be confronted with the Gospel. Let us confirm this commitment by sharing in The Body and The Blood of Christ.”

Proceeding with communion the altar boy Yuji stands next to Father Kento holding the tray where the blessed chalice of wine and platter of thin wafers reside as the congregation dutifully exits their rows to receive the eucharist.

As it is the more modern way to receive communion the majority of the congregation choses to place their non-dominant palm up over the other to respectfully receive the host. Yet traditionally, the priest placed the blessed wafer directly on the tongue of the one receiving. This practice was typically only seen by the elderly, the most exceedingly pious and of course— you.

When it is your turn to approach you beam brightly as you and all your beauty seem to float before him.

“The Body of Christ.”

Father Kento raises the host before you.

“Amen.”

You obediently replied.

Like expected your eyes fluttered to close as your pillowy lips parted in order to accept the host directly in your mouth.

God help him, this was the most sacred part of mass but the way your deviant tongue lulls out hot and thick with your saliva pooled on the edge and threatening to spill onto your lips has Father Kento shifting at his post.

You look just as compliant and yearning to receive as when you had been on your knees before him taking his cock in your mouth whole.

Father Kento delicately placed the host in your mouth in a similar fashion as to when he would tap the tip of his bulbous leaking cockhead onto your tongue.

So willing to please you kiss his angry red mushroom tip to appease his cock, swirling your tongue over the tiny hole before puckering it between your lips to greedily suck any drops of pre that dribbled forth as you pumped his base.

You were a tease.

That much was evident both then and now as you extended the tip of your tongue to caress the tip of his finger. A tiny kitten lick, but nevertheless a tingle ran through his cock in remembrance.

“The Blood of Christ.”

Father Kento presents the wine symbolizing the blood before you.

“Amen.”

Again you closed your eyes and allowed Father Kento to press the chalice against your parted lips.

The very picture of amenability, you actually enjoyed when he went rougher on you as a result of your teasing. Father Kento would gather your hair into a tight grip as he not-so-gently rammed his cock past your tonsils and down your throat.

It was unnatural and ungodly for a person to lack any semblance of a gag reflex such as you.

In response you pressed your fingers into his thighs– not as a means of resistance, but to control your own lust as you began shamelessly humping your mound against his leg. You were always desperate to feel any small sensation against your cunt while he ravaged your mouth.

Of course, Father Kento would oblige you and in turn he is rewarded with the heavy moans that would vibrate around his cock as his oxford loafer pushed up into your soaked core. Your white lace lingerie did little to contain your juices and as such Father Kento made use of the fluids leaking from your pussy as polish to shine his shoe.

Having sipped the wine from the chalice you peer up at Father Kento as if seeking his approval.

He gives you a small nod.

Similar to the one he bestows upon you after his seed has filled your stomach and you lick your lips as if it was his essence and not The Blood of Christ that lingered on them.

In the beginning, he had prayed long and hard to forget those sinful images of you that would intrude unwelcomed into his mind.

Yet you always had ways of sucking him back in.

Such as leaving your soiled panties stuffed between his headboard. Father Kento thought he was going mad when even after changing the sheets thrice was he still plagued with your smell.

He should have burned the offensive garment as soon as it was discovered and yet he treated it with reverence as if it were a holy object of salvation. Truly an euphoric experience, on days he couldn’t have you he’d bury his nose into the fabric murmuring blasphemy as he worshiped the very scent of you while jerking his cock.

When Father Kento finally ceased trying to resist you he then had the fleeting thought he could save you. Bring you to God and away from your villainous husband.

But you were no Mary Magdalene, there was no returning you to the flock.

You will not leave your husband who provides you wealth and security. Father Kento is not so enamored he holds illusions that extend beyond his reality. There is nothing Father Kento owns and nothing he can offer you but himself.

The singular consolation of the tragic circumstances is that Father Kento is sure you prefer his touch. The touch of a seemingly pious man who only has desires for you.

Unlike your scoundrel of a husband who Father Kento was sure had not remained faithful to your marriage bed. Not the way most of the female townsfolk threw themselves at Satoru Gojo. If he had no qualms using you to achieve his means he certainly had none for himself.

You were simply a pawn to be played, as was Father Kento.

“Before we depart I leave you with these words: Let every day be a new day to renew the promises of our Baptism: We renounce Satan and all his works and seductions — for sh– *ahem* HE – is the seducer. Now go forth, Brothers and Sisters and remain true in the light of God.”

The closing rites over, Father Kento has never been more relieved nor eager for the conclusion of a mass. Watching the congregation mingle in the entrance, he gives his farewell blessings to the parishioners.

A few still remained however you were nowhere to be seen.

This was not odd, the Gojos were a busy couple, likely excusing themselves immediately to attend to more important affairs.

Or so he hoped.

“There you are, Father! Riveting service, as always.”

With a devious grin and a firm drawn-out handshake Gojo greets Father Kento. Turning to face the devil himself, Father Kento greets Satoru in turn with a strained smile and an even firmer grip.

Yet still he is unable to show you any of the wrath you justly deserve and Father Kento’s smile is more genuine when he faces you.

You regard Father Kento coyly as your husband’s arm tightens around your waist. Your face is flushed and it’s evident you are still weakened from the orgasm your husband gave you earlier in front of the entire congregation.

That knowledge though is only held by the three of you, God and perhaps the altar boy Yuji.

Father Kento had never known you to be silent when cumming so the exertion of the effort you expended likely weighed heavy on you as displayed by how you are clinging to Gojo to keep from swaying on your feet.

“Thank you. I am but a humble messenger of The Lord’s wor–.”

“– Wait. Hold that thought!”

Father Kento’s eyebrow twitches as Gojo's attention is momentarily called elsewhere.

Every Sunday, a growing number of parishioners would seek Satoru Gojo’s greeting and recognition after service over that of their priest Father Kento.

True to character Gojo makes an obnoxious show of charisma which leaves the last group of parishioners fawning and singing his praises as they exit.

“Forgive me, Father. Where were we? Ah– Of course! Yes, you are quite excellent in your delivery of God’s word, a true testament to your faith!”

His flattery is so obviously false in its sincerity that Father Kento is not surprised when Gojo’s sordid smirk returns.

“But you are not only a messenger for The Lord… isn’t that right, Father Kento?”

Father Kento warily clutches onto the large cross dangling from the rosary around his neck as Gojo continues.

“I’ll need you to spread mine as well. Haven’t you heard? I have plans to run for Mayor.”

Mayor.

The diabolical fiend truly knew no limits in his quest for control over the town.

“I’ll need you to come over to dinner tonight to consult with the rest of my top supporters.”

Father Kento steeled himself..

There was nothing he could do to stop Satoru Gojo from being mayor but his infatuation with you aside, he could not walk straight into the lion's den to collude with heathens.

It would be the final nail in his coffin, Gojo would indeed own his soul.

“Oh! Y/N is prepping a feast too… aren’t you, angel?”

Gojo’s grip on your waist trails lower to palm the fat of your ass and you clutch on to him tighter as you nod eagerly in agreement, biting your lip as his large hands knead into your cheeks through your wispy dress.

Your body is ever responsive to Gojo’s touch just like he trained you to be.

“I must refuse. I have duties here to attend, I couldn’t poss–”

“P-Please F-Father…”

And just like that your delicate voice cuts through his iron defenses like it were warm butter.

“…K-Kento, p-please come!”

Your request fumbles out of your lips as a cry as Gojo’s devilish fingers dip past your ass to prod at your cunt.

“You heard her Father. She wants you to come. Break bread with us, you will be among friends. Friends who know how to share, yeah? I’ll even share a piece of her cream pie for dessert.”

That had been the final straw. Gojo had gone too far this time.

You seeking him out was one matter but he would not allow Satoru Gojo of all people to dangle you in front of him like a master would dangle a treat to a dog.

“Begone, you foul heretic. I will not tolerate your mockery of me, this church nor God any longer.”

Commanding in his tone, Father Kento extends the cross of the rosary forward to Gojo as if he were casting a malevolent curse back down to hell.

Father Kento doesn’t have the courage to look at you though, he can’t. Not if he wants to take a triumphant stand against Satoru Gojo.

And so Father Kento closes his eyes and silently prays.

Immediately bored at such a devout display, Gojo sighs rolling his eyes.

“Alright, alright, Father. I get it. Whatever you say, jeez. It’s not like I need your support to become mayor– just thought it would be nice is all. ”

Father Kento remains silent as he listens to both of your footsteps exit the church but not before Gojo stops at the doors, his cheerful voice taking on a dangerous edge.

“Heh, you know, not everyone in this town is as pious as you Father. Sheriff Fushiguro has never been one to turn down a stack of bills but I’m sure tonight he would enjoy sharing in Y/N’s creampie if you don’t.”

Father Kento’s eyes open to flash red with fury.

Having received a satisfactory enough reaction from the priest, Gojo grins wildly as your own eyes widen in shock at your husband’s words.

Has Gojo only ever used you to manipulate him alone?

The thought remains as Father Kento doesn’t miss the pleading gaze directed at him from over your shoulder as you are led out of the church.

Goddammit– He couldn’t let you fall into the brutish clutches of Toji Fushiguro.

Toji may have been the sheriff but he was well-known for his oafish demeanor and greasy womanizing ways.

NO! He mustn’t think of you any longer.

Father Kento needs to clear his mind of you for good with prayer.

Prayer and solitude.

Deep prayer and extensive solitude was what he needed if he ever hoped to rise again to gain God’s favor. He needed to call upon The Lord’s strength one last time to remain at the parish tonight and defy Gojo’s will.

Father Kento couldn’t let the pleasures of flesh continue to manipulate the very fibers of his being in such a way.

The rosary still in his grasp Father Kento raises his hands close in prayer as a final call for God’s mercy… and then it hits him– wafting off his fingers, overwhelming his senses and igniting every nerve in his being.

The scent of your cunt.

The lingering perfume of your sinful drippings spilled on your husband’s hand during mass had been transferred to his own when Gojo shook his hand and held it so firmly.

The bastard.

The rush hits him hard and he feels dizzy as his ears begin to ring. Vertigo overtakes Father Kento as he holds the offending hand out as if he had been poisoned.

Leaning back against a wall to gather himself, Father Kento realizes once the manic pounding coursing through his veins begins throbbing in his loins that he’s fated for damnation.

This is the moment he’d always dreaded although ironic with the simple acceptance of it he feels no despair.

Father Kento’s conviction is finally clear as he is left with a singular truth that rang through his entire soul:

Whatever solace he would know, whatever peace he would have in this life, he would only find with his cock buried in the sweet embrace of your cunt.

✟

©blkkizzat 2024. do not steal works or gfx, do not translate.

✟ the closing rites: (a/n) hell is hot and it's surely my destination after writing this. i tried to leave it a little ambiguous to whether y/n is actually in-love with nanami or just a sex-crazed slut eager to use him at the request of her husband. i don't have a pt.2 planned just fyi as this is meant to be a oneshot. although i do need to write more nanami so i will take requests for him! but fair warning i am very slow i apologize.

also shout out to the amazing art i used for the gfx ✟ art by mishwell

✟ REBLOG to be unburdened of your sins by Father Nanami but likes and comments are also appreciated!

upcoming: the nursery (yakuza!toji), please teach me! (ceo!gojo), request: teasing choso (college au), request: sukuna x blkreader, [none in any order as im at the mercy of my adhd lol]

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cerezzzita · 2 years

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— aesthetic words to fill up your vocabulary ♡

✦ if you're tired of using the same repetitive words to describe feelings or actions on your writing, here are some aesthetic words that are not frequently used to help you evolve your vocabulary better and also maybe help you with creative titles <3

ABENDROT: the color of the sky while the sun is setting.

ABIENCE: the strong urge to avoid someone or something.

ACHROOUS: colourless.

AEQUOREAL: marine, oceanic.

AESTHETE: someone with deep sensitivity to the beauty of art or nature.

ALIFEROUS: having wings.

AMITY: warmth and heartfelt friendliness in a friendship; mutual understanding and a peaceful relationship.

AMORIST: someone who is in love; someone who writes about love.

AMBROSIAL: fragrant, delicious.

ANTHOMANIA: great love for flowers.

AQUAPHILE: someone who is an enthusiast of all things related to the water.

ARENOCOLOUS: living or burrowing in sand.

ASPERSE: change falsely or with malicious intent; attack the good name and reputation of someone.

ASTERISM: agroup of stars; a constellation; a cluster of stars.

ATTAR: essential oil or perfume obtained from flowers.

AUREATE: golden or gilded; brilliant, splendid.

AURICOMUS: with golden or yellow colored foliage.

AVIOTHIC: the strong desire to be up in the air or to fly.

BALTER: to dance artlessly, without particular grace and/or skill but usually with enjoyment.

BATHIC: pertaining to depths, especially of sea.

BELAMOUR: the one who is loved; a beloved person.

BELLICOSTIC: aggressive, belligerent, warlike.

BENEFICENCE: the quality of being kind or helpful or generous.

BERCEUSE: a quiet song intended to lull a child to sleep.

BLÁFAR: indicating the freshness and beauties of youth or health; attractive and possessing charm.

BRONTIDE: the low rumble of a distant thunder.

BURBLE: to speak in an excited manner.

CAELITIS: the divinities who dwell within the celestial planes.

CATHARSIS: the release of emotional tension, especially through kinds of art or music.

CELERITOUS: swift, speedy, fast.

CERAUNOPHILIA: loving thunder and lightning and finding them intensely beautiful.

CHEVELURE: the nebulous tail of a comet.

CINGULOMANIA: a strong desire to hold a person in your arms.

COCCINEOUS: bright red; scarlet.

COCKAIGNE: an imaginary land of luxury and idleness.

CONSTELLATE: to eluster; to compel by stellar influence.

COSMOGYRAL: whirling around the universe.

CORDOLIUM: heartache; heartfelt sorrow.

CORUSCATE: to reflect brillantly, to sparkle.

CRAMOISY: of a crimson color.

CREATURELY: a person who is controlled by others and is used to perform unpleasant or dishonest tasks for someone else.

CRYSTALLOMANIA: an obsession with crystals and other crystalline objects.

CHRYSALISM: the amnotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm.

CLINQUANT: glittering with gold and silver.

CLYSMIC: cleaning, washing.

CUPIDITY: greed for money or possessions.

CYANEOUS: a sky-blue color.

CYNOSURE: guiding star; a object of common interest.

DARKLING: of or related to darkness.

DÉCLASSÉ: having fallen in social status.

DEIFORM: god-like or divine in nature.

DEMERSAL: that lives near the bottom or a body of water.

DESIDERIUM: an ardent longing, as for something lost.

DISPITEOUS: cruel and without mercy.

DOUX: sweet, soft, mild, gentle.

DRACONTINE: belonging to a dragon.

DYSANIA: the state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

ECCEDENTESIAST: someone who fakes a smile.

EFFLORESCENCE: a period or state of blooming, blossoming.

ELEGY: a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

ELEUTHEROPHILIST: someone who advocates free love.

ELYSIAN: beautiful or creative, divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.

EMACITY: desire or fondness for buying things.

EMPYREAL: pertaining to the sky; celestial.

EPHIALTES: a nightmare; the demon Incubus that supposedly causes a nightmare.

EPICARICACY: the joy that results from others misfortune.

EREMOPHOBIA: the deep fear of stillness, solitude, or deserted places.

ETHEREAL: extremely delicate, light, not of this world.

EUMOIRIETY: happiness due to state of innocence and purity.

FLORENTIS: abounding in flowers; being in bloom and adorned with plentiful flowers.

FREICEADAN: guard, garrison, watch, sentinal.

FULMINATE: cause to explode violently and with loud noise.

FURCIFEROUS: brat; rascally, scandalous.

GLOAMING: twilight, dusk.

GRAME: anger, wrath, scorn; sorrow, grief, misery.

HALCYON: calm and peaceful; happy, prosperous.

HELLION: a rowdy or mischievous person.

HELIOPHILIA: desire to stay in the sun; love of sunlight.

HEAVENIZE: to render like heaven or fit for heaven, to purify and make a holy place or a person.

HENOTIC: promoting harmony or peace.

HIRAETH: a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.

HOLILY: belonging to or derived from or associated with a divine power.

HYPNAGOGIC: the state immediately before falling asleep.

IGNICOLIST: a worshiper of fire.

ILLECEBROUS: attractive and alluring.

IMPLUVIOUS: soaked with rain.

INCANDESCENCE: light produced by high temperatures.

INCALESCENCE: the property of being warming.

INCENDIARY: designed for the purpose of causing a fire, likely to cause anger or violence.

INEFFABLE: too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.

INSOUCIANT: free from worry, concern or anxiety.

IRENIC: aiming or aimed at peace, promoting peace.

IRIDESCENT: producing a display of rainbow-like colors.

INVIDIARE: to envy.

ISOLOPHILIA: a strong preference and affection for solitude.

KALOPSIA: the delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

KALON: beauty that is more than skin deep.

LACONIC: expressing much in a few words.

LACUNA: a blank space; a missing part.

LATIBULE: a hiding place, a place of safety and comfort.

LAMBENT: to glow or flicker softly. Luminous, light or brilliant.

LIMERENCE: the state of being infatuated with another person.

LONGANIMITY: still suffering while planning revenge.

LOUCHE: disreputable; morally dubious.

LUCELENCE: the state of being fine and beautiful; shining, brilliant.

LUCIFORM: resembling light in appearance; having, in some respects; the nature of qualities of light.

LUMINESCENCE: light produced by chemical, electrical or physiological means.

MALTALENT: the negative emotions of wanting injury or harm to befall someone; a hostile behavior or attitude towards someone considered an enemy.

MARMORIS: the shining surface of the ocean.

MAZARINE: a dark blue color; rich blue or reddish-blue color.

MELIORISM: the belief that the world gets better; the belief that humans can improve the world.

MÉLOMANIE: an excessive and abnormal love and deep attraction to music and melody.

MERCURIAL: subject to sudden or unpredictable changes.

MESMERIC: appealing; drawing attention.

MORDACIOUS: biting or given to biting; biting or sharp in manner; caustic; capable of wounding.

MORPHEAN: of or relating to Morpheus, to dreams, or to sleep.

MOXIE: courage, nerve, determination.

NEBULOCHAOTIC: a state of being hazy and confused.

NEFARIOUS: wicked, villainous, despicable.

NEMESISM: frustration, anger or aggression directed inward, toward oneself and one's way of living.

NERITIC: pertaining to shallow coastal waters.

NOETIC: of or associated with or requiring the use of mind.

NOIRCEUR: the state of being pitch black in color; a state of lacking illumination.

NUBIVAGANT: wandering in the air, moving through the air.

NUMINOUS: spiritual or supernatural; surpassing comprehension or understanding; mysterious.

ONEIRODYNIA: restless, disturbed sleep, characterized by nightmares and sleepwalking.

OPHIOMORMOUS: snake-like.

ORPHIC: mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding.

PAVONINE: characteristic of a peacock; resembling the tail of a peacock; as in colors; iridescent.

PETRICHOR: the scent of rain on dry earth.

POIESIS: creation; creative power or ability.

PORPHYROUS: purple; of purple hue.

PLAXONDRY: the mix of introspective nostalgia, sadness, and calmness felt when listening vaporwave and its related genres.

PRATE: to talk excessively and pointlessly.

PROCELLOUS: tempestuous, stormy.

QUIDDITY: the essence of something.

QUIXOTIC: extravagantly chivalrous or romantic; visionary, impractical or impracticable.

RANTIPOLE: a wild, reckless young person; to be wild and reckless.

REDAMANCY: the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

REDOLENT: having a strong distinctive fragrance; serving to bring to mind.

REMEANT: coming back, returning.

RESPLENDENT: having brilliant or glowing appearance; dazzling and impressive in appearance through being richly colorful or sumptuous.

REVERIE: a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream.

RODOMEL: juice of roses mixed with honey.

ROSEATE: rose-like; overly optimistic.

RUTILANT: glowing or glittering with red or gold light.

SANGUINEOUS: accompanied by bloodshed.

SASHAY: to strut or move about in an ostentatious or conspicuous manner.

SCIAMACHY: a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadow.

SEQUACIOUS: lacking independence of originality of thought.

SERAPHIC: beautiful and pure; having a sweet nature befitting an angel or a cherub; of or relating to an angel of the first order.

SERENDIPITY: finding something good without looking for it.

SKINT: having little or no money avaliable.

SOLIVAGANT: someone who wanders or travels the world alone; a solitary adventurer.

SOMNIATE: to dream, to make sleepy.

SORTIGER: delivering prophecies of the future; having the qualities of being oracular.

STELLIFEROUS: having or abonding with stars.

STELLIFY: to transform from an earthly body into a celestial body; to place in the sky as such.

SUCCIDUOUS: ready to fall, falling.

SPUME: a white mass of bubbles or froth on the top of a wave.

SYNODIC: relating to or involving the conjunction of stars, planets or other celestial objects.

TARANTISM: the uncontrollable urge to dance.

TEMENOS: a sacred circle where no one can be oneself without fear.

THANATOPHOBIA: fear of death.

TYYNEYS: the state of peacefulness; absent of worry or fear, being composed and at ease.

ULTRAMARINE: beyond the sea; greenish-blue color.

VELLEITY: a wish or inclination not strong enough to lead to action.

VENERATION: a profound emotion inspired by a deity.

VESPERTINE: in or of the evening; setting at the same time as, or just after, the sun.

VERDANT: with plants and flowers in abundance.

VERMEIL: a liquid composition applied to a gilded surface to give luster to the gold.

VERTICORDIOUS: to turn the heart from evil.

VIOLESCENT: tending toward violet color.

VORFREUDE: the joyful anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures.

WANDERLUST: a strong desire to travel and explore the world.

WHIST: to hush or silence; to still, to become still.

#writing prompts #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing prompt list #writing help #writing tips #creative writing #aesthetic words #dictionary #synonyms list #writing list #writing study #writing on tumblr #aesthetic words list #synonyms #helpful writing

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gloriousmonsters · 6 months

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seriously just. nothing gets me fuming about the sheer... uninventive cowardice of ToTK's storyline than thinking about how despite their flaws, the OoT/TP/WW trio were all about complicating Ganondorf in an interesting way. OoT was like ok, this guy is fucked up but he's cool, he's a hero to a lot of his people and oh yeah, the band of thieves you've heard of is actually a tribe of people, his people, and if you look you can see how a world like this made a man like him. WW was like and maybe he's more human than you thought. maybe he was a little in love with the land he conquered. maybe if he lived longer, he'd be capable of regret, of some amount of self-reflection, of showing mercy to the enemies he swore to destroy in the past. TP was like and what if stopping him before he conquered Hyrule wasn't the happy ending? what if it made everything worse? what if we've done bad things, and Ganondorf's return is part of our actions coming back to haunt us, his execution wound impossible to ignore, the sword he wields the one meant to kill a monster, one that failed when the gods seemingly signaled they weren't totally on our side? and, both of them agree on, his death isn't a joyful triumph. It's sobering, unnerving, tragic.

then totk's like. well what if he was... an evil guy. just a VERY evil guy. because he's evil. and mean. what if we retold OoT but worse and more simplistic and also the power Ganondorf takes isn't divine so we dodge all those awkward questions about if he's really Basically The Devil or if he has a more complicated part in the whole. and, hear us out, what if he was evil and wanted to bring... DARKNESS. because he's bad

#'and what if in this retold version of OoT zelda got to do literally nothing'#'and we added a queen just to look pretty be nice and get killed'#but i need to like. cut myself off #and think about something positive instead of just descending into the salt mines lol #totk critical #ganondorf #it's an old song and we're gonna sing it again

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qingxin-dream · 7 months

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“Just One Good Thing”

summary | it’s hard to love someone who is broken, and even harder when two broken people love so deeply it hurts. (art credits: @/pastahands on twitter).

warnings | not proofread/vent writing, scaramouche lore spoilers, brief graphic depiction of death, illness, loss, profanity, TW heavy mental health topics, self-hatred, dissociation, depression, suicidal thoughts/ideation, graphic description of self-harm wounds, fear of abandonment, guilt, reader is hospitalized

genre | angst, hurt, comfort

word count | 2.5k

pairing | wanderer x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

This was not the first time the puppet experienced betrayal.

How could you have known? It was long before you came into existence, hundreds of years of anguish buried in layers upon layers beneath his artificial constitution. He had once been but an innocent, naive babe with the world sparkling in the reflection of his violet eyes, meant for something greater. He had once fulfilled a purpose.

To be brought into the world against your will, crafted from the divine hand of a grieving Archon, only to have every semblance of your being ripped from you and cast aside in the name of so-called mercy—is a fate akin to death itself.

You never knew his past.

How he was once an eccentric named Kabukimono who wandered from Shakkei Pavilion and made friends with the blade smiths of Tatarasuna. His first taste of human life was amid a blazing furnace and the clamoring of a hammer onto hot metal, learning what it meant to labor and create. He had grown to love the little village as his own, playing with the children and sipping on the bitter taste of tea leaves with his comrades.

The puppet who had called himself Kabukimono was painfully ignorant to the cruelty of fate.

He could have never fathomed the day he would hold the future of his village in his trembling, pale hands as the toxic Tatarigami fumes envelope him in chemicals. There he climbed deep inside the Mikage Furnace, the unique resilience of his artificial body left unharmed by the inhospitable temperatures glowing hot against his divine skin. Any normal human would’ve perished a thousand times over.

Inside the foreign device that promised to save his home lay the bloody, withering heart cut fresh from his closest companion’s chest.

“You are a human, Kabukimono,” Niwa had insisted with a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a comforting hand resting on the eccentric’s shoulder. “You just don’t have a heart.”

Yet there the puppet stood, his voice robbed from his aching throat, cradling the very essence of his friend’s humanity in his palm.

It was his fault. What a foolish creature he was to ever involve himself with humans, whom he could only bring suffering. His tears were evaporated instantly as the grotesque realization dawned on the distraught young Kabukimono. He would later discover that he had been betrayed by a man who introduced himself as Escher but was known among the Fatui as The Doctor.

The dirty pads of his bare feet had thumped through the rocky village path and down the dirt roads leading to the outskirts of the rural Inazuman wilderness. Crows rustled in the trees and flapped their feathers into the sky, jeering at the desolate and abandoned settlement.

The village should have been evacuated. All who could have been saved were rushed as far away as possible from the poisonous Tatarigami. Rows upon rows of homes and businesses were eerily vacant. Kabukimono, in his watery hysterics, had not paid any mind to his surroundings, leaving behind the only home he ever had for good.

That is, until he stumbled across a young boy who lived under an old sakura tree. Kabukimono immediately felt the void in his chest wrench with visceral guilt upon learning that the child’s parents were crafts-people. The house was utterly empty except for the lonely little boy.

For as much as the puppet wanted nothing more than to rid himself of human companionship, he felt responsible for the loss of the boy’s parents. He had an obligation to see that he was taken care of and safe from the Tatarigami. If he could not have saved his friends, perhaps he could atone for his sins in raising the orphaned child—who reminded him too much of himself.

“Promise me,” Kabukimono spoke up with a bit of a hoarse tone, his voice cracking with emotion, extending a shaky hand to the young boy. “That we can be family. I will watch over you.”

“Like a big brother?” asked the innocent boy with a hopeful smile. He wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, taking the eccentric’s hand in his own. “I’ve always wanted one… I promise, we will be family.”

For a short while, the puppet had learned to push the turmoil plaguing his conscience to the back of his mind. His focus had shifted entirely to ensuring the boy’s safety and happiness, trying to scavenge food for him and exchanging stories under the moonlight. Although, Kabukimono flinched with each cough from the boy that shattered the silence between them as they went to sleep.

He hated that he recognized the symptoms. The residue of the Tatarigami had somehow infected the child, no doubt. A dreadful thought occurred to him—perhaps he had given the sickness to the orphaned child after what happened at the Mikage Furnace. The idea was enough to eat him alive with worry. Kabukimono had secretly prayed that the boy would endure the illness.

The puppet had worked tirelessly to give him the best he possibly could. If his coughs were dry, he would fetch him water. If his stomach rumbled, he would prepare some Lavender Melons. If he needed a friend, Kabukimono would be there to hold his hand as he slept like a guardian angel.

The day the elderly sakura tree shed its pretty pink blossoms was the day the boy was found unresponsive.

Kabukimono, too, found himself hollow and devoid. What did it mean to be family? What did it mean to love? What was the point of having such worthless emotions?

A blazing inferno consumed the darkness of the night sky. Crackling embers swirled and smoke bellowed in the rural countryside as a rickety house succumbed to a hellish fate. No one was there to witness the flaming spectacle. No one to help, or save the vacant violet eyes of a nameless puppet who clutched a small doll in his lap.

It was laughable, truly, how sick and twisted the world could be. The puppet couldn’t fulfill his creator’s wishes, nor could he befriend humanity, or have a heart of his own. Oh, to perish in a fiery death would be far too simple for Celestia’s liking, wouldn’t it?

For five hundred years, Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche—no matter who he became—the feeling of inadequacy remained.

His divinely-created body was an immortal prison, shackling him to his sins. As a Fatui Harbinger, no needle, blade, or poison of the Doctor could kill him. No enemy or magic of the Abyss could ultimately break him. The puppet was built to withstand the likes of the Cataclysm that had taken his creator’s sister, yet the scars of these experiments litter his fair skin are a reminder that he is indeed alive.

Wanderer vividly remembers his dark fascination with testing his limits in the depths of his dissociation. Anything to serve as penance for the irreversible destruction he had inflicted upon his friends, his family, and his home. If he was lucky, perhaps the Doctor would find a way to end his misery or the maddening darkness of the Abyss would swallow him whole once and for all.

Even forsaking his autonomy and identity as Scaramouche to ascend to godhood would be a fitting death for the puppet. After all, the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom would never bow to his emotions like a weakling. Losing himself to infinite knowledge and truth would be a good ending, despite the insanity that would befall him.

All that mattered is he would cease to exist.

But it was you who defeated him, in all his might and glory as a fake Archon pumped full of divine wisdom and the sludgy remains of dead gods. It was you who found him after he tried to erase every part of his worthless being from Irminsul, and helped him pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath.

The reality that lies within Irminsul had given him a new perspective as the Wanderer. Though he retained the poignant memories of his sins, Wanderer made sure to carve a special space in the void of his artificial body just for you. His savior.

Not a single one of those instances—absolutely fucking none of them—could ever compare to the morbid and desperate pit of despair that ravages Wanderer at the sight of your fragile body curled up in a white hospital gown. You are hooked up to a myriad of monitors and machines, wires and tubes tangling your frame like chains. The distant beep of the electrocardiogram is burned into Wanderer’s mind.

It’s your heartbeat, and the very reason for his continued existence. You had been reduced to small blip on a computer screen.

The hospital room was otherwise silent. The windows had the blinds slightly drawn, a cool ray of moonlight washing over Wanderer’s disheveled indigo hair from behind. Even if you were unconscious, Wanderer had wanted to tuck you in for the night, but he was terrified of hurting you. The fluorescent white light above your bed was off, bathing you both in warm darkness.

In the late hours, all Wanderer could do was stare at you with eyes reddened from crying, his crimson eyeliner smudged at the edge of lashes. He would occasionally lick his dry lips, which were chapped and peeling. The sting of the dead skin on his lips being tugged between his teeth was a momentary release from the overwhelming anxiety dwelling within.

His thin fingers are intertwined with yours on the hospital bed, one of the few ways the puppet can keep himself grounded in this moment. Every once in awhile, he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze followed by a few broken wishes for you to open your eyes again. To see the life in you and hear your sweet voice again.

Sometimes it would get to be too much. Wanderer would raise your hand and kiss your knuckles with hot, salty tears pricking at his eyes. The stinging sensation would force his eyelids closed, sorrow streaming down his stained cheeks. He was sure that this was a result of his own shortcomings.

Your arms are wrapped in bandages with a few stitches here and there lying underneath. A deathly pale color flushed your beautiful face. And oh, Archons, those eyes of yours he had always adored endlessly were sunken darkly into your face, hidden in your slumber. His gaze drifted to your lips, still full and pink, perhaps his last vestige of hope as they parted for your sacred breaths.

To imagine you’re suffering as much as he had in his past is utterly unthinkable to Wanderer.

The only difference is your fragile mortality. He knows your pain now, he can see it carved onto your wrists in what must have been a frenzied meltdown.

Some cuts are lighter and faded, meaning this certainly isn’t the first time you hurt yourself. Other gashes in your arm are deeper and swollen, each one weighs on the puppet’s heart greater than the last. He couldn’t count how many times you must have taken that razor to your wrist. Wanderer silently curses himself for letting this happen to you.

“How stupid could I be? Letting her away from me,” he quietly lamented with his head in hands, fingers curling around his indigo locks tightly. “I had just one good thing.”

Rocking himself gently in the chair next to you, Wanderer continuously tugs at his hair to an almost extreme degree, unable to handle the anger, betrayal, and sadness overcoming him. He was practically attached to you at the hip, he should’ve noticed when your voice faltered or when your eyes betrayed your words. He should’ve seen the signs of you slipping through his fingers.

Even if every day wasn’t perfect, even if sometimes you both said hurtful things to each other, neither of you never truly meant it. Wanderer couldn’t bear to imagine not waking up next to you, the morning sunlight kissing your silhouette like an angel. He never thought that he’d find his purpose in you, in the most mundane moments that he cherished so deeply.

He knew you had a history of mental health struggles. So did he. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give you his everything—fingers entwined and sweat glistening on your bodies as he made you his for the umpteenth time.

The echo of the puppet’s soft sobs dissipates into the emptiness of the hospital room. His whole body is shaking with emotional agony. It’s the first time in centuries that he has allowed himself to feel vulnerable like this. How could he not when the love of his life—the meaning of his existence—had tried to take themselves out of it?

Wanderer finally releases his hair, taking your left hand again and passionately pressing his lips to your bare ring finger as an unspoken promise. You both had worked so hard to love better and be better. He wasn’t about to give you up.

There would never be another you in eternity.

He couldn’t bear the heavy burden on his heart anymore. Carefully, he pulled the thin blanket back and climbed into the hospital bed next to you. His fingers trembled at the contact, feeling your faint warmth. Wanderer gently pulled you close so that your head was safely tucked into his chest and he could rest his chin on your soft hair. He sighed, covering you both in the blanket once more.

Sobs tugged at his chest and his grip on you momentarily tightened. Though tears glistened at the corner of his broken violet eyes, Wanderer blinked them back with a shaky breath. You were in his arms and his world was made whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice is gravely and barely audible. “I love you so fucking much… don’t you dare think otherwise.”

The puppet nuzzles his nose into your scalp, breathing in your familiarity like it’s home. He begins to play with your hair gently, combing and caressing your soft strands with his fingertips painted in black.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know…” Wanderer kisses your hair, closing his eyelids for a long moment to memorialize the feeling of your skin on his lips. “But I’m gonna get you out of here, baby. I’m gonna get you help, okay?”

His toned arms keep your body pressed to his, wanting to feel every part of your being entangled with him as it should be. The tickling sensation of your little breaths on his neck brought a small smile to his face because it meant you were sleeping comfortably and most importantly, alive. You were the missing piece in his puzzle, fitting perfectly into place with him.

“It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” the puppet whispers to you, hoping you could hear and feel his love in every way, shape, and form possible. His words also served as an assurance to himself because in this moment he felt so helpless, seeing the wounds on your precious skin.

“I won’t let anything hurt you anymore,” Wanderer solemnly vows, his voice slowly but surely trailing off as he succumbs to his exhaustion with you held close to his heart.

“Goodnight, my love.”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

#wrote something much darker for a change #been listening to ‘heather’ by ruby haunt💔#[opulent dreams].✿#[dreams of delusion].✿#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin wanderer #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer angst #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche angst

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kradogsrats · 6 months

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OKAY now that we have images from someone let's check this shit out:

Wide assumption seems to be that this takes place in "the heavens" because of the background, which is not unlikely. We are only seeing the sky reflected, however, so... "the stars looked down upon a perfect mirror and saw their own divine reflections," amirite? Aaravos crying also closely ties this scene to Ripples, the other time we have had Aaravos's tears specifically called out.

Also, we see that Aaravos's eye diamond markings appear to be unique to him, or at least not a consistent feature of Startouch elves—the Merciful One instead has a single mark in the center of their brow, which hmmmmMMMMM

ANYWAY those things aside, what I really wanted to point out here is that this is already fallen Aaravos. We can see the dark pupils of his eyes behind his tears, and his eyes do not glow. His star freckles are significantly dimmer than those on the Merciful One, and he's also rendered as less glow-y in that the outlines of his hair and eyebrows are gray (darker than the hair color) while on the Merciful One they are white (lighter than the hair color). We can also juuuuust barely see the black tip of his chest mark.

We're also, on the other side of that, seeing that the Merciful One is not fallen. Which may mean Aaravos groups them with the arrogant stars as his enemies, but we'll see. We still don't really have any idea what "fallen" entails.

I'm not going to comment on the scene's content, because I haven't seen any actual dialogue transcriptions, only the vague description from the initial discord > twitter > tumblr summary. This is a place where exact wording really matters, not even to mention tone. Though if the line is literally "We are now connected by love, or something" I will laugh my ass off.

So basically I'm thinking this scene coincides with the events described in Ripples, whether those are Aaravos's fall and expulsion or (my personal opinion) the punishment of Leola.

#the dragon prince #tdp spoilers #the dragon prince spoilers #s6 spoilers #aaravos #the merciful one

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alessiamalfoyzabini · 13 days

Text

Dark Moon | Chapter Twelve

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 1,7k

Warnings | +18, angst, mentions of childhood abuse, references to rape, torture, beatings, outbursts of anger, death of a background character, MC is having a really hard time, murder(?), triggering content, this is not for minor.

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | In this chapter Jimin finds out what really happened to MC in the past 💔I recommend reading to a +18 audience, let me know what you think of course! It always makes me very happy to read your comments 🥹💕

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal, @ajkwww, @ungodlyjoon, @hecateslittlewitchling, @namjoonsbuspass, @darkuni63, @xicanacorpse, @jiminismine4ever, @btssimpjaneth, @antisocial-mochi267

Taglist is open!

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He would have wanted to vomit.

Their men were on Minho's trail, but the bastard had so much property in Korea that it was like looking for a needle in a haystack; what was certain was that he was no longer in town.

It had been five days since her disappearance, Jimin was not even eating anymore, so much were his nerves gnawing at him.

He would not even look Taehyung in the face. It was his job to take care of her and he had left her alone in revenge, no one was home to watch over her, no one.

At the mercy of herself and loneliness.

Just the thought lacerated Jimin in several places, the physical wounds were soon forgotten, the doctor who had been forced by Namjoon to examine Jimin, despite the latter's insistence that it was a waste of time, said the cuts were healing well. But Jimin did not care.

She was his fixed thought.

He was storming Choi hideouts, capturing and torturing members of his gang and allies, but no one knew Y/N, no one had captured her, and everyone did not have close relations with Minho, Jimin felt on the high seas.

Taehyung on his part had not stopped for a moment to carry out to the letter the directives Jimin gave him through Namjoon.

He felt terribly guilty.

With Jimin, and fuck, even with Y/N.

He had not appreciated the girl's gesture, not at all, and in those days he would have liked to use her as target practice, he would not have denied it, but objectively analyzing the situation it was normal that she would sooner or later react that way if pushed beyond her limits.

She still deserved punishment, but not death, and in Minho's hands she would have received both instead, he knew that very well and Jimin did too, an additional reason that drove his friend further and further into madness.

Seeing Jimin destroyed like that had made him realize that she was not just "Jimin's bitch," even if the boy did not admit it, she was "Jimin's woman." One of the family.

Perhaps the man himself still could not understand it, but Taehyung knew that soon Jimin would fully understand his feelings.

The man in question saw the door to his office at the Dark Moon open for Namjoon to appear, carrying a dark folder.

"Any news?" he asked wearily, rubbing his eyes.

"I have what you asked for," he replied, putting that folder on his desk, "I'll leave you alone, okay?"

He didn't want to invade Jimin's privacy, what he was going to read soon would not be easy to digest and he didn't want to witness the boy's weakness, Jimin would not stand for it.

Namjoon left the room in silence and Jimin was left alone with Y/N's past.

He hesitantly took those papers, aware that he was the one who had requested them, sighed before removing the rubber band.

L/N Y/N.

At last he knew her real name, with a strange feeling he continued to read each word carefully.

Her father and mother were foreigners, but they had resided in South Korea since Y/N's birth, who had not finished her studies due to lack of money.

But things got strange after the third page, there were complaints, many.

All made by the mother and all involving the same subject, Y/N.

But they were soon withdrawn.

Statements of bruises, physical and verbal abuse against the girl who at the time was only a ten-year-old girl, the mother accused her husband's brother, she said that he took advantage of the help he offered them to do things with the woman's underage daughter, she did not say explicitly what, she simply pinned Y/N's physical and mental injuries on the man, Mikkel, except that she later withdrew everything.

The authorities soon grew tired of that tirade, paid her no further heed, and ignored the latest complaint, dismissing it as the ramblings of a madwoman.

Jimin's hands trembled as he held the papers, finding a legal and authentic medical report proving sexual assault on Y/N, who was 13 years old. But no one had lifted a finger to help her, even though she was born in Korea she was the daughter of foreigners and bore no Korean surname, who cared about her?

Jimin's dark eyes glittered with fury as he dwelled on the name of the man who had made Y/N's childhood and adolescence a living hell, he now understood many things and felt disgusted with himself.

He too had repeatedly ignored her pleas for help, seeing her as an enemy to be put down and humiliated because she was a woman.

But she was not that kind of despicable, power-hungry woman; she was just a desperate girl.

A gasp went up his esophagus at remembering the despicable words about her virginity, not to mention what a bastard he had been while drunk that last time.

'Now you are no longer a virgin,' he had told her.

He had taken more purity from her without her permission, he felt like a monster.

And he laughed at himself, "You brought me to my knees, baby.... You did it," he said, slumping back against the chair.

"I don't know anything!"

Jimin glowered at the older man; he was as furious as a beast. It had been eight fucking days and still nothing from Y/N.

He was tired of that fucking game.

"I'm going to tell you again, you old ass-kisser, Choi Minho kidnapped my girlfriend and now you're going to tell me where he is right now, you're his fucking butler, you need to know that!" he ranted with his face transfigured with rage, kicking the chair on which the elderly man was tied, tipping it over furiously.

They had found the man in one of the last properties they had searched, it was an English-style mansion, the asshole had lavish fantasies.

"Mr. Choi never warns me about his moves-" a traumatic punch hit him right in the mouth, the old man found himself spitting blood and teeth.

"THEN YOU WILL MAKE ME A LIST OF THE PLACES WHERE YOUR BOSS IS USUALLY HIDING LIKE A SEWAGE RAT!" he ranted, hitting him again, Taehyung and Jungkook looked at him in amazement, never had Jimin lost his temper like that, "And pray that it's in one of them, because if you tease me and anything has happened to her, I'll rip your heart out with my bare hands," he hissed venomously with swollen neck veins.

"Jimin."

Seokjin watched the scene with folded arms and a serious look.

"What?" he did not turn to look at his boss, feeling dejected and tired, nervous and angry. He wanted to kill everyone.

"Calm down, that's not how we're going to find her."

"Yes, I will! I'll cut the throat of anyone who gets in the way, Jin!" he was beside himself, understood a good deal of his feelings, and wanted her back by his side as soon as possible.

He would never leave her alone again.

The insistent ringing of a phone interrupted the flow of his thoughts, he ignored the moans of the man on the ground and concentrated on Seokjin. The boy answered without thinking, and from his expression Jimin guessed that something had happened.

"...So you found the house?" Jimin instantly revived.

Like lightning he reached out and snatched the phone from Seokjin's hands, on the other side was Hoseok.

"Did you find her? Where, tell me where the fuck you are," he began to tar and feather him with questions and expletives until Hoseok could overpower his voice, "... I'll see you there, don't move a fucking muscle, Jung Hoseok," he ordered him, Jin voluntarily took back his phone shaking his head.

"Good job, Hoseok...no, do as he told you," he brought two fingers to his forehead trying to calm his headache, amplified by the prisoner's moans of pain.

He pulled his gun out of his classically cut jacket and fired two quick shots in the direction of the elderly man.

"Namjoon, go with him and prevent him from exposing himself too much, he is still wounded."

"You made me do it, princess," sighed Minho buttoning his pants once more, "If you had listened to me you wouldn't be like this now."

But Y/N was not listening to him, she had no voice left so much she had screamed, her expressionless eyes staring at everything and nothing.

The torture had continued every day, Minhyun beat her and Minho raped her, bringing her to the brink of death every single time when he clutched her neck in a death grip.

She had not eaten for days and was given water only when she did not shriek too much. Like a prize.

She was deeply distraught.

"Now you're boring me, though. Where the fuck is the Bangtan hideout, you know! Jimin would never keep so close to a mere escort, you must count for something to him!"

She counted for nothing to Jimin, otherwise he would have already found and rescued her. Jimin had gotten rid of a burden like her, Minho had done him a favor.

Hot tears slid disgustingly down her bruised face.

That thought hurt her more than any of Minhyun's punches, she had been used to the end, but now she had run out of batteries, she only prayed that with her sister, life had been more merciful and gentle.

"Mr. Choi!" Minhyun slammed the door of that prison alarmingly.

"Who taught you to enter like that!"

"Four of the Bangtans and their men are here," he said in a strained voice, the atmosphere in the room becoming heavy, "One of them is that bastard Park himself, he has already shot and taken out eight of our men at the entrance."

Y/N could see the trembling take over Minho's body, who licked his suddenly dry lips.

Her heart was beating incessantly, Jimin was there, he was there!

"We must leave, now!" exclaimed his bodyguard once again, Minho woke up and turned sharply toward the girl.

A strange expression was present on his face.

"Nothing personal, little girl... " he said before nodding to his henchman, who firmly grabbed his glock, "But the idea that Jimin might get you back doesn't appeal to me one bit," he ran out of the room like a coward, as the deafening sound of a gunshot ripped through the air, a sharp and terrifying sensation expanded from her chest to her nerves, she gaped her lips in a gasp, but blood rushed up her throat and blocked her attempt to catch her breath.

She was dying, really dying.

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scarletteye · 3 months

Text

More crazy/obsessed Scaramouche

Like I've said last post, ya'll really like it when these genshin men go feral. So here is another one of my fave crazy Scaramouche moments from my fic Blossom of the Divine on ao3.

Blossom of the Divine, Chapter 9

“Get your hands off me,” you hissed.

He withdrew his hand for a moment, visibly taken aback by your hostility. The gentleness in his eyes slowly died out, becoming replaced by dissatisfaction. It wasn’t long before his entire expression turned grim. That sudden change in his demeanor struck you with fear.

His gaze slowly slid to the side. He looked at Cyno from the corner of his eyes. The darkness in Scaramouche’s expression warned you to be very careful with how you treat this situation. “Oh? You’re awake as well.”

You gaze snapped onto Cyno. Your heartbeat was in your throat; manic and forceful. He was awake. He looked disoriented. Dizzy. There was a certain blankness to his glare that assured you that he wasn’t quite here yet.

“It’s almost funny,” Scaramouche said, now glancing at the Fatui agents that bowed down to him. His tone was full of repressed fury. “I don’t remember ordering you to bring him. I thought I made myself clear.”

His fingers slid onto your neck; gently and carefully as if to not startle you. You shivered under his touch. His hands were cold, yet soft. His fingers gently brushed against your bruised skin, tracing the darkened patterns that painted your neck - evidence of your struggle against a Fatui agent.

“I ordered them to bring you here unharmed. Only you,” his voice turned lower. “Yet it seems that my followers are too stupid to follow simple instructions. Not only did they bring this rat…” He glanced at Cyno. “But they also brought you to me bruised.”

Completely covered in cold sweat and with your heart maniacally beating in your throat, you were unable to come up with anything. No smart remark. No plan. Even if you held a thought, it got lost in your mind as soon as your gaze met Scaramouche’s.

“Who did this to you?” he asked calmly.

“Huh?” you breathed out.

“I asked: who did this to you?” he tried again, this time sounding more commanding.

You felt that the atmosphere was heavy; it was dense enough to be cut by a knife. You knew that every agent around you felt fear as he asked you that question, and you felt fear for them. Despite you not giving him an answer, he noticed you glance at the agents.

“Oh?”

You gulped. His fingers gently grazed your bruised neck, setting fire to your ears and turning them bright red. “There’s no reason for you to be so wary,” he dragged out his words. “You’re not in trouble.”

“The person who did this, however,” he continued, pressing his fingers against the bruise on your neck. You winced, holding your breath as he put pressure on your agitated skin. “I don’t exactly have an excuse for them.”

“I told you,” you squeezed the words out through your teeth, “to get your hands off me.”

You glared right back at him. Even though you were kneeling directly in his mercy, and even though your face was burning red from his touch, your eyes reflected a fire deep within you. Resentment.

Scaramouche tilted his head; his dark strands fell to one side. The corners of his lips twisted upwards. He stared down at you with amusement. He withdrew the hand from your neck, letting out a tch before taking a few steps forth. He faced his agents, leaving your side just long enough to give you space to breathe.

You quietly shivered. Strands of your hair got stuck to your face, and your panicked eyes searched for comfort in Cyno. He looked more awake with each passing minute. He carefully analyzed your surroundings, constantly keeping an eye on Scaramouche as if he feared being caught.

His scarlet eyes met your gaze, narrowing at you as he shook his head.

You raised your brows. You couldn’t understand what he was trying to tell you.

“Stand up,” Scaramouche ordered. The agents followed his instructions, keeping a brave face as they faced their superior. “All of you were there when she was captured. Surely one of you got to witness the moment that she was harmed.”

The agents were silent. Your heartbeat climbed to your ears, nearly deafening you as you recognized static on your skin.

“Need I repeat myself?” Scaramouche hissed. “You.” He called at a random agent. “Tell me what happened when you tried to retrieve her.”

“A battle broke out. Lord,” they quickly added. “But she… she was bruised before that. I think.”

“And who were the first agents to arrive on scene?” his cold gaze scoured the mass.

You tuned your head to look at Cyno again. He was trying to free his arms; his face contorted with pain. He grit his teeth, letting out a low breath before falling motionless. He couldn’t do anything. Not that you expected him to be able to escape in that state, but you still felt immeasurably cold as you watched him lower his head in shame.

You flinched as three agents stepped in front of you. They wore masks like everybody else, and their outfits were disfigured with bandages. Their skin glistened with sweat, and they kept their heads low, visibly scared of Scaramouche.

“Well?” Scaramouche appeared behind you, leaning down so that his lips reach your ear. His whisper filled your stomach with butterflies and sent your skin on fire. You turned tense. It was impossible to breathe with him so close to you. “Which one of them was it?”

Your eyes widened in horror. He was asking you to rat out the girl who gave you that bruise. You could almost feel him glaring at them from over your shoulder. You were unable to voice anything. What were you supposed to do? You didn’t want blood on your hands. He didn’t have to punish them. In fact, if he sent them after you, it was kind of his fault for putting you in harm’s way. For putting Cyno in harm’s way.

There was a constant chill in your spine and a constant storm in your stomach. You were unable to think. Unable to speak. Even if you wanted to tell him, you would never be able to recognize the agent. Even if you wanted to point out his hypocrisy, your voice would only tremble.

He grabbed your chin and slowly turned your head upwards, until your neck strained and until you stared directly at the ceiling. Scaramouche popped into your vision. His eyes were dim. You couldn’t miss the hurt in his voice, or the slight shift of his brows as he frowned at your silence. “You aren’t afraid to call them out, are you?”

“No. I… I just don’t know,” you whispered out.

His eyes turned wider; the tremble in your voice seemingly made him give up on pressuring you. “Don’t sound so worried,” he said. “They are just Dottore’s rats. He has plenty of them left.”

“I don’t know how they looked like,” you admitted. Your heart was manic. You didn’t want them to die. Even if they were Fatui. Even if they worked for Dottore. You didn’t want that kind of blood on your hands. “I’m telling you I don’t know,” you tried again. “She had a mask.”

“She,” Scaramouche repeated. He lowered your head, still keeping a firm grip on your chin as he let you look at the three agents. One of them was a male, the other two female. You couldn’t tell them apart. You knew one of them was Petrushka – the one that attacked you – and that one of them wielded Cryo.

To make matters worse, his hold on you hurt.

You glanced at Cyno, wishing to find some form of comfort in his presence. He glared at you, warning you to keep quiet.

Unfortunately, Scaramouche noticed the slight tilt of your head as your eyes searched for Cyno.

“Does your friend have a better idea?”

You gulped. Cyno glared right back at Scaramouche, unafraid of the fury in his tone.

“Maybe we can address the elephant in the room first, then,” Scaramouche said.

In return, Cyno’s scarlet eyes narrowed, as if he were threatening Scaramouche to stay away from him. It didn’t help in deescalating the situation. It only made Scaramouche’s anger more evident. His glare turned stone cold as he looked down at Cyno, as if he were speaking to a pile of garbage. “And who may you be?”

“Somebody who will end you if you don’t get your hands off her.”

Your eyes widened at Cyno’s words. You felt Scaramouche’s grip on your face tighten. “Really?” he whispered.

“Wait,” you blurted out. You trembled as you slowly raised your head. By the time you were able to see him, your neck hurt. His image was upside down to you, but you still saw his eyes glisten with fury. “We don’t have to do this. Really- I don’t care that I have a bruise-”

“I care,” Scaramouche coldly said. You were taken aback by his tone. “I gave them simple orders. I told them not to harm you. I just don’t understand why they couldn’t simply listen. And now they have to die.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tried to reason with him.

“And what kind of an example would that set to the others, hm?” he leaned his face closer to yours, challenging you to speak back to him again. His eyes reflected the full force of his anger. The full force of his madness. “I mean. They were already trying to catch you before I gave them orders. They should know where their loyalties lie.”

Cyno interjected. “I told you to get your hands off her.”

Scaramouche’s eyes slowly shifted to Cyno. Your heart sunk as you saw the madness in his glare. The thirst for violence. “Fine. If you don’t want to point fingers at the useless agent who hurt you, then I suppose I’m left with no choice.” He let go of your chin, letting your head sink along with your heart. “I’ll just have to eradicate all of them.”

To your horror, he pointed at Cyno. “Put him with the rest.”

His minions immediately began acting out his orders.

“Wait!” you yelled out. Your heartbeat climbed up to your throat. “It’s not his fault. Please don’t-”

Scaramouche’s agents grabbed Cyno, hoisting him up by his arms; a yelp left his mouth as they dragged him closer to the other three hostages. They were holding him cruelly, holding his wounds as they threw him at the floor as if he were an animal.

“Stop!” you screamed.

Cyno hissed in pain, shutting his eyes tightly as he sunk lower to the ground. Scaramouche stepped forth, wiggling his fingers as he summoned Electro to his palm. A ball of purple energy sparked alive in his hold; its loud crackled made you gasp. It illuminated his purple hair, and painting his eyes with hatred as he looked down at Cyno’s wounded body.

“Stop, stop, stop!” you screamed. You bowed down; your forehead hit the floor. You did not care how desperate you looked. You didn’t even care that you were bowing to him. You didn’t want Cyno to die. “Please stop. Stop this,” you begged. “He has nothing to do with this. P-Petrushka! That was the name of the agent who choked me! I remember now. See? Please don’t harm Cyno. Please.”

The room fell strangely quiet. Even the crackles of Scaramouche’s powers ceased. All you could hear were your shallow breaths. You dared to look up from the floor; you dared to search for Scaramouche’s face.

His expression was stoic. Though, the moment he found your teary gaze, a quiet breath rolled from his lips. “Good girl.”

He reached his arm out towards one of the female agents, seemingly already knowing which one of them was named Petrushka. You caught Cyno’s expression as he stared at you; full of shock and disbelief.

Petrushka dropped to his knees, trembling as if she were standing in an icy storm. Sweat doused her skin. Even with the mask on her face, you could tell that she was terrified.

Electricity crackled around Scaramouche. You held your breath, as you watched him glow with purple. Lighting circled him, erupting from his arms, suffocating the air with static.

Electro flashed around him. Cyno ducked, falling as close to the floor as possible before thunder struck.

A loud boom shook the room. You gasped; electricity surged through the room, nearly taking you off your knees and blinding you as it exploded throughout. Sparks glimmered in the air, showering the floor like snow. A horrid silence enveloped you.

You dared to look at the female agent, finding only char and ashes in her spot. Scaramouche stretched his arm, clenching and unclenching his fingers as if he were just getting warmed up.

Your eyes frantically searched Cyno’s body. He breathed shallowly, full of panic much like yourself, but he was alive. Unharmed by the lighting like you begged of Scaramouche. He listened to you after all.

“Throw the rest of them behind bars,” Scaramouche ordered. “I don’t care what happens to them.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Bro casually kidnaps someone and then proceeds to kill anybody who put a scratch on that someone even though he told them to kidnap them for him.... Okay crazy guy <3 Whatever you want

As always you can read the fic on ao3 here.

Even with all of this tho i still feel as if Childe is crazier.

#ao3 writer #genshin fanfic #genshin impact #scara x reader #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #yandere scaramouche

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