#but your body is cold and unfeeling from lack of feeling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chococolte · 1 year ago

Text

☼ — 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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melodic-haze · 7 months ago

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HIIIII, I NEED MORE SUB ARLECCHINO CONTENT PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU 😭😭

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Arlecchino x dom!Reader pt. 3

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Dacryphilia, squirting, other than that it's soft sex 🤷‍♀️

☆ — NOTES: THANK YOUBFOR GIVING ME ANOTHER REASON TO WRITE HER LOLLLLL

☆ — PARTS: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (you are here)

Saur I've raved on about ROUGH sex Arlecchino but yk what's special? Soft sex with Arlecchino

This woman's been through HELL in her life. Even if she was already "cold and unfeeling", she describes herself, there's only so much a person like that can take before she reaches a breaking point. Really, she definitely already has, the poor girl

She's shut herself off from anyone that isn't in her inner circle, and even THEN they still find it hard to get her to open up

But like. They're not you so 😜

I feel like as much as she is all for it rough, she's actually much more hesitant to recieve a gentler touch. Kindness and love in any form is smth she isn't used to—aside from her children, the one figure that supplied her with that is dead with her past. Being with you was already enough of a stretch, now you want to show her how much you care for her? It's.. scary, like a sudden blackout as a child

Reassure her that it'll all be okay, please. Tell her that you'll take care of her properly and that she can let go of the walls she's built around herself this whole time to defend herself. Give her an easy out if she genuinely isn't ready for such a different form of an emotionally-charge exchange. When she's ready, she'll give you a wordless nod before tugging at your clothes

You take it slow with her by hugging her at first, letting her settle down like you're lulling a scared, hurt predator back into safety. Your hands slowly and carefully wander around her body as your lips press soft kisses on pale skin, with the exposed areas increasing as you take your time in taking her clothes off

She reciprocates in action, though her hands often still on your skin, lightly squeezing you as if there's a chance that you might fade away and this has been nothing but a delusion of hers. Take one of her hands in yours and press a kiss on her palm as you reassure her that you are right here and you aren't leaving her and that you are going to show her how much you love her to the point where she doesn't even know what to do w herself :(

As you take your time undressing each other, you lead her to the bed and sit her down on the edge by kissing her and pushing her down, and you feel her hum as she tries to settle her breathing. She lets you take the lead, not just because she gives you all the power over her behind closed doors but because she's in unfamiliar territory—hell, even when I said she needs it HARD to actually feel it, just the soft, caring gestures you're making is enough to make her shiver in need for you

Neither of you knew just how much of an effect it would have on her, but it's VERY clear when it's as it somehow her sensitivity had gone up quite a few levels from the way she's practically whimpering at you whenever you praise her for being so good for you.....that you're going to take such good care of her.......that you won't ever leave her alone..........

You kiss every inch of her body, leaving marks here and there against gorgeous pale skin. You mark her up from top to bottom, switching back and forth between branding her as safely yours and kissing her dumb and drinking her in. You practically sing praises and words of reassurance to this broken example of a person, telling her that you're going to give her so much pleasure and so much care that she wouldn't know what to do with herself.

By the time you finally press your fingers and rub on where the Harbinger needed you most? She's so utterly wet despite the lack of impact and roughness to your minstrations. And when you finally sink your fingers in within her, as if locking the both of you together, you hear a sob that leads you to look up in worry, thinking you've done something wrong.

..But if you did, then she could easily push you away, right?

When you finally see her face, her glossy eyes, her tears that slowly run down from her perfect face, you find your answer with that beautiful feeling of arousal rising within you at the sight.

She isn't mad at you, you hadn't done anything wrong. If anything, she's begging you to move within her.

"Please," she says as her blackened hands reach down to grab yours in an effort to insert you even deeper, her hips grinding on your palm, "I need you, I..."

She needs you.

Needing someone isn't an easy thing for the 'cold and unfeeling Father' to admit, and yet here she was.

And who were you, to refuse your lover's needs?

It's a tender exchange, one that's entirely new to your relationship. At first glance at her in a normal setting, perhaps even at a time before you two were together, and you wouldn't even think that she'd be crying underneath you at how good you make her feel, sobbing out heavy proclamations of love and clinging to you as you take your time in bringing her to her pleasure

Usually the pain you would inflict on her would've dulled out any other external pain she would've been experiencing—emotional pain, pain from the curse she bears—and yet for some reason it's as if you were guarding her from all of it, nullifying the effects they have on her and protecting her in your hold despite the obvious power gap between you

It takes her a while to cum. Not because it's hard for her to do so (it may actually be the easiest it's ever felt), but because not only does she want to savour this feeling of being taken care of for once, she's also waiting for your command. And when you do, it's as if a dam broke within her

She cums so fucking hard you wouldn't even have thought that you were going at it softly, though really maybe this was what she needed the entire time. And it probably didn't help that you dragged this on for such a long time too. All that pent-up release finally gets let out and she practically screams at the overwhelming feeling, with you helping her ride her high

Her legs shake, her thighs are involuntarily bucking up and she glitches violently for a brief moment that you can't help but feel slightly worried (you laugh about it later, much to her expense) but then you feel something warm squirt out of her. You look down and see it as she goes to claw the sheets—you couldn't help but smile.......and maybe indulge yourself a little

Your hand speeds up its minstrations, even as she comes down, and she look at you with slightly wide eyes as she basically starts up all over again. You just want one more from her, surely your pretty baby can do that, right? All for you?

Doesn't take long for her to squirt again, the corners of your eyes creasing with undisguised wonder and unfiltered love for her as she cums herself silly until no energy is left in her body. Hell, with the show she practically put out, it's not a surprise when you realise that you came with her

As you two settle down and you both lie on the bed, all wet and sweaty (though you can't bring yourself to care right now, why you have Arlecchino breathing heavily beside you), she wants so badly to return the favour. But you tell her that her enjoying the moment was all you needed. You both just lay there wordlessly after, perhaps even tangling your limbs together and kissing each other tenderly and showing how much you love each other

Arlecchino is a powerful woman in the end, much more powerful than you despite the reversed dynamic you have with each other, so it doesn't take long before she regains her stamina. She tells you to stay there (though you don't really have the energy to get up anyway) before she goes off to run the bath and bring back a glass of water for you. She treats you less like a cold and unfeeling woman and more of a warm and caring lover, utterly devoted to you, as she brings you to the tub and places you in front of her to clean you up and service you in any way, shape or form you want

It's really funny when it's you who fucked her silly and yet YOU'RE the one getting pampered, but she wouldn't have it any other way

And when you finally get out and get ready to sleep? When she hugs you, clings to you in your rest, you know full well that she has never been more devoted, more reassured, more loved than when she's with you

She's not alone and unloved anymore. You've made sure of that.

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novlr · 1 year ago

Text

How to write the cold

The way we feel cold is universal, but the way we contextualise it is not. Cold has a variety of connotations for readers, so it's important to decide how to use it, and what mood you want to convey in your scene.

While cold is often associated with negative aspects in writing, if there's anything the winter season teaches us, is that it can be a positive thing as well. Rather than just using the word cold, in your next writing project, try to contextualise it. Describe the weather, the light on the snow, the comfort of warmth after an icy swim, or the fear and loneliness of the dark on a cold night.

Here are our quick tips on how to write the cold:

In nature

Clean mountain air

Glittering ice crystals

Unique wildlife, like snow hares or polar bears

Snow muffled sounds

Steam rising from hot springs

Icy water in rivers and lakes

Overcast and rainy

Bright sun on fresh snow

Icebergs, glaciers, and ice floes

Storms and blizzards

Branches moving and creaking

Frozen ponds

Morning frost on grass

Snowdrops pushing through snowdrifts

Crisp and clear night skies

Wolves howling in the dark

Bare branches scraping against windows

Eerie shadows

Foods and objects

The scent of cinnamon and nutmeg

Heavy winter coats and scarves

Rich, hot meals with lots of gravy

Tea or coffee left out too long

Ice-cream, sorbets, or ice-lollies

Metal that is cold to the touch (like pots and pans or door handles)

Cold beverages straight out of the fridge

An icy bath

Freezer trucks or walk-in refrigerators

Dry ice

Crisp, fresh sheets on cold nights

Ice sculptures

A tap with a drip that freezes in place

Frozen celebratory drinks (like daiquiris)

A single cube of ice floating in a whisky glass

A cold pack for an injury

Character moods

Isolated

Lonely

Aloof

Sad

Comfortable

Snuggly

Focused

Panicked

Indifferent

A lack of affection

Calm and calculated

Disengaged

Serene

Depressed

Awestruck

Anxious

Reverent

Melancholy

Nostalgic

Impatient

Frustrated

Reflective

Character body language

Hunched shoulders

Crossed arms

Shivering

Snuggling into something warm

Rub hands together for warmth

Tight or strained expression

Biting dry lips

Furrowing brow

Glaring against brightness

Tense and rigid stance

Stand close to others

Slow, deliberate steps

Move quickly to somewhere warm

Sitting relaxed in a warm space

Actions and events

Start a fire or build a shelter

Winter hikes

Outdoor activities like skating, skiing, or sledding

Traffic jams or snowed in cars

Frozen lakes cracking underfoot

Dodging icicles falling from rooftops

Going ice-fishing

Long sea voyages

Frostbite

Suffering from a cold, the flu, or pneumonia

Brainfreeze

Snuggling under a warm duvet

Sipping from a steaming hot drink for comfort

Cold-water swimming

Walking to work in the rain

Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere

Chrismas in July in the Southern Hemisphere

Reading a good book by the fire while it snows outside

Positive aspects

While cold is often associated with negative emotions, using it as a juxtaposition can often help to accentuate the positive feelings you want to convey.

If it's cold outside, a character enjoying a hot chocolate under their duvet will give a much more positive impression than if they were simply staying in bed.

The beauty of the natural world in winter, like snow, ice, and winter foliage can also be used to create a scene of happiness and wonder.

Negative aspects

Cold is often used to describe characters who are emotionally detached, calculating, or generally unfeeling. It's become an easy way to clue your readers in to how they're meant to feel about your character.

There are also more creative ways to use the cold, however, like describing the disappointment of forgetting about a hot drink you put down somewhere and only remembering when it's already gone cold, or the feeling of shock after you first step out of a warm shower.

Helpful synonyms

chilly

frigid

icy

wintry

frosty

cool

nippy

freezing

glacial

brisk

chilled

cool

polar

bitter

snowy

raw

refrigerated

arctic

rimy

draughty

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seancekitsch · 1 year ago

Text

Is it Casual Now? : An Adrian Chase x Reader Kinktober fic

warnings: blood kink, this is messy, fingering, smut, fwb adrian, slight mask kink

“What happened to casual?” you pant, breathless as you struggle to stay standing upright.

“Oh, fuck casual!” Adrian exclaims, the mask muffling his voice, “Who cares about casual when you look so stunning like this?”

His glove comes up to your cheek to smear more blood against your face, and then he lightly slaps you cheek, teasing you. Your lips peel open with laughter as you scrunch your nose at him, narrowing your eyes at the red visor.

His ungloved hand moves deeper, two fingers pushed into you all the way to the knuckle, his wrist pulsing to his own rhythm. Your lip curls up into a silent groan, and you don’t dare break what you think is probably eye contact with Adrian. He’s testing you. He’s just waiting for you to crack. The second you give in and moan or close your eyes he’s gonna throw you around like a rag doll or something; Which, isn’t terrible… but thats not how this started.

When you first accepted a ride home from headquarters from Adrian you didn't expect him to walk you into your apartment and kiss you like a man starved. Then it turned into a regular thing, quiet moments, little kisses and hookups that you both agreed were casual and low key. Or so you thought.

You don’t dare close your eyes, but you do shift your gaze over his shoulder for a moment. Your eyes settle on the door, ajar and doing a piss poor job of giving either of you privacy from the others.

“You look so pretty like this,” He says, thrusting his fingers particularly hard to get you to fold, “Maybe I should chop a guy in half in front of you more often.”

Your eyes move back to his, widening at his lack of care.

“Be quiet,” you hiss, nodding your head towards the door.

It’s taking literally everything in you not to moan honestly. His fingers are working you open so well, and of course it helped that you were already soaked because Adrian saved your ass out there. His middle and ring finger are deep, and you know he can feel you clenching down on them; he can feel exactly what he’s doing to you. Between you, you can hear the sounds of yourself and your pleasure, Fuck, you must seem so pathetic.

“But you like this,” Adrian whispers, and his head falls against yours, his body presses you against the wall.

“Fuck,” you pant, your own words escaping you.

“What if I…?” he asks, his hips jolting against yours, leather and canvas on leather and canvas. Friction. You nod at him fervently. Yes, yes anything. Everything Adrian. Everything Vigilante.

Adrian does you the either courtesy or mercy of pushing you further away from the door across the wall, until your hip is pressed into the sink bowl of the bathroom. His free hand slides away from your face, down your body and making sure to feel all of you on the way down. His hand takes down the front of your top, smearing the setting stains across your chest and abdomen. He only breaks contact from you to reach for the buckle of his tactical belt, clunky and loud. There’s no way the others don’t know what’s going on, but if they say anything you don’t hear it.

“So fucking pretty all covered in blood,” Adrian mutters as he pulls himself from his pants, hard and wanting.

“You’re such a pervert,” you sigh, mouth falling open at the sight of him already leaking. His hands are back on you and pushing you roughly, turning you around to face the mirror. His hands find their way to your pants as well.

“Guess that makes me your pervert, huh?”

If you could see his face right now you’re sure he’d have a stupid big grin on it, but all you get is the cold unfeeling red visor.

He pulls your pants down only as far as they need to go, only to your thighs, and lines himself up easily. For a brief second, his whole demeanor softens. Through the mask, he places a kiss on your clothed shoulder. Then he pushes into you until his hips bottom out against your ass. It takes everything in you not to moan, a shuddered gasp all that you let slip.

He pulls out almost completely, and then back in again. A challenge, you realize as you steady yourself against the sink, pushing your ass back against him.

“Wanna see what you look like covered in other body fluids,” he remarks, ungloved hand reaching back down to your clit. Fuck, it feels good.

“Gross,” you reply, and Adrian chuckles from behind the mask.

“Hey!” He says, again too loudly, his gloved hand squeezing your hip.

“If it’s so gross why are you so wet for me?” he asks, at least a little quieter this time. Well, he’s got you there. You don’t have an excuse for that. You just glare at him through the mirror and lean into his touch even more, letting him have that little win. He speeds up, still pulling almost completely out of you before slamming back in, brutal as the force jolts your hips in his grasp. His fingers on your clit speed up their pace, Adrian clearly eager to watch you lose your composure. Your knees wobble, arms on the sink threatening to buckle. Fuck, he’s good at this, you think as you bite your lip, trying not to let him know how good he really is.

“C’mon don’t be shy, I know you love when I do this,” Adrian teases, leaning more of his weight against you, smearing the blood covering him against the back of your shirt. He removes his mask with a quick tug to the crown of his head, curls falling out from where they were compressed.

“Our friends are out there,” you remind him, but it’s clear Adrian doesn’t really care. Any discretion of your little arrangement can be kissed goodbye at this point.

He switches his motions with his fingers on your clit, clockwise now counterclockwise and timed perfectly with the rhythm of his thrusts. Your elbow buckles under his force, and the drop and change of position has you moaning into the sink bowl, loud and embarrassing as it echoes off of the ceramic.

“That’s my girl,” he coos, speeding up as you clench around him, “gonna make me come all over you, paint you like a fuckin’ Rembrandt.”

So, Adrian knows about Dutch Golden Age painters. Interesting. You don’t dwell on that much, not when he’s snapping his hips into you hard enough to bruise now. Not when his hand hasn’t left your clit. Not when blood and spit cover your reflected faces in the mirror. He’s right, you’re both a sight to fucking see. It really is beautiful. You lock eyes with him in the mirror, and it’s all over. That was all Adrian apparently needed, his hips stuttering as he releases inside you.

“Fuck, babe, you see what you do to me?” he asks as he slow his hips, but speeds up with motion of his hand. It doesn’t take long for you to follow him, clenching and coming around his cock still inside you, biting your lip until it bleeds too.

He hesitates to slow down, bringing you back down slowly before he stops completely. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, lips smearing into the blood in your hair, copper and bitter, crimson and guilty. Not of murder, although a cop might think differently, but of blowing your cover on the casual situation you held gingerly between you. He kisses you again, the man that you walk-of-shame’d from his apartment many mornings, the man who sliced another man in half today for coming after you because you yourself killed his henchman. Adrian kisses you again as he pulls out, gentle with the motion and holding you still with his big warm hands.

He smiles at you from the mirror, wide and bright. You can’t help but smile back at him, despite the nerves that start to ice out the warmth you feel from him. You pull up your pants hastily, and turn to face him in the bathroom that now feels way more claustrophobic than before. He chuckles and smears his hands across your face, clumsy and blurry without the help of his prescription. You’re both still covered in blood. So much for sneaking away with the excuse of cleaning up. You join in his laughter, but yours is slightly forced.

“Maybe we can… pretend they don’t know,” you suggest in a whisper to Adrian as he leads you out of the bathroom. His hand remains on yours, funny in the way that it brings comfort and peace despite the guilt and embarrassment pooling in your gut.

“Oh, we totally heard all of that,” Chris scoffs, not at all giving you the grace or space to play it off. Great. You grimace and refuse to look anywhere but Adrian.

“Oh, C’mon guys you know I had to clean up my girl, she had blood all over her!” Adrian offers, as if that’s an excuse.

“She’s still covered in blood!” Leota exclaims.

“Your girl? What the fuck, are you dating?” John asks. You’re lucky Emilia is fucking ignoring all of this, at least. She’s texting and refusing to join in.

But John’s question strikes a chord. This is the second time he’s called you his, despite all of the talk you’d had about keeping things chill without a label.

Chris’ phone pings.

“Oh, not fair, Harcourt!” he shouts as he digs a ten bill out of his wallet. She was paying attention, and betting on you apparently.

“Are we?” you ask, voice small and unsure. To be his wouldn’t be terrible. He’s your favorite person on this team and a good friend, doesn’t help that he’s gorgeous. It might be nice doing take out dates on a busboy salary and sleeping in snuggled up together. In fact, you can picture it pretty clearly. In fact, you’d been doing that at least three nights a week for the past month. Fuck. You’ve been dating Vigilante. Totally not casual.

“I think so. Pretty cool right?” Adrian’s smile grows wide, proud of himself.

“Sure,” you answer, a grin spreading on your own face too.

Fuck casual.

#adrian chase x reader

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dotster001 · 1 year ago

Note

Yandere Chevalier headcanon please 🥺

Summary:Chevalier x gn! Reader

CW: yandere,physical harm to reader, murder, psychological harm to reader, Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, blood, isolation, food and water deprivation, probably more but consider yourself warned

A/N: idk how dark you expected it to be, but this is the brutal beast we're talking about so.... also! I have an in progress series where I look at the Yan journey of ikepri characters after their routes, so if eventually there is a fic that is very similar to this, think of it as a rough draft

When he falls, he falls hard. Not that you'll ever know. To you, he'll always look unfeeling and cruel. Most days you can't help but wonder if he hates you. But it's so far from the truth. For the first time, he's filled with love and warmth. And it's so overwhelming that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He tries to let you live free for a while. After all, he would fight to the death if someone held him under lock and key. For a while he's successful. Until one day, in his distraction over you, an assassination attempt gets a little too close to you. You aren't hurt. But you find yourself drenched in blood as Chev runs the assailant through. Your haunted face is revealed as the body in front of him crumples. And he realizes that he can't leave you on your own. Not if he's going to be a part of your life.

He thinks he is fine with your hatred. After all, he loves you, and that's what matters. He can't expect you to love him back, not when you're chained to the headboard of his bed. He's used to people fearing and hating him. And yet he's beginning to feel a new feeling. A new, nasty, aching feeling in his chest. When he holds you and all you do is whimper, the ache worsens.

And people begin to notice. Chev, king, and master of his countenance, is cranky. Only Clavis and Sariel know the truth, and while Clavis is initially amused, eventually, even he needs his boss to get back to normal. So, it's not very gentlemanly, but he places a book, that's been secretly popular in the town, on Chevalier's desk unceremoniously. A dark romance, where the love interest succumbs to Stockholm syndrome and falls for their captor. It wasn't an openly popular book, but someone had to be purchasing all those books.

Chevalier had scoffed at his brother's gift, initially thinking it was a joke. But upon further inspection, he realized it was a piece offering. A genuine gift. A piece of advice. If anyone could psychologically break a darling into submission, it would be him.

And he does. It's not perfect submission, he still wants you to be you, but it's enough that you grow dependent on him. Just as before, you can't be sure if he loves you or hates you. And that's the crux of his control over you. If you're good, he'll heave a heavy sigh and give you affection. If you're bad, it will be like you don't even exist in his world. You are dirt. Dust. A bug beneath his feet. Only good darlings get love. Just like every other fool in his life, you're a pawn in his game. You just happen to be a fool that makes him feel butterflies in his stomach.

He doesn't like to hurt you physically. But he will if he has to. Nothing too damaging, part of your appeal is your aesthetic, after all. But if you do something stupid like think you can escape (and all you have to do is think it. He always knows) he might slap you, or hit you with a riding crop. If you make it a step outside of the room, he won't hurt you. But someone you love will be killed right in front of you. And you will be tasked with cleaning it up. If you somehow make it farther than step outside the room (aka, he lets you as a trust test) prepare to be isolated in a cold damp dungeon cell for as long as it takes for you to pass out from lack of food or water. Then he'll nurse you back to health so that all your mind sees is how kind and doting he is.

You can't win against the brutal beast. Geniuses have tried and failed. And one day, when you no longer have the foolish urge to fight him, when the prey finally recognizes it has lost, he might tell you he loves you.

#ikemen prince chevalier #yandere ikemen prince #yandere ikepri #yandere ikemen prince x reader #ikemen prince x reader #ikepri x reader #yandere chevalier michel #yandere chevalier #yandere chevalier x reader #yandere chevalier michel x reader #chevalier michel

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kiigan · 3 days ago

Text

Character Flaws

Bold what applies to your muse. Italics for somewhat / sometimes.

Absent-minded - Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive - Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another.

Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alcoholic - A person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess.

Anxious - Full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Arrogant - Having or displaying a sense of overbearing self-worth or self-importance. Inclined to social exclusiveness and who rebuff the advances of people considered inferior. Snobbish.

Audacious - Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; brazen, disobedient.

Bad Habit - A revolting personal habit. Examples: picks nose, spits tobacco, drools, bad body odour.

Bigmouth - A loud-mouthed or gossipy person.

Bigot - One who is strongly partial to one’s own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt - Characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion. Frank, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Bold - In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

Childish - Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile.

Complex - An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear.

Cruel - Mean to anyone or anything, without care or regard to consequences and feelings.

Cursed - A person who has befallen a prayer for evil or misfortune, placed under a spell, or borne into an evil circumstance, and suffers for it. Damned.

Dependent - Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another.

Deranged - Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Dishonest – Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded.

Disloyal - Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable.

Disorder - An ailment that affects the function of mind or body. (malignant narcissist, former kleptomaniac, obsessive-compulsive ) See the Mental Disorder List.

Disturbed - Showing some or a few signs or symptoms of mental or emotional illness. Confused, disordered, neurotic, troubled.

Dubious - Fraught with uncertainty or doubt. Undecided, doubtful, unsure.

Dyslexic - Affected by dyslexia, a learning disorder marked by impairment of the ability to recognize and comprehend written words.

Egotistical - Characteristic of those having an inflated idea of their own importance. Boastful, pompous.

Envious - Showing extreme cupidity; painfully desirous of another’s advantages; covetous, jealous.

Erratic - Deviating from the customary course in conduct or opinion; eccentric: erratic behaviour. Eccentric, bizarre, outlandish, strange.

Fanatical - Fanatic outlook or behaviour especially as exhibited by excessive enthusiasm, unreasoning zeal, or wild and extravagant notions on some subject.

Fickle – Erratic, changeable, unstable - especially with regard to affections or attachments; capricious.

Fierce - Marked by extreme intensity of emotions or convictions; inclined to react violently; fervid.

Finicky - Excessively particular or fastidious; difficult to please; fussy. Too much concerned with detail. Meticulous, fastidious, choosy, critical, picky, prissy, pernickety.

Fixated - In psychoanalytic theory, a strong attachment to a person or thing, especially such an attachment formed in childhood or infancy and manifested in immature or neurotic behaviour that persists throughout life. Fetish, quirk, obsession, infatuation.

Flirt -To make playfully romantic or sexual overtures; behaviour intended to arouse sexual interest. Minx. Tease.

Gluttonous - Given to excess in consumption of especially food or drink. Voracious, ravenous, wolfish, piggish, insatiable.

Gruff - Brusque or stern in manner or appearance. Crusty, rough, surly.

Gullible - Will believe any information given, regardless of how valid or truthful it is, easily deceived or duped.

Hard - A person who is difficult to deal with, manage, control, overcome, or understand. Hard emotions, hard hearted.

Hedonistic - Pursuit of or devotion to pleasure, especially to the pleasures of the senses.

Hoity-toity - Given to flights of fancy; capricious; frivolous. Prone to giddy behaviour, flighty.

Humourless - The inability to find humour in things, and most certainly in themselves.

Hypocritical - One who is always contradicting their own beliefs, actions or sayings. A person who professes beliefs and opinions for others that he does not hold. Being a hypocrite.

Idealist - One whose conduct is influenced by ideals that often conflict with practical considerations. One who is unrealistic and impractical, guided more by ideals than by practical considerations.

Idiotic - Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless.

Ignorant - Lacking knowledge or information as to a particular subject or fact. Showing or arising from a lack of education or knowledge.

Illiterate - Unable to read and write.

Immature - Emotionally undeveloped; juvenile; childish.

Impatient - Unable to wait patiently or tolerate delay; restless. Unable to endure irritation or opposition; intolerant.

Impious - Lacking piety and reverence for a god/gods and their followers.

Impish - Naughtily or annoyingly playful.

Incompetent - Unable to execute tasks, no matter how the size or difficulty.

Indecisive - Characterized by lack of decision and firmness, especially under pressure.

Indifferent - The trait of lacking enthusiasm for or interest in things generally, remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern. Having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless.

Infamy - Having an extremely bad reputation, public reproach, or strong condemnation as the result of a shameful, criminal, or outrageous act that affects how others view them.

Intolerant - Unwilling to tolerate difference of opinion and narrow-minded about cherished opinions.

Judgmental - Inclined to make and form judgements, especially moral or personal ones, based on one’s own opinions or impressions towards others/practices/groups/religions based on appearance, reputation, occupation, etc.

Klutz - Clumsy. Blunderer.

Lazy - Resistant to work or exertion; disposed to idleness.

Lewd - Inclined to, characterized by, or inciting to lust or lechery; lascivious. Obscene or indecent, as language or songs; salacious.

Liar - Compulsively and purposefully tells false truths more often than not. A person who has lied or who lies repeatedly.

Lustful - Driven by lust; preoccupied with or exhibiting lustful desires.

Masochist - The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Meddlesome - Intrusive in a meddling or offensive manner, given to meddling; interfering.

Meek - Evidencing little spirit or courage; overly submissive or compliant; humble in spirit or manner; suggesting retiring mildness or even cowed submissiveness.

Megalomaniac - A psycho pathological condition characterized by delusional fantasies of wealth, power, or omnipotence.

Naïve - Lacking worldly experience and understanding, simple and guileless; showing or characterized by a lack of sophistication and critical judgement.

Nervous - Easily agitated or distressed; high-strung or jumpy.

Non-violent - Abstaining from the use of violence.

Nosey - Given to prying into the affairs of others; snoopy. Offensively curious or inquisitive.

Obsessive - An unhealthy and compulsive preoccupation with something or someone.

Oppressor - A person of authority who subjects others to undue pressures, to keep down by severe and unjust use of force or authority.

Overambitious - Having a strong excessive desire for success or achievement.

Overconfident - Excessively confident; presumptuous.

Overemotional - Excessively or abnormally emotional. Sensitive about themselves and others, more so than the average person.

Overprotective - To protect too much; coddle.

Overzealous - Marked by excessive enthusiasm for and intense devotion to a cause or idea.

Pacifist - Opposition to war or violence as a means of resolving disputes. (Can double as a merit in certain cases)

Paranoid - Exhibiting or characterized by extreme and irrational fear or distrust of others.

Peevish - Expressing fretfulness and discontent, or unjustifiable dissatisfaction. Cantankerous, cross, ill-tempered, testy, captious, discontented, crotchety, cranky, ornery.

Perfectionist - A propensity for being displeased with anything that is not perfect or does not meet extremely high standards.

Pessimist - A tendency to stress the negative or unfavorable or to take the gloomiest possible view.

Pest - One that pesters or annoys, with or without realizing it. Nuisance. Annoying. Nag.

Phobic – They have a severe form of fear when it comes to this one thing. Examples: Dark, Spiders, Cats

Practical - Level-headed, efficient, and unspeculative. No-nonsense.

Predictable - Easily seen through and assessable, where almost anyone can predict reactions and actions of said person by having met or known them even for a short time.

Proud - Filled with or showing excessive self-esteem and will often shirk help from others for the sake of pride.

Rebellious - Defying or resisting some established authority, government, or tradition; insubordinate; inclined to rebel.

Reckless - Heedless. Headstrong. Foolhardy. Unthinking boldness, wild carelessness and disregard for consequences.

Remorseless - Without remorse; merciless; pitiless; relentless.

Rigorous - Rigidly accurate; allowing no deviation from a standard; demanding strict attention to rules and procedures.

Sadist - The deriving of gratification or the tendency to derive gratification from inflicting pain or emotional abuse on others. Deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from cruelty.

Sadomasochist - Both sadist and masochist combined.

Sarcastic - A subtle form of mockery in which an intended meaning is conveyed obliquely.

Skeptic - One who instinctively or habitually doubts, questions, or disagrees with assertions or generally accepted conclusions.

Seducer - To lead others astray, as from duty, rectitude, or the like; corrupt. To attempt to lead or draw someone away, as from principles, faith, or allegiance.

Selfish - Concerned chiefly or only with oneself.

Self-martyr - One who purposely makes a great show of suffering in order to arouse sympathy from others, as a form of manipulation, and always for a selfish cause or reason.

Self-righteous - Piously sure of one’s own righteousness; moralistic. Exhibiting pious self-assurance. Holier-than-thou, sanctimonious.

Senile - Showing a decline or deterioration of physical strength or mental functioning, esp. short-term memory and alertness, as a result of old age or disease.

Shallow - Lacking depth of intellect or knowledge; concerned only with what is obvious.

Smart Ass - Thinks they know it all, and in some ways they may, but they can be greatly annoying and difficult to deal with at times, especially in arguments.

Soft-hearted - Having softness or tenderness of heart that can lead them into trouble; susceptible of pity or other kindly affection. They cannot resist helping someone they see in trouble, suffering or in need, and often don’t think of the repercussions or situation before doing so.

Solemn - Deeply earnest, serious, and sober.

Spineless - Lacking courage. Cowardly, wimp, lily-livered, gutless.

Spiteful - Showing malicious ill will and a desire to hurt; motivated by spite; vindictive person who will look for occasions for resentment. Vengeful.

Spoiled - Treated with excessive indulgence and pampering from earliest childhood, and has no notion of hard work, self-care or money management; coddled, pampered. Having the character or disposition harmed by pampering or over-solicitous attention.

Squeamish - Excessively fastidious and easily disgusted.

Stubborn - Unreasonably, often perversely unyielding; bull-headed. Firmly resolved or determined; resolute.

Superstitious - An irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear from an irrational belief that an object, action, or circumstance not logically related to a course of events influences its outcome.

Tactless - Lacking or showing a lack of what is fitting and considerate in dealing with others.

Temperamental - Moody, irritable, or sensitive. Excitable, volatile, emotional.

Theatrical - Having a flair for over dramatizing situations, doing things in a ‘big way’ and love to be ‘centre stage’.

Timid -Tends to be shy and/or quiet, shrinking away from offering opinions or from strangers and newcomers, fearing confrontations and violence.

Tongue-tied - Speechless or confused in expression, as from shyness, embarrassment, or astonishment.

Troublemaker - Someone who deliberately stirs up trouble, intentionally or unintentionally.

Unlucky - Marked by or causing misfortune; ill-fated. Destined for misfortune; doomed.

Unpredictable - Difficult to foretell or foresee, their actions are so chaotic it’s impossible to know what they are going to do next.

Untrustworthy - Not worthy of trust or belief. Backstabber.

Vain - Holding or characterized by an unduly high opinion of their physical appearance. Lovers of themselves. Conceited, egotistic, narcissistic.

Weak-willed - Lacking willpower, strength of will to carry out one’s decisions, wishes, or plans. Easily swayed.

Withdrawn - Not friendly or Sociable. Aloof.

Zealous - A fanatic.

tagged by: @hunting-songs ♡ tagging: if you’re reading this you’re tagged by default~

#long post #[dash games]#[headcanons]#[queued post]

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hunting-songs · 4 days ago

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Senritsus Faults! Bold what applies to your character. Italics for somewhat / sometimes. Tagged By: A little wildbirdie! Tagging: @skarletchains @kiigan @gyofukuki @saiakv @kylo-wrecked @muddsludge @zaeltry @distortedkilling @lightfaithed @bewitchingbaker @soulfulempathy ...and YOU!

Absent-minded - Preoccupied to the extent of being unaware of one’s immediate surroundings. Abstracted, daydreaming, inattentive, oblivious, forgetful.

Abusive - Characterized by improper infliction of physical or psychological maltreatment towards another.

Addict - One who is addicted to a compulsive activity. Examples: gambling, drugs, sex.

Aimless - Devoid of direction or purpose.

Alcoholic - A person who drinks alcoholic substances habitually and to excess.

Anxious - Full of mental distress or uneasiness because of fear of danger or misfortune; greatly worried; solicitous.

Arrogant - Having or displaying a sense of overbearing self-worth or self-importance. Inclined to social exclusiveness and who rebuff the advances of people considered inferior. Snobbish.

Audacious - Recklessly bold in defiance of convention, propriety, law, or the like; insolent; braze, disobedient.

Bad Habit - A revolting personal habit. Examples: picks nose, spits tobacco, drools, bad body odour.

Bigmouth - A loud-mouthed or gossipy person.

Bigot - One who is strongly partial to one’s own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Blunt - Characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion. Frank, callous, insensitive, brusque.

Bold - In a bad sense, too forward; taking undue liberties; over assuming or confident; lacking proper modesty or restraint; rude; impudent. Abrupt, brazen, cheeky, brassy, audacious.

Callous - They are hardened to emotions, rarely showing any form of it in expression. Unfeeling. Cold.

Childish - Marked by or indicating a lack of maturity; puerile.

Complex - An exaggerated or obsessive concern or fear.

Cruel - Mean to anyone or anything, without care or regard to consequences and feelings.

Cursed - A person who has befallen a prayer for evil or misfortune, placed under a spell, or borne into an evil circumstance, and suffers for it. Damned.

Dependent - Unable to exist, sustain oneself, or act appropriately or normally without the assistance or direction of another.

Deranged - Mentally decayed. Insane. Crazy. Mad. Psychotic.

Dishonest – Given to or using fraud, cheating; deceitful, deceptive, crooked, underhanded.

Disloyal - Lacking loyalty. Unfaithful, perfidious, traitorous, treasonable