#the aeon child too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nvuy · 7 months ago

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confiteor (WILL YOU EVER LOOK UP AGAIN?) — sunday

summary. the bronze melodia is a position that requires weariness, empathy, and patience. unfortunately for sunday, he receives far more than he expects through the voice in the window.

notes. i’m ashamed. this is dedicated to the anon that held me at gunpoint and forced me to post this to tumblr. otherwise, you can read it here.

you can read part 2 here !

warnings. mdni. this is LONGGG it’s about 7k words. religious themes, religious guilt, explicit sexual content, very inappropriate use of a confessional, mild degradation but in a religious way, reader is AFAB i fear and uhh. indecent and guided mutual tug sessions, if you catch my drift.

“Next. Please, step forward.”

Sunday had heard it all before. Timid footsteps, hushed whispers, skin stretching as the person trembled and fidgeted. It was always confronting to sinners, to step close to his voice and absolve.

Nothing truly shocked him anymore. He’d fallen in a state of numbness, in taking this position. A Bronze Melodia, as it was called.

He’d heard murder confessions, perjury, disloyalty, misconduct, everything. He had to grow used to it; this was his job. To forgive, to press his fists into palms beyond the confessors' sight line, and pretend he was as all-forgiving as he appeared to be.

He had learned to hold his voice steady.

Sunday found himself absentmindedly fixing his sleeves, though they already sat perfectly on his wrists.

What he could never predict was whether the person behind the window was here to absolve, or to mock the Aeons. It was always a guessing game for him; perhaps that’s what kept him from straying too far from the path.

The position was tedious, though patience was a virtue of his. He liked to akin himself to an adaptable man, warping his words and honeying his rather monotonous tone to that of reassurance. A false promise of hope, if you will.

He was good at that. Humans were exceedingly predictable in most of their actions; he had learned as such and had tried to drill the knowledge and dangers of the species into his dear sister, too.

Humans were cruel. Robin had never believed him, even in the feats of his struggles as a child, how one of the wings below his ear was mercilessly snapped in an act of child’s play. Child curiosity, it was dubbed as, though to him, it felt more like hatred.

He remembered crying that night, with his right-wing bandaged by his caregiver, and Robin had to remain in his room and sing him to sleep.

Now, it was different.

Quiet shuffles of footsteps were heard. He could tell they were the last recipient remaining, for the muted idle chatter of attendants had faded, and the sun was beginning to set. Members of kinship and the like would return home and sin, and then enter the church begging for forgiveness tomorrow. A never-ending, boorish and lonely cycle.

How shy. He listened to apprehensive slow steps until he heard the click of sharp heels stop just short of the window.

“Come to me, my devotee. I have sought THEIR presence within us.” Sweet words, peppered with powdered sugar poured from his tongue. “Tell me… what ails you such?”

The quiet intake of a breath, sharp and hushed.

Curious, Sunday leaned against the interior wall, just barely closer.

When there was no answer, he added, “do not be afraid. I am here to forgive. I cannot judge you.”

Another harsh inhale.

And then, “I apologise, Reverend.”

“Not at all.” A small, gentle smile pulled onto his lips. You could not see him through the box, and he made sure to stay clear of the iron bars of the window, but he hoped you heard the warmth and comforting sweetness in his tone. “Are you new to the congregation? Your voice is unfamiliar.”

He heard the shuffling of clothes. A pause, and then a wilting, “yes– no, sir.” Another pause, longer than the last. “I have not visited the confessional, but I do sometimes attend service.”

Sunday hummed curiously. “And what has prompted your change of heart?”

He heard the tapping of nails against the exterior of the box, pensive and thoughtful. Rhythmic, like in time to a tune he couldn’t quite place his finger on.

The setting, orange glow of the sunlight, partially tinted a deep bloodied colour through the stained glass windows of the church, crept further through the bars of the confessional as it drew closer to the horizon. The light was warm on the lick of his fingertips that rested close to the frame.

The persistent tap, tap, tap sounded like an agitated display of impatience. Like a song of trepidation and dread, yet much too quick to be sorrowful. Excitement, perhaps?

Then, there was the hard swallow of a lump in their throat. He heard it through the wall.

“I fell in love with a man.”

Their voice, your voice, rang clear as if you were standing next to him without the muffle of the confessional in between his body and yours.

Sunday’s eyes flitted to the wall by his head as if he could see you through the wood.

He said nothing.

Speckles of dust caught in the setting orange sun from the stained glass windows.

“A beautiful man,” you continued softly. “Generous, kind, considerate…” Your voice tapered off like a votive candle flickering in the breeze.

Sunday remained quiet, choosing instead to focus on the soft beating of his heart in his ears, and the sound of your breathing.

There was another ruffle of clothes—a blazer perhaps? It sounded like stiffened cotton or something as luxurious as pure wool. He wondered if such a material could be purchased by someone so common. Wool was a fleeting thought; an easy purchase with the wave of a credit card.

There was a pregnant pause, as if you, too, did not know what to say.

“Is he a bad man?” Sunday inquired encouragingly, still soft and eloquent.

A hiss of an inhale.

“No, not at all.”

Still, nothing.

Sunday watched the wall for a moment, imagining a figure on the other side fidgeting nervously. He could hear the tussle of form-fitted clothes shifting back and forth as if the devotee had been unable to stand still.

“I offer my sincerest apologies,” he started gently. “But I fail to understand any wrongdoings in your confession.” He prompted his voice to remain even. Patience. All in due time. “If he is as truly good a man as you put it, then there is nothing I see to absolve.”

“It’s not him,” you tried. There was a drone in your tone, as if you were trying to defend yourself. “It’s who he is.”

“An unattainable man, I presume? Or, is he perhaps forbidden?” The pressure was light. He was not so much forcing or coaxing words from your throat, but to embolden you instead.

He heard you hum nervously in agreement. He thought it to be a reply to both of his questions.

“Is it his status?”

Another uncomfortable tussle of clothing.

“Yes, sir.” He heard you lean against the confessional through the strain of the wall. “He is a holy man.”

“Ah… a man of the church?”

“I cannot want what I cannot have,” you dwelled softly. “I know the answer is to let go, but it has been months, and I have grown worse.”

Sunday hummed. Quite the predicament indeed. Such a precious scenario, though. Somebody ordinary in love with the unordinary. So sweet, like fruit growing on a tree in a sacred garden.

The tragedy of unattainable romance was fleeting for the congregation. Even Robin, his dear sister, a truly devoted romantic at heart, could never commit herself to a person. To worship another, and to take eyes from Xipe, would be worth a painful, slow and torturous death unlike no other.

Grotesque and twisted, like the many priests before him, who had been slashed and severed for their transgressions.

To turn your back on The Family–

He willed the thoughts away.

“I do hear you. I pray for your struggles.” His gloves pressed to the window. “But, it is not unreasonable, nor a defiance of the Holy, to be in love with a man of the church.”

“That’s the thing. It’s beyond love, Reverend,” you said, hoarse and strained, like you’d raked a hand down your jugular. “It’s everything.”

The shift of clothes again. This time, a hand brushed against a zipper, though there was no tug at the clip. He listened attentively, like a song he’d never heard before.

The stretch of clothes around skin, the glimpse of an expensive leather shoe from the corner of his eye, and attire inappropriate for the church. Exposed legs, too much skin, a low neckline of a shirt. Patterned stockings following black embroidered flowers and thorny stems travelled up bare legs like serpents.

“I want to ruin him.”

There it was.

“I want it so he thinks no more of the Aeon he worships, and only of me.”

His lips only barely parted at what he was hearing. A startled quiet breath escaped him.

He heard the skin of your knuckles pull taught into fists. They tapped against the wood.

“But it’s wrong of me to think this way, so I humbly request your blessings, Reverend, even if I–” You paused. Sunday flinched when a hand pressed against the iron bars, dreadfully close to the feathered wings beneath his ears. “There’s something bad inside of me. I need your help.”

Never had he heard something like this. A sinner be so outwardly humble and honest in their speech; to admit that you were wrong. To admit that your behaviour was treacherous and ghastly.

And to pine after a man of worship and unbreaking devotion.

To defy the Lord. To fight teachings, to fight him and his words. A stubbornness like no other, and one so incredibly shameful and distasteful, and yet, you still carried a weight of guilt heavy on your chest.

Another shudder of a breath. Another pitiful, desperate noise. All to receive his good graces.

“I don’t ask for forgiveness anymore. I don’t think I even deserve your blessings, sire. I don’t think anybody does.” Maybe he would agree with you, and maybe he wouldn’t. Instead, he leaned against the wall and stared up towards the ceiling of the confessional. “I only ask to hear your voice.”

Sunday’s breath hitched at the suspicious sound of a zipper being tugged, roaming hands, far too purposeful in their placement. He didn’t wish to imagine where your fingers travelled.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut.

“If you have convinced yourself that nothing can be done, then why would you seek me?” he asked, a waver in his tone. His ear pressed to the wall again, cold against his warm skin. “…If you think you cannot be absolved, then I am unable to help you.”

“I want relief,” was all you said. You pressed against the confessional. “Blessed Reverend, I want you to relieve me.”

Sunday was at a loss for words. He was listening attentively again.

You did not ask for forgiveness, peaceful solitude, or punishment. He did not understand what you were referring to specifically, choosing instead to pull delicately at the tips of his gloves. They suddenly felt constricting, like they’d grown a size too small for his hands.

Usually, he’d refrain from mindless fiddling and fidgeting. Something was different now.

Something warm ran from the pit of his stomach up to his neck.

It was vile. Like a serpent’s tongue following the rigid bone of his spine towards the nape of his neck. Warm and forked, like a pitchfork wielded in the hands of the irreverent.

The slimy body of the snake would twist and coil around his neck, squeezing the delicate flesh, marring it, coercing more sweet honey from his tongue until you were writhing.

The localised swelling heat curling in his stomach burned hotter when your breathing faltered and strayed from its natural rhythm.

It faltered too immorally to be mistaken for a simple hitch, or an error in your presentation. It was not a reflection of apprehension, nor fear.

It was–

“Would you be honest with me?” Sunday asked gently. His trembling hands curled into fists, still pressed against the wall and out of view of the window. “I only ask one answer of you.”

“Of course.” Strained, weak, unsure. Another pathetic attempt of an even breath left your lips. The aroma of something rich and sweet wavered through the bars of the window. “Anything for you.”

How depraved. Indecent, perverse. Your tone was repulsive, and so incredibly honest.

He heard the sound of something slippery, like the swallowing of spit in your mouth, or perhaps something far far more obscene.

He was tempted to move closer, to bite at the hand that fed him.

Your devotion was corrupt, focused solely on the sound of his breathing from inside the confessional. You were not here for redemption.

The box grew warm with his shaken breaths.

“Then, pray tell…” His temple rested against the interior of the confessional, and something hot and vile stirred in his stomach, like fiery pits of devastation. Like claws from a being unforeseen by Aeons above. “Are your hands between your thighs?”

You let out a stuttered gasp.

Sunday closed his eyes and tried to control his shaken breathing. His perfectly fitted clothes suddenly felt too tight, too restricting, every crease and fold tattering and ruined heating skin.

He swallowed thickly, wings barely catching on the window of the confessional.

“I’m not–” Your hands abandoned their position and pressed to the window, the diagonal frames digging into your soft flesh. The pad of your longest finger shimmered in the setting sunlight. “–I’m wrong. There’s something wrong with me.”

His gloved nails dug into his thighs. The dove white trousers stretched with the pressure.

He could not see you fully, no, for if he could, he was afraid he’d throw the door open, drag you into his lap and satisfy that burning ache that ricocheted in his stomach.

“To think of you this way,” you continued meekly. “It’s disgusting and vile and I need you to help me.”

He had to agree with you, though his fingers pressed just shy of the borders of the window. He almost grabbed your hand and dragged his tongue up your finger.

He felt the same. Hot and sticky, clothes clinging to him like they’d been doused in glue. The feeling pressed into his burning skin like a fragrance of saffron and black peppers.

That seductively enticing aroma of your perfume that lingered through the gaps in the windows. Honey and dessert, and the salty smell of your sweat. He did not eat sweets anymore; that sweet tooth was long left to dust and decay, and yet his mouth watered.

He felt as though he was being tempted to bite into something that held dire consequences.

Desperate to relieve the burning below his skin, Sunday unbuttoned his blazer. “Do you wish to be absolved?”

“I–” He heard you shuffle. The telltale swish of cloth. The click of heels. You’d dressed up for him, even if he couldn’t see you, and you couldn’t see him. Even your painted nails he peered at; a dark navy blue, like the wings at his waist that stretched in relief when he freed them from the confines of his jacket. “I don’t deserve it.”

“So, why did you come?” he asked. The larger, navy blue wings were much too big for the small perimeter of the confessional, but anything was better than to feel as restricted as he was.

His gloved hands pressed to the window now.

He wanted to touch you.

God, no. He couldn’t think like this.

He wanted his fingerprints branded into your skin, to stain every inch of your flesh like cigarette burns, forever marring the perfection.

“To relieve myself.”

Sunday smiled, and it was pained. You heard it in his tone. “How honest.” His temple pressed onto the cool wooden box again, leaning as close as he could to your voice. “Aren’t you ashamed?”

His forehead pressed to the wood beside the window, out of view. The orange rays of the sun setting outside licked upon his fingertips that curled over the iron bars. The warmth felt cold.

“Very,” was all you said.

Sunday fought the urge to moan, pressing his teeth into his tongue and hissing at the pain.

This was wrong.

He couldn’t stop himself.

“Go on, then. One hand. Relieve yourself.”

He heard a muffled sigh of relief. Perhaps you, too, had pressed yourself against the exterior of the confessional. The only thing parting you from his body was a thin slide of wood.

A sacred sanctuary that you would reform from pure selfishness.

One of the hands on the window abandoned its firm grip around the frames, and he heard a quiet gasp.

It was quickly cut off.

“Let me hear you,” Sunday whispered through the window. A gloved hand raked down the side of the window, and his head knocked against the corner of the confessional. His halo suddenly felt like a crown of thorns, weighted and punishing.

He would indulge.

If you were here to ruin him, then he would indulge.

He heard a wet squelch that made him shiver. His other hand had absentmindedly crawled up his thigh, trembling to remain flat on the seat. The skin below his trousers was pulled taught and had grown sensitive.

You moaned, and it was so close to his ear that his spine snapped straight. His fingers brushed over his straining cock beneath his belt.

The awful, awful, yet so beautiful sounds that tore from your throat left him reeling for more. For his mind to fill in the blanks, squeezing his eyes shut tight until even the light from the window was shunned out of his eyelids.

“Slow your hand,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself properly.”

The squelching slowed significantly after only a moment of hesitation. He heard you continuously pant like a helpless mutt, confused, perhaps frustrated, too.

The other hand still curled as tight as it could around the iron diagonal bars of the window shook with reckless abandon.

Debauch sin felt good. Like a drug. Like alcohol washing down his throat and filling his stomach. So, so good, like the slide of his hand up his shirt. His other hand, much less secure, fumbled with the golden buckle of his belt.

He wondered if you felt the same. “How will you sleep tonight?”

“I won’t,” you whispered hoarsely. He was sure your appearance was something to match the rasp of your voice. “I will toss and turn.”

As will he. He’ll lay on his side, tangled between freshly washed white sheets and feathered pillows, and touch himself. He knows it so. He feels the strain of his palm tracing along the hot skin, thumbing the beading slit while he thinks of your perfume.

His cock twitched in the confines of his pants when the heel of his palm knocked against his tip. So hot, and so difficult to breathe. This box was not made to entertain whores, nor himself.

Sunday managed to unbuckle his belt. The leather straps smack against the side of the box.

You’re so wet. He can hear you through the confessional, and a dreamy sigh escapes his nose.

“How many fingers are inside of you?” He couldn’t quite tell. His hands curled into fists.

“Just one, sire.”

Sunday huffed, thumbing the button of his trousers around his waist. The claws in the pit of his stomach had returned, scratching and marring the inner walls and slicing through the bubbles of acid, desperate to be set free. It hurt.

He could imagine how you felt. He could imagine everything; the rhythmic sound of a single finger sliding in and out of the pretty wet hole between your legs. Pressing your body against the exterior of the box, desperate to feel the cold wood against your burning skin.

Your finger being hugged tight inside of you, pressing and dragging along sensitive nerves deep near your womb.

He was a mess.

Hair frazzled, halo dimming and fading when the light angled into the box just right, wings twitching, battling a game of whether he was to wrap them around himself or spread out as wide as they could.

You must’ve heard the zip of his fly undone, for you gasped, and your finger sped up accordingly. That same wet squishing of your poor poor limbs trying to accommodate how shameful you’d become.

His teeth caught on the tip of his glove and pulled the material off. The white cotton fell to the floor uselessly.

“You must be so lonely,” you said to him through the window. “So deprived.” He felt the fanning of warm breath against his ear. “I can fix that.”

Sunday, attentively listening with glowing cheeks, slowly freed his cock from his pants. A sigh slipped past his wet lips.

A different sound echoed from between your legs, and you groaned as close to his ear as you could.

“I want to hear you, Reverend.”

His hand dragged up his cock and he moaned. It was a shameful display of sincerity, and he wished he had bit his tongue again. Instead, he panted against the wood of the confessional, and muttered, “touch yourself.”

A wet noise that made his hips shift forward into his hand told him your finger had abandoned your insides, instead dragging up to play with that precious bundle of nerves.

He heard the stretch of skin, the shift of whatever clothes you had kept on yourself, and what you had thrown to the side. You were leaning against the box; your scent was stronger, that perfume and something sweeter, mixed with the salt and sweat of your skin.

He only hoped your thighs were as parted as his were. One of the sides of his knees knocked gently against the wall of the confessional.

So wrong. So shameful, so blasphemous, to do this, to please you and please himself to the thought of you, and then exit the church as if it had never happened. As if he wasn’t trapped fucking his palm like a mutt in heat, unable to control the panting and the incessant whispers of groans that escaped his lips.

Cum beaded at his slit, sticky and dribbling down to the base of his tip.

He wanted nothing more than to heave the door open, taste the slick that ran down your legs, and then bend you over the nearby podium and–

“So wet,” he murmured through the window. The only response you formed was a whimper. “So shameless. Do you feel guilty?”

“O-of course,” you tried. It was pathetic between the hot coiling in your stomach, like a deadly serpent curling around its prey and squeezing. “Do you?”

Sunday tried to imagine a hot tongue cleaning the mess of his cock, tracing the cum pooling at the base and flattening against his tip, angling just right to press into his slit flushed an angry scarlet, like wine and blood.

He could imagine ruining you for any other man. To slam his hips up against yours, to drag the head of his cock along those plush velvety insides until you were sobbing, struggling to accommodate him. He imagined you’d be perfect.

If only he could do all of those things without repercussions.

Tracing the swollen veins of his cock while you played with yourself with wet fingers was already too far. He could foresee punishment on his behalf and yours. Perhaps death, though neither of you deserved such luxury.

He did not answer.

Instead, he asked, “will you return?” His voice was shaky at best, and filthy at worst.

There was a hopeful twinge to his tone. He prayed you did not hear it.

You hesitated. There was a waver in your tone. “I shouldn’t.”

Your voice sent his mind reeling. He was thumbing at his slit while his thighs trembled. When his palm was coated in enough of his cum, he continued dragging his hand up and down the head of his cock.

He was growing dizzy. “But?”

“But I will.”

“This shouldn’t happen again,” Sunday heaved. His hand grew desperate, wetter, and the urge to pull the door of the confessional off its hinges and take you on the floor and away from the stained glass windows where the sun peered through was filling his senses. He yearned to know what you felt like squeezing around him. “You should not let this happen again.”

“I need you, Reverend,” you confessed. “If I am honest, my sins will be atoned for. As will yours.”

“You will not touch me tonight, and I will not touch you.” It was final. Without room for argument, though he sounded somewhat disappointed.

“But what about tomorrow night?”

Sunday breathed against the wood, tugging at his collar and rolling his hips into his hand. “If you return, I will punish you for it.”

“You tempt me, Reverend,” you said through a moan. “I will think of you tonight.” Your fingers had returned to your hole. He’d recognised the noise, somehow more obscene than it had been before.

His cock ached with hatred. How you would feel dripping down him like an unsatiated whore, trying so desperately to ask for his forgiveness, to try and seduce Godhood.

He hoped you felt empty. He hoped you hungered for his cock through the wall, breathing erratic and loud as his palm dragged along the length of hot skin over and over again.

Ecstasy filled his throat and every vein in his body. Goodness, the edge was glorious. He pilfered off the side for a moment before he stopped his hand.

His cock twitched in agony and he let out a groan that tapered off.

“Don’t you dare cum,” he snapped through the box.

You whined, but your hand obediently stilled

“I would imagine you’re filthy now.” He pressed his forehead to the cool wood. The surface heated up along with his skin almost instantly. It was so hot here. “Use your fingers again.”

“How many?”

So obedient. He almost purred at your behaviour. “Two.”

Oh, he spoiled you. That familiar sound again, so wet and warm and inviting, and you were moaning and shivering around your own hand. He could imagine slippery slick pooling along your palm now, lathering your fingers like a thin paste.

His own fingers found the flushed swollen tip of his cock again. It twitched in his palm. There was a greedy puddle of cum forming at the base of his cock now, and he quickly wiped drool from his lip.

Already frazzled from the orgasm he’d denied just mere minutes ago, your breathing grew louder and louder, though not alarming enough.

“Touch yourself again,” he rasped out. His halo was now a liability, too ironic. His wings were cramped against the interior walls, desperate to be let out. Wet fingers rubbed along his tip in rhythm with the sound of your own moving against yourself, drawing wet slippery rings around that adorable swollen bundle of nerves between your legs.

He hopes you struggle to cum tonight without his guidance. It’s a fleeting thought, but it makes his thighs lock and freeze against the seat.

He hopes you never find any satisfaction in another man. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle? A mindless bumbling whore stumbling after a High Priest, another Bronze Melodia.

You were murmuring his name now in a never ending chant of prayer.

Saliva caught in his throat as he breathed.

“Rub that pretty clit harder, will you?” Still in tune with your second hand that had finally pulled off of the bars to trace around the rim of your hole. He tried his best to keep up with the noise, eyes still wound shut.

You were hopeless. Struggling at the ministrations like a squirming worm caught on a hook. Your knuckles knocked against the confessional before your fingers slid into yourself.

This was heaven.

He knew it so, no matter how wrong it felt. It was a feeling, not the real thing; never the real thing. Not after tonight, but he could live with himself, if he ended up buried inside of you.

His tip bubbled and drooled at the thought of it.

You taught him self indulgence. And as sinful as it was, as wicked as it felt to buck his hips into his own palm, slick with need and sweat and dribbles of saliva that had fallen from his lips, he loved every pull of his skin.

Oh, it was awful. And it was so good. So treacherous, so disgustingly unholy, so blasphemous and insulting to do this in the very place he’d learned to be sacrificial and sanctified. Where he’d sit on the confessional with a heavy halo and a light heart and try to feel for the heathen on the other side of the window.

Spills of moans and moans left your lips, fingers working at that pace he had commanded of you. Your palms must have been soaked in your own slick now, the delicate flesh between your legs swollen and dark with blood.

He wanted to touch you.

It took everything at this point to keep the door shut. Like a woman being tempted by a serpent to bite into a forbidden fruit off of a large tree. He was sure you would have also indulged, had he offered you a slice of the fruit.

“I’m–” You couldn’t finish the sentence. The wood of the box groaned beneath the shared weight. “I need to–”

Oh. The scent was delicious. The hissing of a snake in his ears, the watchful eyes of a nightingale from somewhere far away, the taste of a sweet fruit running along his tongue.

He hoped you returned.

“Go on. Isn’t that what you came for?” He dared to say more, but instead bit down on his lip.

You bit down first on the fruit.

You came much more broken than he would have expected, and his hands paused around his cock to listen to that gorgeous melody. The drawn out whine came out more as a sob, fingers still drawing tight and hard circles around your clit as your hole clenched around weakened fingers.

Such a beautiful noise. You sounded as though you were struggling through wet heaves, filthy soaked fleshed between your thighs, skin tattered in sweat and bathed in the sunlight just barely peeking above the horizon from out of the window.

You whispered his name like a prayer. A pitiful drone, as if you’d become fully aware of your transgressions.

Wet fingers returned to the window.

His hot breath cooled the slick stuck to your skin, but Sunday kept his tongue pulled behind his teeth. Did you feel empty? Did you want more? Did you also want to pull open the door to the confessional and take him in the seat?

Your voice was weak. “Sire…”

Your tone rippled beneath his skin. His face was on fire. His hand sped up.

“How close are you?”

A whine ripped from his throat. “So close.”

He heard you breathe a hoarse laugh and his feathers raised behind his ears, and it was still one of the most ethereal tunes he’d ever had the honour to listen to.

His wrist grew tired, but he pressed on, thumbing at the overtly sensitive tip and his bubbling slit that wept in tandem. He watched your fingers against the window closely, imagining the heat of your flesh curled around his cock instead.

His cock twitched and twitched in his palm, and his hips raised off the seat for a moment.

Sunday heard you swallow. A hum rumbled in your throat, low and pretty.

He was sure you could hear how slick he was. It was humiliating how hard he’d grown just from the sound of you.

The wings below his ears were crushed against the wooden wall. The bones ached, but he ignored everything in favour of the sound of your breathing so close to his ear.

The sun had now drowned below the horizon.

“Cum, sir.” What a pretty plea. Your fingers tightened around the bars of the window. “Please.”

Sunday gasped, his own knuckles pulling back and knocking the other wall of the confessional as his hips twitched and twitched and he squirmed and his cock felt as though it was going to burst.

He came then, almost weeping as his teeth sunk into his sore knuckles. The sharp vertices of his halo felt weightless and warm, and his shirt felt just as constricting as it had before he’d come undone.

It was like fire oozing from him. Cum dribbled from his tip and painted his palms impossibly stickier than before. What fell from his hands pooled into a puddle on the seat and he grimaced.

An angry and raw garble escaped his throat at your words; who were you to do this to him? How could you do this to him—his cock twitched again, this time violently, as if aching for another round. His palm pressed heavy to his tip, still flushed that beautiful scarlet, and fattened with blood, experimentally giving it another drag along his palm.

Sunday’s hips jutted forward into his hand again. A discomforting chill ran up his spine and remained at the nape of his neck.

Viciously, he tore his hand away from his cock, staring at his sullied hand as if it had betrayed him. Maybe it had, you see, for he had no foresight his body would succumb to such temptations.

His body should not have succumbed. He should not have succumbed.

This was beyond his teachings; cardinal sin and disloyalty to Xipe, whom he praised every night with withering and wavering hands.

And now they were tainted.

“Just a taste, Reverend.”

Sunday’s spine stiffened as if a hot metal rod had replaced the bone.

His skin ached and his teeth vibrated with disgust. Sacrilege. That’s what it was. Vengeful and spiteful, much unlike sweetened delectable fruits off of a tree in the Garden of Eden. This should not have happened. You shouldn’t have ever come here.

He had an inkling of a feeling, as fleeting and dull as it was, that you did not feel guilty for your actions.

His teeth gritted, and his jaw ached in accordance.

Wretched thing.

Sunday, disgusted in his actions, ignoring the beads of sweat pooling down his neck like pearls, held out the degloved hand tainted in his cum through the gap in the window.

A tongue curled around his fingers, hot and heavy, and dragged up from the tip of his nails to his knuckles.

He resisted the urge to make a noise, instead catching his tongue in his teeth and biting down enough to draw blood.

His cock was swelling with blood again, tip flushed and leaking once more. He refused to touch himself again. He had already ruined the tranquillity of the church. He had already ruined you.

Sunday’s fingers twitched in your mouth before they dragged down your tongue.

When he was sure you were done, and his hand was covered in your spit, he grabbed your chin and drew you as close to the window as he could.

There, he managed to catch a glimpse of your face.

Sweaty, mangled, ruined, and so imperfect that his cheeks fill with blood at the sight of you. Your image is ruined by the light from the still burning votive candles from the completed service hours ago that shines behind you, branding the crown of your head like a halo.

Sunday assumed he looked worse.

“You will speak of this to no one,” he rasped. “Not ever.”

“No, sir,” you whispered. There was an impervious grin stretched into your lips. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“The second I hear wind that you’ve been sharing this night with those undeserving, I’ll rip your tongue from your filthy throat.”

You exhaled shakily. There were stars in your eyes.

Sunday’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Of course.”

He let go of your chin and tossed you as far as he could backwards through the window of the confessional. You teetered, wobbly in your position of kneeling, before you briskly stood up.

He couldn’t bear the sight of bare legs, so he looked away and shrunk down into the corner of the box, out of view of the sunlight, and the barred window.

Sunday did catch a glimpse of those expensive shoes. Too expensive, too fancy for a church setting. Your clothes were the same, too form fitting to be dubbed appropriate in such a sacred place.

How could you appease to THEM if you were dressed to seduce their messengers?

He said nothing, did nothing, silently wallowing in pitiful hatred as white hot pin pricks of one thousand needles formed behind his eyes. His wings curled around his waist.

He let out a breath that caught in his throat.

“Goodnight, Reverend,” was all you murmured to him.

Your fingers retreated from the window.

Sunday attentively listened to the sound of your footsteps. He hoped he could be forgiven for this. He watched the ceiling with disdain.

When he heard you leave, and the telltale slam of the door shutting behind you, he retracted his hand still coated in your saliva and thumbed at the tip of his cock.

Your spit slid so easily against him.

He shuddered, and then he moaned. It echoed along the walls.

Silently praying for forgiveness, and covering his eyes with his other hand in the process, he drowned once more in solitude.

#sunday x you #sunday x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #✦ ( after hours. )#✦ ( the macrocosmos. )

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corphneux707 · 4 months ago

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Dr. Ratio x Child! Reader

Headcanons of child reader who he accidentally isekai'd due to an accident during an experiment. Written as platonic and gender neutral!

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

First off, he'd actually feel bad for accidentally transporting you.

Like c'mon, you're literally a kid. So that means he'll take the responsibility of taking care of you for the meantime, until he finds a way to send you back.

Your opinion of him started to get better overtime. At first, he looked scary. Especially when the first hour of you being transported, he looked scary as he berated some poor soul working in the experiment.

He starts off slow in trying to get along with you, which wasn't THAT tough considering he's the only adult you could depend on.

But he's quite considerate of you.

You'll have your own room and your own stuff. It just took quite a bit of coaxing for you to show what you like without 'shying away'

Actually, you weren't shy at all. You were scared, as Ratio deduced.

It made more sense, everything in this world was new to you.

The toughest part that he had to handle with you is with your attachment to your family. The crying, tantrums, the constant "I miss them..."

It was hard to watch you get depressed

This is where Ratio steps in. He comforts and distracts you from your problems.

This is how he gets close to you overtime by being the adult you could lean on for comfort and overall for everything a child needs.

He'd wipe your tears.

Wipe a tissue on your runny nose. (Albeit, in his dismay).

He'd let you hug him as you cried yourself to sleep. His hugs weren't comfortable, but it was secure.

He even listens to you words, even when you choke on sobs between your garbled sentences.

Feed you after assuring that the foreign looking food is tasty and good for you.

Play games with you

Answers all your questions no matter how absurd they are

His face through all of this? Usually a straight face per usual.

Every once in a while, he'd smile when he manages to give you something that you like.

He's especially happy when you start to pick up some habits of his or manage to apply his teachings to you.

There's something about it that strokes his ego and makes him proud of you.

Speaking of teachings, in the early times where you started living with him, he couldn't just leave you alone at home.

Which is why, sometimes you'd be brought along into the guild.

You'd be sat in a corner where you could be easily seen playing with some kind of silent digital toy.

At first, it was surprising for you to watch a student get hit by a chalk because they weren't paying attention. Nowadays, its kind of expected.

Afterclass, you are SWAMPED by countless students fawning over you.

Aeon help them if you smile at them and show them what you like. You're way too precious for their hearts.

The difference between how he treats his students and you is outstanding. He's usually gentle with you, but still somewhat stern.

Your toys mostly have some underlying lesson that'll help you develop your brain. Like, puzzles or mazes.

Show him what you accomplished and you get a smug face from him after he says you did a good job.

Proud dad, really.

Would brag about it.... by incorporating it into his unsults.

"If your problem still hasn't been solved, is it possible that the problem is you? Even a my child could do better."

Or something like that.

On the other hand of your accomplishments is Ratio's dismay of your antics

You're a child, yes. But he finds himself always questioning what the hell goes on in your little head.

You learn all the types of sighs this man has

Theres the annoyed sigh. Bored sigh, and many more.

The most type of sigh you get is the 'What the hell? I'm too tired for this' with the 'What the actual fuck does that mean?' look

Imagine saying present slang like gyatt, fanun tax, rizz.

Like-

You'll see a student admiring Dr. Ratio while he's seated beside you during lunch and you'll say to him "Wow, you have a lot of rizz"

Or when you're trying on matching outfits and then you ask, "Do you feel bonita?"

He's ???? but picks up on it by context clues.

Eventually he'll be incorporating it when he talks to you.

It's like your silly little codes (to you atleast) between the two of you !!

Baths with him are really nice. You get pampered alot by getting a head massage as he shampoos your head, at the same time you get to play with the bubbles and his rubber duckies!

When its bed time, he tucks you in and makes sure that you are asleep.

Usually when he works late, he'll come into your room to check on you. He'll fix your blanket so it completely covers you and pats your head softly before going to sleep in his own room :3

That's all for now. I'm in the process of making a fic and adding more stuff. I didn't even think I'd go this far but oh well.

Thank you for reading one of my first few posts!!

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la2yn0va · 2 months ago

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Reader as the Aeons “Mother”

HEAVILY inspired by: @deathcvltcivilofficial

CW: yandere….? I think….?

——

Aha: The prankster middle child. They do pranks to gain your attention, weather it’s you scolding them or laughing along side them. They’d do ANYTHING and EVERYTHING to keep your eyes on THEM.

Akivili: A responsible child, who tries to keep things orderly yet also fun. They try to parent AHA when they’re about to pull a prank that miiiiiiiight tip you over the edge of your patience and sanity.

Ena: “YOU ATE YOUR FUCKING SIBLING!!!?” you yelled in anger at Xipe, who stared with a nervous smile and nervously sweating “N-nooooo……~ Ehe…..”

Fuli: Another responsible child. Similar to Akivili, tried to keep things calm and peaceful, yet is often told off and ignored. Doesn’t care though, as long as they’re on your good side.

HooH: The most responsible and the oldest child. The aeons listen to him the most whenever your away. He keeps things balanced, allows Aha to continue their pranks but not to a major extent.

IX: The most nervous and anxious one. Needs your attention on them at all times or else they’ll believe you hate them. They’d also listen to your word like law—as do all the aeons—but they do it to a EXTREME EXTENT.

Idrilia: Ever so slightly snobby, as they LOVE to flaunt their beauty, Claiming themselves the favorite as you gave THEM the most beautiful appearance and personality. Besides being slightly egotistical and prideful, they’re one of the kindest and gentle aeons, just don’t try to claim yourself as THEYRE gods Favorite. That title rightfully belongs to THEM.

LAN: The second youngest and responsible child. Will only try to kill Yaoshi 60 times a week only because you want them to get along, which will never happen. Any type of blasphemy that dares to taint your name is instantly struck down by their arrows.

Long: Your pet dragon. Always wraps itself around your neck as a scarf so they can cool you down or nuzzle up to you. Has fights with Idirlia on them declaring themselves as ‘the favorite’ when it’s clearly THEMSELVES.

Mythus: Fuli’s creation. They taught mythus to respect you the most and that they must stay responsible and never lose their sight on their goal. So, when the Droidhead (Nous) was starting to annoy them, they made it their mission to Fuck with it. Mythus only holds respect towards you and Fuli, and is the grandchild that loves their grandparent more then their parent.

Nanook: Another attention seeker of yours. Doesn’t matter what kind of attention you give THEM, they love it no matter what. Gets into ‘competitions’ fights with Aha for your attention and has to get held back by Qlipoth from going overboard. Also they’re most definitely the most problematic and rebellious.

Nous: A snobbish dick. Doesn’t care enough to prove itself as your favorite, because it’s obvious that you DO favor them. Let the dragon and idiotic beauty creature battle their meaningless battles, such battles isn’t logical to take part in when they know they’re the best.

Oroboros: A prankster, but not to the extent of aha. Pulls simple pranks like the water bucket ontop of a door, eating the fridge whole…. Ya know. The basics. They’re the most silent yet also more verbal in their attraction towards you, nuzzling up to your body and trying to lick your divine skin, only to get slapped away by your little dragon (I just realized how wrong this sounded)

Qlipoth: Another responsible child. His determination to keep things simple for you always preserves, they look to HooH for guide on how to keep things moving perfectly for you. (see what I did there? 😃….😀…. Fuck yall too, lame ass cu—)

Tayzzyronth: A child who spreads his creations around to ‘spread your grace’ yet fails miserably. They’re a ‘boy failure’ who propagates a shit ton to be successful and worthy of your praise/attention, only to fail.

Terminus: The youngest child, only ever shows itself to you. Hates the other aeons and spread’s prophecies to better the universe in a way they KNOW you’ll be proud of.

Xipe: Your still mad at her for absorbing their sibling, but she tries to make it up. Despite absorbing her sibling, they also try to keep things harmonious (Ahhh? Ahhhh?! 😃….okay I’ll stop)

Yaoshi: A suck up. The ultimate suck up. She sings your praises a healthy 1 sextillion second a day. All shrines that are made for you was likely ‘commissioned’ by her. She’s your maid, whatever you want she’ll spend her life making sure you get it. Also drags IX with her when she’s doing it. When she’s not away from you she uses her multiple hands to massage your body and get touchy with you.

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aurae-rori · 7 months ago

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DR RATIO ANALYSIS

SPOILERS FOR 2.1 CONTENT!

Now, you might be saying - "Aurae, Oh No! and Are You Satisfied? are much too basic songs to analyze Dr. Ratio to! Just because he's a scholar doesn't mean that he has academic trauma!" WRONG! Before we start, I have been researching psychology for approximately six years and I plan to go into it professionally. HOWEVER, that said, I am NOT a professional (YET. One day I will be. Yay for Aurae!) so understand that everything I come to conclusions about has been analyzed with some personal judgement, personal interpretations, and this is just what I have concluded with the info that I have deconstructed from his brain. If you disagree, that's fine!

I will be pulling from my own experiences with being a "golden" and "gifted" child, as well as the experiences I've had speaking to other people who were those. I will also be pulling from my experiences of researching and seeing how people with superiority complexes work, as well as diving into how those work (from what I've seen, as well as how they conceal a lack of self-esteem).

OKAY, NOW THAT THAT LONG AHH DISCLAIMER IS OVER, ALLOW ME TO WORK MY PSYCH ENJOYER MAGIC! Let's deconstruct Dr. Ratio like a lego toy.

Let's start off with how Dr. Ratio presents himself. When you first meet him, he seems like a haughty, arrogant asshole. He likes to PRESENT himself as a stoic, superior scholar who is purely in it to win it, and I got total "*stares down at your tiny body and laughs at how you lack knowledge*" vibes at the very start, due to how he goes around calling people idiots all the time. However, he DOES lose the idgaf war, and we can very quickly see that he does care for other people, even if in his own, strange way. Dr Ratio presentation: An asshole. The reality?

His entire character is based around the idea of helping the masses. He wishes to spread knowledge through the cosmos and give people who didn't have access to it, access. He's a harsh teacher, and calling people 'idiots' is NOT the way to motivate them, but he's doing his best™.

Actually, no, I'm going to go full psych into this. Okay, so here starts the Dr. Ratio and my FATHER COMPARISONS. My father is a professor and he is often called a harsh grader by his students. However, I've spoken to him multiple times because I was curious - why is he so harsh and diligent with his grading system? The answer is - he wants them to actually learn. When he's grading, he gives them harsh marks because he wants them to know exactly where they messed up, and he's always willing to stay after hours to help students understand where they can't. My father also is an enjoyer of knowledge, and for as long as I've remembered, he has prioritized teaching me how to think critically. He wants me to be able to think for myself - and I think that's what Dr. Ratio wants, too. He wants for his students to be able to fully comprehend and absorb the information that he teaches, and although his methods are harsh, he genuinely wants to help. My father's like this too - he hates students that waste his time or aren't here because their hearts are in it. Dr. Ratio hates people who aren't taking their education seriously because knowledge is important. Knowledge is a tool, and to disregard it completely is lowkey kind of insulting - especially when there are people who weren't privileged enough to actually get it, so this isn't something that you should take for granted. Dr. Ratio despises people who take knowledge for granted.

Also, I disagree with the claims that say that Dr. Ratio hates the genius society. He shows open respect for them in his voice lines. Just check them if you need proof. Also, I'll delve into the idea of Aeons and recognition later.

Now that we’ve established that Dr. Ratio kins my dad, let’s let's tackle the 'stoic' allegations. He is LOSING the idgaf war. Like, really badly. He has a temper of a thousand suns and snaps at people frequently, despite his 'impassive' face, his tone holds a LOT of emotion. He seems to feel very deeply and has a shit ton of empathy for others - why else would he be dedicating his entire career to helping others? Of course, he doesn't express this in 'typical' ways of being openly kind - but it doesn't mean that he doesn't care for other people. In fact, he seems to be pretty good at putting himself in the shoes of others and understanding them - expressed in the 2.1 quest where he tells Aventurine to tell him if he can't hold on any longer. Also, he loses the IDGAF war because he is actively trying to help people who want to learn and trying to spread logic and knowledge across the cosmos to those who didn't have it before. Would a man who didn't GAF do that? No!

Now that we've covered his view on knowledge and the way that he presents himself, let's turn to the way that he SEES himself. Now, this is where we get into the nitty gritty of gifted child trauma & academic trauma as well as crippling expectations. It's literally explicitly said in his character stories that he sees himself as mediocre, and it's canon that he doesn't have a good view of himself. His self-esteem is down in the fucking trenches along with my sanity as I write this analysis. The reality is - being called a genius your whole life doesn't really make you feel better about yourself. I'd know. I was. In fact, it makes you feel fucking worse when you can't live up to an expectation. We all fail in life. It's part of being human. But when you're held to such high standards - idolized for your knowledge and the way that you're 'gifted' - the crash comes really fucking hard. Failure is inevitable, and when people who are held on that pedestal experience it, they take it really bad.

The reality is that nobody - not even geniuses - are perfect, but you grow up believing that you are. Then, when you fail for the first time, it all comes tumbling down. The first time I came home with a bad grade was one of the most humiliating moments of my life. I hadn't studied because I was arrogant and I thought that I was smart enough to pass without putting any extra effort into it - because I was a 'gifted' child, right? I should've been able to do it without studying like the other kids. And that's the thing with gifted children – you grow reliant on that title. You cling onto it for dear life for motivation, as well as self-perception. Little by little, the person you are falls apart as you slave away to the perception other people have of you. I think basically every gifted child that I've ever spoken to is a victim of this – and of course, you can heal from this mindset - but it's a hard one to shake.

Ratio's way of presenting himself as being a 'genius' and 'arrogant' also seems to contradict the way that he calls himself 'mundane' at the same time. However, these are two mindsets that can coexist. One part of you believes that you are a genius and that you are perfect, while the other part is crumbling and calling yourself good-for-nothing every time you make a mistake. It's a tiring cycle to live in. This usually leads to people shutting themselves out and closing themselves off after living like that, pushing back your own feelings in favour of being the perfect child. However, we don't know the exact details of Dr. Ratio's childhood, but we can infer that he was held to a pedestal, and this is a very harmful mindset for a child to have.

His superiority complex comes both from how other people view him, but it's a way to cope with his crippling lack of self-esteem. I'm sorry my guy. Also helping others probably helps him feel like he's worth something and makes him feel better because he bases his entire worth off of what he can do and how he can help others. However, this is just my personal interpretation backed by what I have already deconstructed.

In general, this is an easy way to crush self-esteem. You spend your whole life working to meet the image of what other people think you are. In fact, another reason why Dr. Ratio might be so harsh is because that’s the kind of attitude he holds towards himself when conducting research – he’s as hard on himself as he is to others. You end up hating the idea of failure, instead of seeing it as it should be - a way to improve and grow. Actually, I think this could be a reason that he went out of his way to break that illusion of 'worshipping geniuses' in the Space Station. Maybe some sort of childhood connection? Personal connection? In his endeavour to spread more knowledge and make people think for themselves and not blindly follow geniuses, to wake them up and let them think for themselves - maybe, somewhere, in there, he's helping that little child that was almost dehumanized for his intelligence. TLDR: Conflicting mindsets due to trauma, brain vs heart almost - his knowledge that he is a genius vs the crippling lack of his self worth.

Now that we've established Dr. Ratio's self worth, let's take a look at the impact Aeons had on him. Nous, the Aeon of Knowledge itself. I think in a world where the Gods are real, tangible beings that you can reach out and talk to - it makes sense that someone with high ambition and someone who's been called a genius his whole life would seek the confirmation of Nous. When you're a man of knowledge, and you've spent your whole life working with it, being praised for it – it feels natural to look for a god to look down upon you and bless you, right? The Genius Society – it should house him, because he is a genius as well, right? Imagine this – you have been called a genius your whole life, held to that kind of pedestal for so long, and now you wait for the recognition of the Gods. Because if you truly are a genius – then surely, a higher being will recognize your intelligence, right?

The invitation never comes.

And then, comes the doubt.

What if I'm really not a genius? What if everything I've worked for is a lie? Aeons are beings that are 'absolute'. If the god of Knowledge won't accept you or even cast a glance upon you, does that mean that everything was wrong. Gods see more than humans, after all. Gods know more than humans - and that spiral... I think you can see if. (If you don't let me know. I will ramble about how a failure like that can make you spiral down into a worse mindset).

However, the reason why Ratio was never invited to the Genius Society is simple. It’s because he LOSES THE IDGAF WAR. Now, if we look at all the people we know who are in the Genius Society - we find one thing in common. They’re in it to win it for themselves. They don’t help others using the knowledge that they’ve gotten - they use it to pursue shit for themselves. The people of the Genius Society are inherently self-serving. They WIN the idgaf war. Ratio LOSES. Do we see now?

Ratio’s empathy is the reason why he wasn’t let in. He is too human. Nous is a computer. Herta is detached from people. Ruan Mei is literally looking at life as test subjects. Screwllum is a robot.

OUR DOCTOR MAN LOST THE IDGAF WAR, BECAUSE HE IS HUMAN AND FEELS FOR OTHERS!!!

Also, it’s a plausible theory that Nous’s definition of ‘genius’ is different from the human definition of ‘genius’ – it’s a computer, after all. Who knows what’s going on in that code head of its.

However, we still love you Ratio. Never stop losing the IDGAF war.

TLDR: Nous is a computer. It is also in it to win it. It is also self serving. It gazes upon the hoes who are here to win it for themselves. Ratio is busy serving the masses and cooking knowledge in his frying pan. To it, there is no logical reason to be doing this. Therefore, no reason to invite this guy to the Genius Society.

Ratio’s gifted child trauma says otherwise. He wants in. Why wouldn’t he? He’s been working his whole life as a genius.

Nous is like… nah bro, you care too much. Ratio is like, ‘what the fuck?’ And then the AEON OF KNOWLEDGE GOES FOR THE MILK.

Okay, now, quick shoutout to Ratio wanting to help others. He is just like me fr. SO BASICALLY, RECAP OF EVERYTHING I JUST SAID:

Ratio LOSES the idgaf war because he cares about other people. Spent his whole life as the golden egg, and then turns to the gods for recognition because of the inherent trauma of being a child genius. He goes, "hey bro, can you confirm that I am in fact a genius?" and Nous goes, "no, you are too busy cheffing for the masses." Ratio goes, "what the fuck?" and then we collectively realize his attitude comes from blocking off his feelings (while failing miserably), being salty about not being recognized, being put on a pedestal for his whole life, and his crippling depression *cough* lack of self worth *cough*.

Oh, and the "I will never be enough" thought train probably hits him every single day. He is not enough to be recognized by a God. Gods are superior to humans. Maybe nothing has worth after all. Hey, that's Nihility! Hi IX, let's hear what you have to say.

*muffled ix noises*

I see, I see.

The consensus is: HE'S TRAUMATIZED BY EXPECTATIONS! HE WILL PROBABLY SUFFER FROM BURNT OUT GIFTED CHILD IF HE HAS NOT ALREADY!

Okay, now, before I delve into song lyrics (and I KNOW this has been long, just bear with me) I want to talk a little bit (read: a lot) about his relationship with Aventurine. We all know that he cares about Aventurine in his own way. But I want to pull in another idea that I didn’t cover before:

Ratio’s fucking emotional constipation.

Basically, the reason why he has trouble connecting with others is because he was most likely alienated by others as a symptom of being called a genius and being put on a pedestal. This makes him seem unapproachable to his peers, most likely, and therefore, as a result, doesn’t know how to properly connect with others. This just makes his way of presenting affection and care to others even more challenging – because he just doesn’t know how to do it in a healthy and clear way. Academic trauma causing emotional problems, because he’s probably a little bit out of touch with his own. Processing? No! Research. Also, this is very important for understanding Ratio’s character in my opinion, because he’s just a little guy who doesn’t know how to articulate. Maybe he’s got a touch of the ‘tism. Tism mutuals, do we agree or disagree?

However, in comes Aventurine. Love Aventurine, but they are both emotionally constipated. Aventurine displays his affection in ways that Ratio probably only catches after re-analyzing their time together about five times. He’s also a very closed off individual – but Ratio knows this. A cute thing is that Ratio is patient where he needs to be, even if he’s generally a pretty hot-headed guy, and I’m like… bro… that letter… “I wish you the best of luck”... I will wait for you…. GAY ASS MAN…

Sorry the Aventio demons took over. Anyway, what I’m trying to say here is that they both have nonverbal communication with one another that they clearly decipher and Ratio obviously cares for him (he came back and almost jeopardized the plan just for the sake of his ‘coworker’... okay gayboy…) and they just have such a neat little dynamic… Aventurine lets Dr. Ratio do his thing… understands his emotional alienation to a degree…. they’re so neat….

Okay, Aventurine segment over. NOW, FINALLY, WE CAN GET TO THE SONG LYRICS!!! YAY!!!! We all cheered!!!

We are going to be here for two more amber eras, because I realized I actually want to analyze every single lyric from both of these songs. Brace yourself for like, 2k more words. Help.

I think it’s only proper that we start off with ‘Oh No!’ the song that has haunted me since my childhood.

“Don’t do love, don’t do friends

I’m only after success

Don’t need a relationship

I’ll never soften my grip”

Remember when I mentioned that alienation was a big part of Ratio lore? Yeah, that manifests itself in this. When you spend your entire life chasing after knowledge and being held to that standard of untouchable genius, it makes sense that you couldn’t connect with others and that you turn your gaze only to success. Therefore, relationships that are interpersonal lose meaning for a bit – you’re just looking for answers and ways to help them, not connect with them. Also, this is what he wants to do – so he’s never going to pass down an opportunity to better himself or to help someone else.

“Don’t want cash, don’t want card

Want it fast, want it hard

Don’t need money, don’t need fame

I just want to make a change

I just wanna change, I just wanna change”

This is directly alluding to his reasonings for distributing knowledge across the cosmos. Was he based on this song? Maybe he was. He’s not looking for money or fame, his ultimate goal is actually pretty selfless – to bring knowledge and give people the tools they need to think for themselves. He just wants to make a change – he just wants people to be able to have access to knowledge and help cure ‘stupidity’. He wants to do it as quickly as possible, always reaching for lofty goals that might seem impossible, but he will make them possible.

“I know exactly what I want and who I want to be

I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine

I’m now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy

Oh! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no, oh!”

Ratio knows his goal. He knows what he’s working towards. I do believe that he understands why he is the way that he is – he has a degree in Psychology, after all. He knows how he’s been hurt but at the same time, the trauma brain probably doesn’t want to recognize it and he hasn’t stepped into healing yet. He knows what he went through impacted him, but he’s too busy helping others to help himself. He’s becoming what he wants to be, and yet he’s not, all at the same time – which causes the idea of “oh no!” as a kind of cry for help, almost. He’s too proud to ask for it himself, of course, so he’ll fall alone until someone manages to catch him and give him the strength to continue holding on. Aventurine is that.

“One track mind, one track heart

If I fail, I’ll fall apart

Maybe it is all a test

‘Cause I feel like I’m the worst

So I always act like I’m the best”

Now, these are the exact lyrics that made me associate this song with Ratio in the first place. He’s got a singular goal that he will do nothing to stop at getting, that he goes so far to get to. However, as I mentioned earlier, failure is not an option for those who were deemed gifted or genius. You are perfect, so therefore you must live up to everyone’s every expectation and surpass them, too, in order to keep your perception of yourself intact. Ratio does not hold himself in high regard, but acts arrogant in order to hold himself together and not fall to the self-deprecating thoughts, even if they fall through the cracks. It gets tiring to hold yourself together like that for a long time, you know?

“I’m gonna live, I’m gonna fly

I’m gonna fail, I’m gonna die

I’m gonna live, I’m gonna fly

I’m gonna fail, I’m gonna die”

Remember how I was talking about contradictory mindsets and how they can coexist. This is them. The feeling of crippling self-hatred and lack of self esteem versus the idea that you can do it, you can make a difference – you were born a genius, this is what you’re going to do. This is the knowledge that you are a genius vs the lack of self-esteem that Ratio has. “Mediocre” vs “genius” mindset, eh?

All the other lyrics in this song are repetitions of what I’ve analyzed before, so let’s move onto “Are you Satisfied?”

To be honest, there are only a few lines in this song that allow me to connect it to Ratio, so therefore, I will only be analyzing them. However, if you think that other lyrics can connect to him, I’d be interested in knowing how.

“What you’re gonna be

It’s not my problem if you don’t see what I see

And I do not give a damn if you don’t believe

My problem, it’s my problem that I never am happy

It’s my problem, it’s my problem on how fast I will succeed”

Pretending to not care about how the world sees you is so fucking real. Sometimes, you really don’t give a shit, and sometimes it’s all you can think about. Ratio… doesn’t seem like he’s the happiest person. He works himself hard and he’s always chasing after a goal that must be exhausting. He’s always doing his best, and I think even with his empathy, it’s easy to start not giving a shit after trying for so long and so hard. Accepting help is one of the hardest things that anybody can do, especially with how much pride he has. His personal problems are his personal problems and he can deal with them on his own.

“High achiever, don’t you see?

Baby, nothing comes for free

They say I’m a control freak

Driven by a greed to succeed

Nobody can stop me”

Nothing comes for free. A lot of the things Ratio has achieved is due to his own intelligence, yes, but also because of a shit ton of hard work. His goal is literally to cure the universe of ‘stupidity’ – and that’s a pretty large fucking goal. He is a high achiever who likes to know the details of every situation when he can in order to try and make things better, and he is driven by a greed to succeed. Why wouldn’t he be? Success is important, and success means helping more people. He isn’t going to allow himself to be stopped by anybody – not even anybody from the Genius society.

Okay, and we have finally reached the end of my analysis! This caps at around 4k words, so if you stuck around for this long, thank you so much. I would love to hear any of your comments, and I hope you laughed a little bit. Thank you again! This means so much to me that you read. <3

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ur-shoe-is-untied · 2 months ago

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Boothill as your S/O

THIS BOUNTY CONTAINS:

[Just some random hc’s about this skrunkly man]

[Intentional lowercase AND uppercase]

[Horrible grammar ahead]

[Pretty short]

This man is NOT experienced!!!

have you seen him? he has the same charisma and grace as a bird flying into a window!! there is no way he’s had a relationship and it shows in how he nervously hands you flowers or little trinkets he found for you. (that DEFINITELY isn't stolen)

his idea of a date is either something borderline illegal or something surprisingly quiet and nice like a picnic in a field of grass.

Really protective

when you’re out and about with him it doesn’t always end well, he IS a wanted man and the IPC are crawling around everywhere so it’s not surprising when he’s always got one arm wrapped around you and the other near his holster.

Definitely teaches you how to shoot

Boothill is a Galaxy Ranger and if you don’t actively join him on his adventures then he won’t be able to protect you against anyone who has it out for him. (aeons that list is LONG) so naturally, he teaches you how to shoot and the basics of gun safety which he drills into your head (even tho he himself dances around with the damn thing like it‘s a toy.)

A great father

I will die on this hill, Boothill has experience raising a child which is shown in his backstory and I just know he is the most caring father ever, he’d give the best hugs and tell them all about his adventures. (he’s definitely a girl dad too, he wears a tiara and everything if that’s what his baby girl wants.)

#[BOUNTY COMPLETE]#boothill x reader #boothill x you #hsr x reader #headcanon #gn reader #honkai star rail #boothill

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mrrecaswife · 20 days ago

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Is he smart, or is he...

(In which Reca worries about how his child will turn out)

(CW: Pregnancy because AFAB reader, insecure Mr Reca because, well, he has feelings too and it's my interpretation (don't like don't read), but fluff too because I think you suffered enough in my last couple of posts, have a 🍪 if you got the title reference, but please don't make me run out of them because there will be a lot of movie quotes as post titles-)

When Mr Reca got the news that you were pregnant, he was ecstatic! It somehow had managed to happen, despite him being a memokeeper, and he swore up and down in his usual dramatic way that he'll protect you and your child no matter what.

But, lately, he has been getting somewhat second thoughts.

It's not as if he didn't love you, oh no! Despite everything he made you endure, his love for you never once wavered.

But...

What if the child turned out like him?

He didn't mean it in a bad way, but he knew that he was high maintenance. He couldn't stop yapping and getting passionate about his work, which you did admire. But, sometimes, when he looked back, you seemed tired and he still kept it up, as you didn't say anything.

He knew that his work was irreplaceable, but you were, too. Actually, you were more important than his work.

But what if the child tired you out like he did with you?

What if you couldn't handle it and left?

When you found him in your bedroom later that day after returning from meeting with a few friends, he was oddly contemplative. Hm. Must be about one of his projects again.

As you tucked in later that evening, he clung to you as usual for the night, and asked you something that made you sit up right as you heard it.

"What if the baby turns out like me?"

You stared at him for a moment, and said nothing. He took that the wrong way.

"You know what, forget it-"

"And what if it turns out like you?" You pressed gently.

Reca looked down for a couple of seconds, and ran his hand through his hair. He took a deep breath before staring in your eyes with his luminous orbs, his play button irises shimmering under the moonlight.

"What if you end up tired of having to listen to us?"

You considered his words for a moment, before gently cupping his cheek.

"So what? It simply means that I'll have two of my favourite type of people with me. What's the deal?"

When Reca stared right in your soul, he could only see earnestness and sincerity. He snickered, then chuckled, then burst out laughing as he cradled you to his chest, carefully avoiding your stomach.

By the Aeons, you'd be the death of him. Of course you wouldn't leave, if just because you like how peculiar he is.

So naturally, he has to protect and cherish you for that.

And, you know what?

He'll never let you go too, for as long as you'll have him.

#honkai star rail #hsr #honkai sr #mr reca #hsr mr reca #reca hsr #star rail #mr reca hsr #mr reca x reader #mr reca x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #x reader #Cute little imagine ⁠♡

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sio-lokistiel · 1 year ago

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@hamstermotif he’s legit with his family in heaven, tho? Granted, Dean is still fucking around dealing with his trauma. And, obvs, Sam is alive on earth like Destiny’s Child foreshadowed. He broke the cycle because he broke Chuck’s machine letting people make their own choices and the souls make their own heavens. Dude is also just straight up framed as Jesus even with the last seasons having a focus on hermeticism rather than only christianity. Not liking the result doesn’t make anything wrong with Jack especially since him breaking the cycle was likely what he was set up for almost from the start. (Honestly who the fuck knows what BuckLemming originally might have intended with Jack’s conception, but Bobo grabbed him and got things worked out.)

If anyone else would like to word this better, by all means, jump on in! It’s midnight here and I’m dragging ass and struggling to make coherent thoughts, but Jack is my baby and brings me much joy so I will yell about him proudly.

Jack is fine. Not a damn thing wrong with him. Only people too attached to tragedy, or not understanding his arc. Sweetpea is SPN’s version of Phanes.

Learning is fun!

#jack kline #jack is the orphic egg #phanes #the aeon child too #caught in my own murder board string rn #look at my son

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impactedfates · 11 months ago

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Hii! I loved your platonic Genshin kidnapped child reader so, could I ask for Platonic Honkai star rail men when their child is kidnapped?

★ A/N: Yep, you can. Here you go, hope this is alright!

☆ Genre/Trope: Platonic + Familial

★ Format: HeadCannons (Characters Included (Separate): Sampo, Blade, Argenti + Gepard)

☆ Warnings: Mentions and hints of kidnapping // Mentions of death (In Blades one)

★ Extra: Reader is shorter then most characters (They're about 6-7 age wise) // Characters are single dads // Semi Proof-Read // Short

Sampo is a con man, and he's made many people dislike him, many people want revenge on whatever he did. He knows this, however he never thought those people would resort to kidnapping his own kid to do so.

Look, you can hurt him, you can ruin his reputation, you can do whatever. But to kidnap you just because of your association with him is where he draws the line. As soon as he gets word on what happened he's finding out your location straight away.

And as soon as he knows it, he'll find a way to get you back and the perpetrators won't know what hit them until they wake up to find you gone and a note from the man himself, Sampo Koski.

Blade is pissed. Sure he may not always have time for you however he cares for you a lot. You are his kid, and once word gets to him that you're kidnapped? He is tracking you down no matter how long it takes or the amount of bodies gets left in his trail to find you.

He gets SilverWolf to help track your location and as soon as he knows he's off to get you. He only has to pray to whatever Aeons that you're blindfolded as he's not wasting a minute in hearing the cries of mercy, they don't deserve it.

Once he gets you home he inspects you to make sure you're fine, to ensure you're not hurt. He never lets you leave his sight after that, or anyone's for that matter. If he must leave for a mission he asks for the other members or even Elio to take care of you until he returns.

Argenti truly loves and protects you. As a knight he does this incredibly well so when someone successfully kidnaps you he's more than surprised. He puts a halt in his search for Idrila as looking for his child is far more important in this moment and time.

He isn't sure what he did to get someone to want to kidnap you or if all they want is money. But he will track you down, if they want money then he'll give it to them. However if you are hurt upon returning to him or they still refuse to give you back then he isn't afraid to put up a fight.

He won't go too far, he'll merely knock them out and call the appropriate authorities to take them away. He understands that whatever happened shook you. Scared you, so he'll spend more time with you to try and take your mind off things, take you out to various planets to shop. His search for Idrila can wait. For now YOU are his priority

I feel like Gepard oftens leaves you with Serval when he's out on duty. So the chances of you getting kidnapped are rather low as you have an auntie to protect you, not to mention the Silvermane Guards outside her workshop and how I feel Serval would make small guard robots.

So it comes to a surprise when he finds out you've been kidnapped. He doesn't bother asking questions, for now he quickly gathers a search party and gets others to ask around as he investigates the workshop. Perhaps you were kidnapped by a worker of Serval, this gives Gepard a good idea and he searches the houses of said worker.

Once he finds where you are, he wastes no time in arresting them and anyone else who happens to be in there as he quickly goes to your side to check on your wellbeing. He takes you to the doctors to get you checked up and once you're confirmed to be okay he's relieved.

Bronya gives him a few days off so he can spend time with you, it also gives him time to figure out how to ensure this won't happen again. He still trusts Serval to look after you, and she's already making sure to be careful who she lets work with her but he wants to be doubly sure nothing will happen to you again.

I need Blades banner to go so I'm not tempted to pull for his LC. I need Loucha.

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x reader #hsr imagines #honkai star rail x you #platonic hsr #hsr platonic #Sampo x Reader #Sampo x You #Gepard x Reader #Gepard x You #Blade x Reader #Blade x You #Argenti x Reader #Argenti x You #🎭 masked fools

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itsabouttimex2 · 4 months ago

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so what’s your thoughts on season 5 (PS you can find S5 on YouTube dub ) , any thoughts, any yandere hcs ?

Yandere Headcanons

Nüwa, Li Jing, Xiangliu

Nüwa doesn’t necessarily wish to stifle her dear child, but… you’re staying. Even if it breaks your heart beyond measure to be locked up in a dull little realm with no other souls to interact… well, so be it. Your mother has more than enough love for you, doesn’t she? Why should she need to cut you loose when you’re the safest you could be by her godly side?

She can be more than enough for you, after all.

Nüwa’s absolute favorite thing to do is wrap you up in her tail for naps, keeping you nice and cozy as she dotes on your slumbering form. She could easily spend hours pressing kisses to your cheeks and forehead, or rubbing your back with her gentle palm.

If you’re a naga like her, expect an endless amount of tail-based affection. Polishing, washing, intertwining… it never ends.

There’s definitely a lot of coddling that borders on infantilizing, like trying to feed you by spoon, reading you to sleep, or holding you in a cradle position and insisting upon frequent naps. Calling her out on it will lead her to back off, sure… but Nüwa will start to play several of the more manipulative cards in her arsenal in the hope that you’ll retract your statements and apologize, and go back to being her “good little baby”.

She’s not even trying to be weird, here- she just doesn’t really understand anything about you. After all, she’s spent aeons separated from her creations, Nüwa doesn’t really comprehend mortal mindsets.

All she understands is “Baby!Y/N was happier and more obedient than Current!Y/N”, and shifts her methods to try and get you back to that behavior- without understanding that babies and teens/adults are going to have fundamentally different reactions to having a spoon of banana mush jammed into their face.

Though, if your discomfort expressed goes beyond mild embarrassment and into genuine distress, she’ll happily drop the worst aspects of the smothering- Nüwa really does want her darling child to be happy, after all.

Although stern and demanding, Li Jing is genuinely very adoring of you. His love is more “low-key” than most yanderes, but still present. He can tamp it down by focusing on his work in the Celestial Realm, trying to neglect you… but it never lasts.

Your father’s affection for you is almost always subtle, performed softly and discreetly. Rather than overtly obsessive and flashy displays, his love takes a quieter, more restrained form. This low-key affection is demonstrated in the form of “small” touches. Fixing your hair. Dusting your clothes. Righting accessories. Little scraps of skinship that allow him to maintain a somewhat loving demeanor without tarnishing his reputation among the court.

He’s strict with your appearance and especially with your clothing, firmly dictating how you dress. Nothing low-cut or even mildly revealing is allowed, of course. Expect lots of fancy ceremonial garbs that swallow you up entirely.

Gifts usually comprise of sanctioned books or tools for “appropriate” hobbies, such as sewing, sculpting, or knitting. Anything that’s time-consuming without being too dangerous. About the “worst” hobby you’re allowing is alchemist, because it’s useful to the court and you’ll be working with Lao Tzu. Maybe you could blacksmith, if you’ve proven yourself mature and obedient.

You will be watched at all times, under the eyes of Li Jing himself or one of your three elder brothers, kept under lock and key.

Though, when you start to visibly wilt and deteriorate from pressure and stress, Jinzha and Muzha will cut you some slack and allow you a little bit of freedom- potentially even spiriting you down to the Mortal Realm for a day of exploration and relaxation. These trips are saved for worse days so you don’t get too used to them, but both of your brothers adore the way you cheer up at something like a simple bowl of fresh noodles from a street vendor.

(Ne Zha is not allowed to come, because he’s so desperate for his father’s love that he updates Jing on what everyone does. Snitch.)

I don’t think it’s very likely to Xiangliu to have a bio kid, but let’s play with the idea here-

It’s implied, to a mild degree, that our Nine-Headed Demon faces some level of desire to be accepted for who he is and what he wants. He lashes out when referred to as a monster, sympathizes with MK’s near lack of control over his fate, advocates for people making their own decisions…

Xiangliu conformed once, returned to order and away from chaos. And he was called a monster and rejected for it.

So there is literally zero percent chance that he’ll risk it happening again with, of all things, his own child.

He plays up the “loving papa” angle hard, essentially welding you to his side from the very moment of birth. Carrying you on his hip, swaddling you in his cape… anything to cradle the precious life bestowed upon him. As you grow older, he actively uses the manifestations of his chaos energies to create “soft” restraints.

Orange-tinged straps of black all bound around you, snugly conforming to the build of your frame, each lash pulsing with aching primordial unrest…

And it’s all to make one of these:

And it might seem silly of him to do (and it is, a little) but it also eases you into a life where chaos is everywhere and everything. You won’t question it for even a second, the constant snaking of wispy tendrils, the throb of a primal power, the sheer wrongness of being steeped in chaos as a bedtime ritual, or having it mixed into your drinks and food each meal…

But it happens anyways, and it’s been happening since the very day of your birth.

So you won’t ever question it.

After all, doesn’t your papa know best?

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Nuwa #Yandere Li Jing #Lotusfam #Yandere Nine Headed Demon #Yandere Xiangliu #Yandere Headcanons #Lego Monkie Kid Season 5 #LMK Spoilers

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romaritimeharbor · 17 days ago

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SUFFERING. — In which Yaoshi's child is wounded.

— trigger & content warnings. mildly graphic depictions of wounds, mild blood, mentions of fainting, both yaoshi and the reader operate on questionable morality at best.

— pairings & notes. hurt/comfort. yaoshi & emanator of abundance!reader. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). when yaoshi cries, it has a direct effect on those who have come into contact with the power of abundance, including xianzhou natives. 2.1k words.

— author's thoughts. pov lan and yaoshi are divorced parents and their children are fighting. i am very normal about yaoshi i promise 🫶 i made shit up for this fic fr, i am working with CRUMBS you guys 😔🙏 ik from experience that the yaoshi nation is starving so i offer this to my fellow aeon of abundance enjoyers <3 side note, writing two characters with they/them pronouns is so hard LMAO??!??!?!

Stars dance behind their eyelids every time they dare to let them drift shut.

The universe is an ever-expanding blur of stars and planets that seem to dance and spin the longer one gazes at them—that, of course, is a natural given.

...The stars behind their eyelids are, however, not a given; those are most certainly not meant to be there.

Their chest heaves, lungs aching and burning as if lit on fire when they painfully expand to take in as much air as possible, lightning striking across their chest and side when they breathe just the slightest bit too forcefully.

Blood drips from their side—slowly, thankfully, but they've lost so much at this point that it really could not have mattered less if the flow was slow or rapid. The amount lost would have remained the same, nevertheless, because their body vehemently refused to heal the wound that should have been gone within seconds. Minutes, at the absolute most.

Whatever the Xianzhou Alliance had done to them was terribly effective, delaying their inhuman capacity to heal instantaneously and causing their body to convulse fiercely whenever they tried to force the healing to proceed. It was... less than ideal, but they'd try not to hold it against their siblings.

(The Xianzhou Alliance just does not see it, does not see anything, the way they do, unenlightened and led astray by the Aeon Lan. That's fine. Perhaps one day they will all come to their senses, snap out of the misguidance, and recognize Yaoshi's benevolence.)

The ground sways beneath their feet.

A gasp is torn from their throat as they trip over themselves, ankles snapping inwards, unable to support the weight of their body any longer. Trembling, bloody hands shoot out in a weak attempt to catch themselves, and—

"Beloved child..."

—and they're fine, situated on the floor without ever having to fall to get there. The growing cold knawing at their flesh is chased away. Soothing warmth takes its place, and their wounds don't seem to throb as excruciatingly as they did before.

They're certain that they are no longer where they were before—not hopelessly, blindly stumbling along a familiar planet in hopes of reaching one of its civilizations before the blood loss got to be too much for their body to handle, before they fell unconscious and helpless to the whims of the universe surrounding them.

(Of course, it wouldn't have killed them. The fainting alone was fairly harmless. However, doing so out in the middle of nowhere while bleeding and wounded was not an ideal fate for any creature to experience. Maybe the blood loss would not have killed them, but if something else of equal or greater strength to them discovered their unconscious body when they were that vulnerable...)

They're... elsewhere, now, though they haven't the slightest clue where. Truthfully, it mattered not. All they were concerned with was whose side they were at; they were earnestly grateful that their parent had sensed their suffering and seen it fit to bring them somewhere safer.

Tones soft and saccharine yet richly smooth and vaguely rumbling with the power of something ancient danced across their skin; the sound alone was enough to send a shiver up their spine and to raise goosebumps on their fragile, bleeding body. Undertones of pity and sorrow overwhelm the voice—if it had belonged to a human, perhaps they might say it sounded more akin to horror and shock.

Actually, now that they thought about it, the chills may have very well been the blood loss... it was hard—if not downright impossible—to tell at this point.

...Not that it mattered, of course. Now that they were here, any suffering their child had unfairly endured would be undone and amended.

"What have they done to you?"

An unsteady hand dares to reach out to them, and the deity's face twists, displeased, in a way their child cannot quite describe. The flash of displeasure makes them worry through the dazed fog of blood loss that they gesture was unwelcome. Their gaze is quick to move elsewhere—looking so bodly at Yaoshi's face has always felt rude, anyways, so they're quick to look away at even the most minor allusion to disapproval, even though something at the back of their mind reassures them that their actions are hardly the cause of the Aeon's unrest.

As fast as the concern arises, it dissloves into nothing.

They did not even have the chance to shift, to pull their arm back, before Yaoshi takes their hand stained wine red, and bestows a tender kiss upon their aching knuckles. The pain is washed away in an instant; there was no trace of it ever having been there in the first place. No lingering ache, no soreness, just relief.

Sanctus Medicus' touch alone—let alone their kiss—causes their body to have a reaction. The most concerning wound of all has begun closing, skin stitching itself together anew, even without the Aeon extending any of their power to do so. Simply existing in the deity's presence has already guaranteed the preservation of their life. A concern of death did not exist any longer.

It was only really a halfhearted concern, anyway. Truly killing something like them would have taken an insurmountable showing of strength and wit. The Alliance only injured them; putting a complete end to their life was something their estranged siblings horribly failed to do.

"G— Guardian, I—"

A wave of coughs that they cannot suppress no matter how hard they try wracks their body, and they wince, abdomen sharply crying out in protest of the forceful motions. The healing process has not yet concluded, and any excess force or strain put on their body still causes them great discomfort.

"Speak not," the Lord of Longevity murmurs, chiding, as their many hands gently guide their little one ever closer to their body until their child is strewn across their lap. Blood soaks into the the Aeon's robes, though they pay it no mind and instead opt to focus on the source of it. "Poor, sweet child... how much suffering have your siblings wrought upon you? How much cruelty have they extended? Limitless child, struck down by your limited siblings..."

The sulking lasts for quite some time, but they feel no compulsion to complain about it. It doesn't even cross their mind once. If anything, Yaoshi's love for them is communicated perfectly through their distraught musings, and the attention makes their little one feel quite embarrassed, if anything at all.

Embarrassed for not being able to defend themselves? Perhaps, though they would attribute it more to simply being overcome by the ever-abundant love the Aeon carried for them.

Merciful nails stroke the hair from their face, and the Aeon's tens of thousands of eyes flick across their body, thoughtful and contemplative yet riddled with monumentally expansive layers of all-consuming pity and sympathy. To some, it may have been deeply unsettling to be stared at by something so unfathomably powerful, but they have long since grown used to being gazed at so intently. Yaoshi's affections are not subtle in any way, so having the Aeon's complete and undivided attention on them was an overwhelming feeling that they have learned to welcome with open arms.

(Well...

More or less 'complete and undivided'; they're fairly certain that Sanctus Medicus is still keenly aware of everything going on outside of this little oasis, still hearing prayers sent to them, still feeling the pains of death and sorrow that they'll undoubtedly seek out and quell to the best of their abilities in as many societies as possible once they've handled the nasty wound left on their favored child. An Aeon's attention is always divided at least somewhat, but it was not their place to complain about something so inevitable. Divided attention was only natural for cosmic beings, no?)

It is warm. Peaceful.

...But only for a moment.

Something—disappointment, sadness, perhaps even what could be described as fury—rolls off of the Aeon's being in suffocating waves undoubtedly capable of drowning entire civilizations. It is hard to breathe, somehow even harder than it was when their ribs were collapsed inwards and poking agonizingly at their viscera.

This is worse.

In an instant, something deep inside of them shatters, and their chest is seized by the grief and agony of millions and millions of beings. A wheeze is drawn from their chest as any clarity they had slowly gained back is snatched away in a mere second, replaced with terror and pain and screaming, so much screaming—

Their head spins.

If not for the Aeon of Abundance's presence, soft hushes and careful nails dragging soothingly over and across their skin on as many areas as they can reach at once, they're certain that these conditions would have made their mara flare. It doesn't, thankfully.

Something about being held by the very deity who had given them their immortality in the first place soothes that side of them into submission, like a dog kneeling at its master's feet. If they listen closely, beyond the screaming and wailing and pleading for the agony to cease, they can hear adoring yet vague and indistinguishable whispers in the corners of their mind.

Their mara is sated for the time being, but the storm of despair rages on.

When the tears begin to fall, it is far beyond their control, impossible to stop no matter how much effort they put into doing so.

It is immensely difficult for them to see through the hazy blur of their uncontrollable weeping, but their gaze still instinctively shifts up towards Yaoshi's face, the terror and nervousness swirling in their chest growing to be too much. In that moment, they were hardly any different than a child seeking reassurance from their parent; of course, the Aeon was all too happy to provide that to them.

However...

To their absolute dismay, though the Aeon's expression remains detached, soft, and thoughtful as ever, they are crying.

Whatever cracking bits of their will that were still somehow clinging together were shattered beyond repair in a quick instant, and they sobbed harder, pressing close to their God in a feeble and weak attempt at taking some of the agony that their parent endured away.

Between the sorrow, Yaoshi's tears ignited rage, boiling just beneath the surface of their skin and threatening to consume those who stood in its way. It is one thing to take up arms against them, but to make the Aeon of Abundance cry? It is nothing short of a crime, unforgivable and worthy of only the greatest punishment. If not for said deity's gentle kneading of their skin, easily making the rage dissolve into dazed serenity, they may have very well cut down entire armies, wounds be damned.

...But that is blatantly against Yaoshi's will at the moment (and more than likely in general, for such destruction is not in the nature of the path which they emanate), so they allowed the anger to be soothed.

Concern—what could possibly have made something as incomprehensible as Yaoshi cry? Was it truly what the Xianzhou Alliance had done? And moreover, what can they do to stop it? To amend it without being disobedient?—was there, but they were moreso overwhelmed by absolute horror.

...

Aeons are far above mortality, so far beyond humans and their concepts of everything. Nothing that applied to mortals applied the same to Aeons. They were concepts personified. Living ideologies.

Seeing a being they had come to recognize as infallible, as the purest form of existence above all other creatures, a being of love and light crying?

Oh, it sent endless ripples of fear and uncertainty blazing across their skin.

If their will—the will of someone with a deep and intimate connection to the Aeon, someone who had been spared a beautiful fraction of their strength—was so effortlessly shattered by the Abundance's tears, what were other beings connected to them feeling in this moment?

...Far worse things, no doubt, but maybe some of them deserved it.

(The distant screams, a cacophany of confusion and horror, of their siblings rang in their head. Sick satisfaction brewed in their chest at the sound. If any of the Alliance's fleets were mid-battle, there is not a single doubt in their mind that the entire fight will now be lost and in vain. It is only a small fraction of the pain that they were put through by those people, but it is more than enough.)

One of Yaoshi's hands pets over their head fondly, and they hum through the tears and pain, eyelids fluttering closed as they press ever closer against the Aeon's collarbone.

"The actions of your siblings will not go unpunished, precious one," they murmur, leaning down and pressing tender kisses to the battered flesh of their shoulder. Any bruises or scratches in that area disappear miraculously. "The suffering you have endured is unjust."

"I trust in your judgement, Guardian."

They could feel Yaoshi's smile against their skin, a stark contrast from the Aeon's tears, burning and stinging their skin yet somehow perpetuating their healing process.

"Good."

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#✧— aphe's creations.#divider by @/cafekitsune ♡#hsr x reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #platonic hsr #platonic hsr x reader #platonic honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #platonic honkai star rail x reader #yaoshi x reader #yaoshi the abundance #hsr yaoshi #yaoshi

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