Yet Another Self-Indulgent XReader Blog

A place to withdraw into when real life becomes to unbearable - 18+ - They/It

[alesslonelydream]

Masterlist of original works

Unless stated otherwise, the works contain a gender-neutral reader and no NSFW themes. Every post contains the work itself under a read-more with warnings above.

Linked Universe

> Reader with a death whistle

Character-specific

- Four

> Omegaverse || NSFW version

> NSFW Alphabet 1 || 2

> Mouse!Four x Cat!Reader

- Twilight

> Postcanon!Twilight x masc Ordon Villager!Reader

- Time

> MM!Link & Photographer!Reader

> Time x Marlon x Hyrule Town Citizen!Reader

[alesslonelydream]

Four - NSFW Alphabet Part 2 (N, O, R, U)

Explicit sexual content under the cut. I don‘t take responsibility for the reader‘s choice to keep reading despite content warnings.

Pairings: Four x Reader

Content: description of sexual themes, public sex, roleplay, oral sex, threesomes, intox play, rough sex, bloodplay, switch Four, switch gn Reader (used pronoun: you) without specified genitalia

Author‘s Commentary: I had the other letters drafted, but in order to get this thing posted at some point, I deleted them. I‘ve lost much interest in this blog, so that‘s the only way it would have ever seen the light of day. Maybe I‘ll try again for my Cat!Reader x Mouse!Four idea, but that‘s a small chance.

Links: Part 1

Please comment about further required content warnings.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Listen, he tries a lot of things, suggests many of them if you don‘t beat him to the chase. As long as it‘s possible to interrupt immediately and consent is present and any injuries are guaranteed to be temporary, fine, he doesn‘t have any apprehensions that will keep him from trying it out. If you ask him out of the blue, he genuinely struggles to come up with anything that repulses him.

He never thought of public sex as an option, so he only realizes that‘s something where even the thought makes him balk when it‘s brought up around him somehow. If it‘s just a conversation around him, he‘ll cringe to himself and keep back with commentary. If you ask him what his thoughts are about it, he halts for a moment as he thinks before he grimaces and shakes his head. Semi-public is a hard maybe.

Another thing that‘s not an immediate turn off, but something where he can‘t imagine he‘ll enjoy too many variations of it is roleplay. It just feels awkward for him. He likes the occasional con non-con, and when banter develops into a little game of pretending you only just met and simply couldn’t resist the lust at first sight that only consists of jokes inbetween fucking, he‘s up for it. That’s fun. But costumes…?

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Usually he doesn’t care if he gets to put his mouth on you or feel yours on him, really. If you don‘t have a preference either, it‘s probably faster to get a coin to flip rather than debating.

He would know the basics in theory. It‘s already debatable if he‘s a virgin or not, and even if not, that experience might not have included oral, so he‘s really not practiced at all at first. The most he knows is what he can infer from either common sense like paying attention to not accidentally bite, or what he knows from himself feels good.

But with the fixation Four has on mouths, he gets in the practice he needs, don‘t you worry. Or maybe you should worry, with better skill comes more confidence in it and then more forwardness. A Four who knows what he‘s doing is dangerous.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He likes changing the routine and he likes the thrill of trying out something a little more risky. But it still depends on what kind of risky.

Anything that involves others that aren‘t already involved in your sex life makes him a little nauseous. Asking him how he feels about a threesome with someone who‘s not another him gets awkward quickly, even if it‘s not a straight-up no.

On the other hand, if it‘s something that can be planned and quickly safeworded out of, pretty much anything works. He trusts you to know when too much becomes too much, and he trusts himself to do the same. Aphrodisiacs, getting rough enough to leave bruises, fucking while intoxicated and knifeplay (or using the Four Sword; it‘s probably not blasphemous) all are things he will suggest if you don‘t show any signs of being averse before.

Bloodplay is an exception because he associates the smell with everything he would rather not like the bedroom to be. Makes him anxious that something is going to burst in and try to kill you two.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Every single aspect of him likes to tease in general, and you would be slow on the uptake to not realize that you are never exempt from that. If anything, you‘re the most common victim because he‘s closest to you. Dialing it up is just part of how he flirts when he‘s not nervous enough to start stuttering and become a mouthpiece for every colour at once. So if he ever tries to dirtytalk you, you know what to expect.

[mcsryaoihell]

my bonnies

[dastardly-imbecile]

Thalassophilia

Part 2

Used to be, you would put your chin on his shoulder and watch him work, whispering ideas in his ears when you wanted to be helpful, whispering other things when you were in the mood for distraction. Galatea carved in statuesque marble, naked and tangled in his sheets, coyly asking him if you were inspiring him.

Now, now you are Aphrodite wreathed in seafoam, beautiful in raw, brutal edges, nestled within the mouth of a clamshell.

---

Elliott loves you, dead at sea. Elliott loves you, somehow still alive. OR an elaborate excuse to make elliott a monsterfucker

---

Wordcount: ~6k

The ocean is poetry. Elliott’s always liked it, ever since he was young, hunched in his father’s wood-paneled office and flipping through old books. Running his fingers over those grainy images, trying to replicate the cool caress of those foam-capped waves, the frailty of life all bundled up in the crash of the surf. It’s why, when he finally set off in pursuit of this authorial lifestyle, he settled beside the sea. It’s worth the grains of sand constantly in his bamboo sheets, it’s worth the crabs that hide in his shoes, it’s worth the constant fight against lichen and mold and moss. 

There is no better feeling than to sit upon the dock as the sun crawls over the horizon, painting the sky in gauzy nectarines and pale creams, sea kissing the undersides of his bare feet. 

Well, it would be a better feeling to be able to share such nirvana with someone else, but as that’s not an option, solitude still has its own kind of beauty. 

Today, like every day, he makes his way down those rickety wooden slats, past Willy’s old shop, now quiet and dark and boarded-up, a great beast stripped down to its skeleton. He wonders if your farm looks the same way, all torn and unkempt, chipping away at the edges. He wouldn’t know. Hasn’t been back to check. 

Leah’s left a bottle of wine on his doorstep, propped up against a paper-wrapped baguette and a small coin of soft cheese. It’s her bohemian version of a mourning casserole, and he leaves them on his porch for now, continuing along in his trek down the beach. 

There, washed up upon the shore, is a plank of driftwood, and his eyes snag on the peculiarity. Most likely, it’s random, something blown into the sea by heavy winds and spat out later, but he can’t quash that niggling bit of curiosity. 

Boy’s a wanderlust, Father’d said, long ago when he was a gangly boy of sixteen and trying to write instead of participate in his class’s mandate of business and economics, no room for the artistry in such high echelons. He hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but Elliott’s taken it as one, repurposed it as one makes feathers into dreamcatchers and seaglass into necklaces, made it something entirely his own. It’s that curiosity that drives him to kneel, using a delicate hand to turn it over. 

The bottom half of the thing is encrusted with barnacles, pulsing softly, exposing their soft inner hearts to the air with each shellbeat. Above that, though, in algae-grown letters, faded gold, it reads Man O’ War. He drops the board like it’s burnt him. 

He remembers Willy on a Thursday night at the saloon, so many months ago, “an’ she fixed it right up! Just like that! My Man O’ War, in sailing shape once again!” 

So it was no coincidence after all. Figures. 

It never is. 

After a long, steadying breath, he picks the plank up again, tucking it under his arm, turns away from the croon of the ocean and towards town proper. 

Lewis is tending to his gardens when Elliot reaches him. He doesn’t announce his presence, simply stands there until the man cottons on—and then, there is a muffled yelp as Lewis stands to find him looming over him. 

“Oh! Elliott!” His eyes drop from his face down to the boat under his arm, and just like that, any pretense of cheer melts away, dripping from the last bristles of his mustache. 

“It washed up this morning,” he says in explanation, drawing it out from under his arm and presenting it to Lewis. It’s soaked his jacket, but he doesn’t particularly mind. These days, he’s not the most well-kept sort of man in any case. All those fancy suits that he’d pilfered from his father falling to tatters, hair tangled and matted in the underareas, dark circles below his eyes, salt crusted in the strangest places, like he himself is being slowly subsumed by the sea. 

Man O’ War, Lewis mouths, a stricken expression falling upon his face, so stark that it’s almost amusing. He stares at it for a long moment, before looking back up at Elliott, then down again. “What do you… ah, what should we do with it?”

“Willy would’ve liked,” he says after a long moment, “To be buried with it, I think. He loved that ship like a wife.”

There’s some thread of morbid humor to be found in that, in the irony, but Elliott can’t bear to find it. 

“Of course,” Lewis assures, “yes, he- I do believe he would have, yes. I’ll… I’ll handle it.”

“Can I come?” Elliott asks. He feels like a little boy, asking, he feels like he is back in Father’s manor, watching him bustle about and unsure how to recapture his attention, he feels like he is unmoored and drifting in that great blue eye they call the ocean. 

“Of course, of course,” Lewis assures, placing a warm, paternal hand upon his shoulder. 

—

It’s up in the mountains, past the railroad, where the dirt roads fade into tall grasses and thin, reedy trees. Far from the town’s own graveyard, down in the center of the plaza, which is a nice place all in its own right—all shaded by tall, graceful oaks, well-trimmed lawn tufting up around many polished stones—but you’d have liked it better here, both of you, he thinks. It’s here that they bury adventurers, that they bury those who died in the mines or the caverns, fighting monsters, defending the sanctity of Pelican Town. 

Though you’d died doing neither, when Lewis’d asked Marlon for permission, the old man nodded solemnly, of course, she was the bravest of us all. And Willy too, for good measure, because he’d shared drinks with the guildmembers at the saloon, and easy enough to spun a tale portraying him as the valiant captain in the midst of some goliath storm. Both of you heroes, both of you dead.  

Marlon’s there when they enter, standing over some ancient looking slab, sword pressed into the ground. He does not even open his eyes as they swish through the path. Best not to disturb his grief. 

Your grave is in a prime spot under the tallest of the trees, like some ancient king slumbering in his enchanted grove. Willy’s is further back, tucked into the crook of the mountain, where Lewis leads. Headstone carved to look somewhat like a mermaid’s figurehead—the combination of Robin and Leah’s best work; he remembers long nights watching the two of them slowly chip away at a massive block of stone—and now, he stands upon the earth, grass ticking his knees through the holes in his pants, wonders if the man dreams of krakens, down in his real grave, deep under the surface of the waves. 

“Burial is hard,” Lewis says after a moment, “but we can- we can erect it here, like a marker, see?” He maneuvers the plank of wood down onto the ground, pushes it slightly into the loamy earth, looks up at Elliott for approval. He nods blankly. “Good,” Lewis says, and then repeats, “good. This… he would’ve liked this.”

“Yes,” Elliott replies simply. Lewis cuts a glance at him from under the brim of his eyelids, shifty, gauging something. 

“The Dance of the Moonlight Jellies is coming up,” he says after a moment, “I hate to spring this on you, Elliott, but… if we should cancel it this year like we did the last, then it’s no imposition, really, I just should inform the-”

“No,” he cuts him off, “no, it’s quite alright. We can host the Dance.”

“Are you sure? I know it’s… it’s quite close to the anniversary, and if-”

“Mother Nature will happen either way,” Elliott replies, “there’s no use in staunching it. Perhaps it will help the mood.”

Lewis nods rapidly, swallowing. “Good idea, yes. I’ll… I’ll begin preparations immediately.”

“I cannot wait,” he replies, using the most emotion that he has at all thus far in this conversation, and truly, he means it. 

—

They’d canceled the Dance, yes, though that was before they’d known you were both gone. After departure to Ginger Island the day before, a kiss upon his cheek and the promise of a return, and then a storm, winds beating against the glass of his cottage, clouds burled overhead. The day of the festival itself, there was the search, setting out upon small sailboats, until chunks of wood began to wash back up upon Pelican Town shores. They’ve kept coming in the months since—half a steering wheel here, a few smoothened shards of glass there, and now, the nameplate. 

Soon, the Gem Sea will run out of pieces of ship to regurgitate onto the beach, and then it will have to start with pieces of body, and he dreads and anticipates that day in equal measure. Grotesque. Morbid. Seems that’s the only way his mind turns these days, though. 

It’s seeped into his writing. He cannot unravel sci-fi epics anymore, cannot slowly turn his way through delicate romances and sprawling fantasy worlds. All he churns out are tales of the macabre, of great monsters in the froth, of waves that stretch high as the heavens and low as the hells. They don’t sell. His editor doesn’t particularly like reading the fifth story that ends in, and then, the sea took them all. 

When he’d complained of this to Leah, she’d frowned, worrying over her bottom lip, and then tried to introduce him to wood carving—said maybe a different avenue of creativity could unclog whatever pipes were malfunctioning. He’d started to, on instinct, make a crude sort of kraken, and she’d taken the knife away from him. 

They’re not malfunctioning, is the truth. They are working exactly as intended: pumping out a thousand gallons of saline, churning the wheels of some great, rotating machine in the depths of his mind. 

Tonight, he hunches over his desk, and writes the only other thing that he can write: a letter. In a hurried script, leaving small, messy drips of ink all over the crumpled parchment. Doesn’t matter. The words have their substance and that is all he needs. 

I love you, he says, and then scratches that out, I still love you, marks it again, I will always love you, before moving onto the next. An exercise in revision, in making it perfect. He’s sent you dozens—twice a week—and this time, he mentions the boat’s nameplate, Lewis’s question about the jellies. It always was your favorite holiday. You’d told him, that day you left, that you hoped you’d make it back in time to watch. 

Carefully, he rolls it up, slots it delicately into a colored glass bottle. One of Leah’s old winebottles, in fact, from her weekly deliveries. He doesn’t drink them—instead, pours them straight into the ocean, another form of tribute. The letters are for you; the wine is for Willy. Always did love a good drink, that man. 

Then, he pads out into the surf, bare feet digging into the sand, and pushes the bottle into the waves. The sea takes it eagerly. Of course. Greedy, always greedy, always wanting. 

Though it’s spit out many other things, it’s never given back one of his bottles. He likes to imagine that’s because you’re keeping them. Tucked into the hollow of your ribcage, ensconced in bony arms, wherever you are. 

—

If he were a sappy man, he would call it love at first sight, and because he is a sappy man, that’s exactly the label that he slaps upon it. You, on your first foray into the beach, picking up a mussel and turning it about in his hands—and him, emerging from his cabin after a six-hour writing marathon. Eyes meeting, hearts sparking, falling into each other’s arms as naturally as the flower blooms. The real story is of course longer and not so much a fairytale, but at this point, his own version has become so naturalised that it is all he thinks of. 

He tries to write it down, sitting at his desk, with a ragged duck’s feather that you gave him many months ago. It starts strong, but sputters out by the time he reaches the final act. All there is left to say is that the ocean takes, and that is that. 

—-

One week until the Dance. Six days until the anniversary. He goes up to your farm for the first time since those early days in which you didn’t come back. Brings a small notepad and another quill, just in case it finally sparks some sort of inspiration, if the ghost of his muse rises from the dead. Used to be, you would put your chin on his shoulder and watch him work, whispering ideas in his ears when you wanted to be helpful, whispering other things when you were in the mood for distraction. Galatea carved in statuesque marble, naked and tangled in his sheets, coyly asking him if you were inspiring him. 

Now, now you are Aphrodite wreathed in seafoam, beautiful in raw, brutal edges, nestled within the mouth of a clamshell. 

The farm is abandoned, of course. Marnie took the animals, folded them back into her Ranch, Demetrius cleared out the cave, Lewis came by and uprooted each one of the crops once they began rotting in the earth. All a necessity, of course, but it felt a bit like many small parasitic beings consuming the remnants of some gargantuan corpse. Now, all that’s left is the overgrown grass amongst the old husks of barns and coops, the scarecrows crucified above brambly fields. 

Elliott tries to pick his way through the undergrowth, but the burrs begin to snag at his pants, and he can bear no more, so he retreats to the collapsing porch.

He’s never been quite the outdoorsy type of man, which only inspires more questions about why, exactly, he chose to live in possibly the most rudimentary part of the valley, but this is a different breed of unpleasant. Reminds him of when Leah tried to take him camping, and he could not bear his hair getting tangled in the branches, the hardness of the rocky ground beneath his back. You were so good, out here. It must be different in the sea. 

It’s the silence that chases him away, more than anything. No crashing waves. No breeze. Unsettling. 

On the way back into town, he sees the bustle of the saloon, many people slipping in and out, and thinks, why the hell not?

The first step inside, however, proves to be a mistake. He’s suddenly acutely aware of his appearance, of the fact that this has been his first time reappearing in town proper in a year—he has not attended a single one of the preceding festivals. Spent the most recent, the Luau, holed up in his cabin, blankets over his head, trying to block out the sound of forced laughter. 

“Elliot!” Gus exclaims, eyebrows making a valiant effort to reach his hairline, “it’s been a while. What do you want?”

He blinks. Can’t remember what he used to order, what his usual was. He still remembers yours—ocean sunrise, some obscenely fruity drink, bright gradient of yellow foam to deep indigo syrup pooling at the bottom of the glass, thick enough to coat the mouth and strong enough to linger. He used to tell you that things as brightly-colored as that are, by natural law, never meant to be consumed, and you’d asked, then why does it taste so good?

“Ocean sunrise,” he says. To his credit, Gus does not let even a tick of his facial expression belay any concern—instead, he turns straight to pouring and measuring out small quantities of bottled liquid. 

Elliott moves to Leah’s table, who’s been sitting there, watching him all this time. She has a nervous hand running down her braid, but that’s the only indication that she is not entirely relaxed. 

“Not a wine?” she asks. Right. That was his old poison of choice. 

“No,” he replies, “feeling… ah, nostalgic.”

She nods as if that was a profound statement. “You got my delivery?”

“Yes.” He manages to shoot her a shallow smile. “Thank you, by the way. I never do express my gratitude enough. You are… you are a good friend.”

“Anything,” she vows, moving the hand from her braid to her heart. Emily stops by their table with the violently colorful drink in hand, shoots him a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, before whisking off to another table. He picks it up, takes a sip. 

The lighter, orange-yellow layers taste of pineapple and tropical fruits, Ginger Island. It deepens as the bottom begins to mix in; that thick, heady indigo syrup, and by the time he reaches the bottom, it is entirely bitter, thick and sharp and acidic. This is what storms must taste like, he thinks, lightning sparking on his tongue, bright ozone filling his lungs. This is what your final moments must have tasted like. A final lick of the salt around the rim, a gulp of seawater, and it’s an altogether full experience. 

He almost calls his compliments to Gus, good on distilling death at sea into a drink, but then it occurs to him that that probably wasn’t the man’s intention. 

“Written anything lately?” Leah asks, around a bite of her salad. He tilts his head, thinking. 

“Lots of horror. Not so much else.”

“Oh?” She perks up. “I like horror. It’s been too long since you’ve let me read one of your manuscripts.”

“They’re in the ocean,” he says, “but it’s hard, capturing what it feels like to die. When the ship begins to crack. I’ve never experienced it, obviously. If only I could ask…”

“Okay,” Leah says, voice dropping a few notes, “okay, Elliott, no more of that. Please.”

He flushes faintly. “My apologies. It is simply… inspiration is a fickle thing.”

“Really is,” she replies, but the tenuous sort of mood has snapped in half. He leaves not much later, passing his empty cup to Gus, taking the well-wishes of the others with a simple nod of his head. Back down to the beach, back to the waves that tear at the sand. 

Sometimes—and these are the thoughts that he voices to nobody—he wonders if you are truly dead, if you are not somehow alive. Not in the fanciful, swam your way back to dry land sort of way, but instead, it’s some amalgamation of mermaid stories, of life breathed into you, of becoming one with the sea. Harvey tells him that this is normal—I’m not technically a psychiatrist, but from what I know…—but he feels so certain, some days, that it threatens to burst through his chest. 

The only festival he’s attended this past year is the Night Market in winter. Not to peruse those exotic wares, even to take part in the free coffee. No—he made a straight beeline for the mermaid’s caravan, stepping into that thin wooden boat, shells hanging from the walls. 

He did not even wait for her, the frontwoman, skin bright and soft as white taffeta, shimmering with a faint iridescence, to begin her song. Instead, he asked, “in the sea, how do you… become a mermaid?”

She turned to her sisters or companions or whoever they were, behind her, and they all chittered for a moment in a curt language that he had no frame of reference for. Not even in all his childhood study of such languages, Ferngillian and Gotoron and all those different tongues, had he encountered something like that. 

Eventually, she turned back, said, “No, we are birthed.”

He saw that, after a moment. Eyes a touch too white, skin faintly translucent, many odd, small details that hinted at inhumanity. Only a pale imitation—or maybe humanity was a pale imitation of them—but there’s no alley of transformation there. Of course, then, he had to ask, “then, is there any way to… to evolve enough to survive the sea?”

Another round of chittering. This one sounded distinctly like laughter. 

“No,” she replied, when she finally turned back, “no, landfolk, no.”

All that to say that both alleyways of comprehension—that of Harvey’s scientific method, and the magick of the merfolk—have refuted his hypothesis, and he’s just a fool, a lovestruck idiot who has not yet moved past the first stage of grief. 

Your first kiss was upon a boat. Leah chewed him out, later, gave him a long lecture upon the implications of taking a single woman onto the water and kissing her but you’d been quite receptive at the time. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to move on. 

When he remembers you, he remembers the seafleck salt upon your lips, remembers the damp hems of his pants and the brine in the air. You are the sea and the sea is you, undeniably intertwined, and all this was just both parts of you reconjoining at once. 

—

Willy’s birthday, 24th of Summer, comes, passes. He’s sitting on the docks, alternating between taking light sips from Leah’s most recent bottle and pouring shots out into the sea, when Linus suddenly sits himself down beside him. Next to Linus, Clint, and finally Marlon on the far side. 

“Are we interrupting?” Linus asks. Elliott shakes his head. Behind them, Willy’s shop looms, dark-windowed, beast with eyes hidden behind their lids. 

“He was a good man,” Marlon says after a moment, “took us across the sea more than once. Would’ve liked to die on the water, if you pardon me saying.”

Clint hums in agreement. “Told me to just… y’know, roll him into the surf when he keeled over. Uh, I always thought he was crazy, but…”

“And she,” Marlon adds, referring to you, “brave ‘un too. If a storm was somethin’ you could fight, she’d’ve come back no worse for wear.”

Dawn is upon them before they’re even done swapping stories, the bottle empty, all those many drops poured for Willy to drink, eventually, wherever he is. They stumble back to their respective homes, but Elliott remains on the dock. The air is charged not only from the weight of a thousand recollections, but something else, something bright and salty and there are only a few days left, now, only a few days left. 

—

A storm. Promised by the newfound height of the waves, grasping at the lip of the dock, by the pebbled clouds overhead. Elliott sits within his cabin, listening to the wind do its damn best to try and uproot the thing, and draws a monster upon the table. Today, tonight by technicality, is the anniversary, and there is none of that crushing weight he’d expected, no grief that bows his back down like a sapling. 

Leah makes it to his cabin by mid-day, when the winds are just beginning to pick up. “Hey,” she tells him, when he opens the door, “I think your house might blow down. Do you want to come back to my place?”

“No,” he replies, looking not at her but instead over her shoulders, at the ocean beyond. “No.”

“If you’re sure,” she says doubtfully. Gives him a hesitant pat on the shoulder, “just don’t blow away, ‘kay? I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll try my best.”

She leaves after only one more reproachful look over her shoulder, braid whipping about in the breeze. For lack of anything better to do, he sits himself down in front of a small mirror, and begins to work back through his hair. If he closes his eyes… well, if he closes his eyes, then it’s nowhere near the sensation of your fingers working through his hair, primarily because he needs to positively yank to untangle some of these knots, but it reminds him of that feeling, anyways. 

Often, it was the prelude to things. Him, sprawled out in bed, head upon your lap, while you worked your fingers through his scalp, scratching lightly enough to make his back arch in search of more. Then, of course, inevitably, it would turn to kissing, to the warmth of your tongue and the press of his body upon yours, hands still entangled in his hair. To him within you, suit discarded somewhere upon the floor, skin to skin in all the closest of ways. 

Outside, thunder cracks, and lightning flashes like the whip of some storm god overhead. He runs his fingers through his hair one final time, moving to the window. The waves are dark and obsidian, an infinite tar pit with many primeval beasts rotting within, mesozoic creatures under the coruscant sun, and there is something, there is a shape beneath the waves. 

He presses a palm to the window. Watches. 

It rises like a buried God, head breaking the surface, then body, torso and hips and legs until it is shedding the last of the sea, still walking steadily across the beach. 

It looks at him. 

You look at him, and he knows. 

Elliott rushes to the door and flings it open, allowing the wind to bunch and unfurl into the house, send his papers scattering, but none of that matters because it is you, you the same and different all at once. Hair plastered to your cheeks and your neck, naked, dripping. As you draw closer, more details make themselves clear, more strangeness. Your left eye is entirely gone, nothing but a gaping hole, and the skin of your right cheek has been superseded by the iridescence of scales—indeed, they run down your arms too, coil around your legs. Some of your skin is rocky, barnacled, made up of nothing but gray crag, but you are too close to turn back, and he would not turn back either way. 

Only when you are right before him do you pause. Part of your upper lip has been torn away by a predator in the depths, and the teeth it reveals are jagged, barbed. 

“You’re back,” he says. You fall forwards, into his arms, bracing yourself only once he has stumbled back under the brunt of your weight. A long moment is dedicated simply to holding you, to breathing in the briny scent of your skin, running his fingers down the slickness of the scales that line your skin. 

And then, you look up at him, singular remaining eye wide. He notices that there are small threads of gossamer substance entangled throughout your hair, and, when he looks closer, they have eyes too, many small pinpricks looking back at him. 

“Where have you been?” He asks. You tilt your head a fraction of a fraction, almost imperceptible, open your mouth to reveal those long, sharp teeth, and beyond them, a tongue that is black as coal, blending into the darkness that falls upon the back of your throat. Close it with a snap. He reaches out, uses a light finger to trace that ragged bit of flesh where your face was torn apart and you duck instinctively, shy. 

“No,” he says, “no, no,” reaching a hand beneath your chin to tilt your face back up, “you’re beautiful. Still. Did you get my letter? I’ll always love you.”

You do not blink. The pupil of that eye is slitted now, like a snake’s, a goat’s, and he could not care less. He runs his hands down your side, over the rocky bits that stick out from your waist, ducks his head so his forehead can settle against yours. 

“So much has changed,” he whispers, “I can’t write without you, you know. You’re my muse. I miss you terribly, every second, every day.”

Your hands, clawed, tighten around his side. He dips a bit lower, lips to yours, waits a fraction of a second to see if you’ll draw away—if you’re different now, if you are nothing but unfeeling sea—but no, your grip tightens once again, grabbing handfuls of his suit jacket, and you lean up. When your tongues meet, it is a bit of a shock, slippery with some bitter sort of mucous. Reminds him of Gus’s drink. Reminds him of death at sea. Reminds him that, no matter what, he still has you here and relatively whole before him, so none of that matters, and he takes it in stride, deepening the kiss. 

He cuts himself on your teeth, he’s pretty sure, because the taste of copper fills both your mouths, but that is of little matter and little consequence, simply another flavor to this kiss. Se maneuvers you slowly to the bed, wetting his sheets, tracking sand in, and has he not already established that none of this matters?

Slowly, you pull him down, dipping until your back lays flat upon the sheets, hand wandering to run up and down his back in an almost wondrous way. Maybe you are just as surprised to see him as he is for you. Maybe both of you have been lost in equal ways, land and sea, forever separated by that line in the sand. As the shock of initial embrace wears off, there comes the new realization that you are in fact naked, and you are pulling him towards you. He draws back for only a second to shuck off his suit and, with fumbling fingers, unbutton the seam of his pants, kicking them off. The area around your mouth is stained with red and black and still slick with seawater. It is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. 

Soon, he’s unclothed as well, and hardly a moment is wasted in pulling him back. Though you are not entirely flesh anymore, the parts he is interested in are all seemingly intact. Not that he’d mind if they weren’t. He’s determined enough to find a way. He starts with first a hand, but you make a quick movement, angling your chin towards him, and so he withdraws that and thrusts in fully instead, into the smoothness of your warmth. His hand, he moves back up to your chest, rubbing in slowly-expanding circles. When he reaches the patch of scales beneath your armpit, you huff out a quiet breath, and then, as he begins to scratch along their seams, you begin to writhe, so he lingers. 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and he’s said this already, but you are not here to stay, he knows. Just a slip of seafoam in the breeze, the briefness of a late-summer storm, “it’s why I stay, so I can be-” you clench, and he loses track of his words for a brief moment—“-be here, with the sea, with you. I wade, sometimes, and pretend that it is an embrace.”

Overtly wordy confession of love when you are saying nothing at all, but the tail end of his words coincides with you tensing beneath him, so perhaps it had an effect after all. He tips over the edge in unison, both of you free-falling, and you bite into his neck with those sharp teeth, hard enough that blood immediately wells up and stains the sheet. Another dimension of pleasure, in such an adrenaline-hazed state, the spike of salt at the end of a long drink. 

Coming down is an exercise in drowsiness and the slow return of pain, both in his tongue and upon his neck, both lacerated by your teeth. His hair is matted in sweat and seawater and blood, spread out across the sheets, and you take to combing through it. When your newfound claws scratch against his scalp, it makes him shiver in something approaching rapture. Eventually, though, he cannot even stand that, too far from you, and instead turns to press his face into your chest. 

He is crying, he realizes belatedly. You run a single finger down from the crown of his head to the nape of his spine, and there it lingers. 

“How can I do it?” He murmurs into your chest, breath hot against your skin, “I cannot write without you, I cannot… cannot live. I wish to throw myself from the cliffs, some days. Would we be together, then?”

Your chin scrapes across his head in a negation. Whatever you did, whatever happened to allow you survival, he supposes it’s something he—boy born with an iridium spoon in his mouth, whose half-formed childhood idea of rebellion was to run off and become a hermit—would never be able to stand. 

“How, then?” He asks. You rest your head upon his with a heavy weight, a heavy finality, and he knows you have no good answer. He rises after a long moment, an idea striking him—leans over, skin unsticking from yours, to grab a quill and one of the many papers scattered across the room. “Can you-”

You cut him off with a shake of your head, a shrug. Whether that means that you physically cannot write, do not know how to write, or any number of possibilities between those, he’s unsure, but he deflates almost as quickly. Seeing his sudden disappointment, you hesitate, before pointing towards the letter, towards the sea. 

“I should continue sending?” He asks. You nod, a small, controlled motion. “I will,” he vows immediately, “Every day, a poem, a sonnet, for you, for the sea. My… my muse, my love, my glimmering waters,” and the last bits of that devolve into nonsense as he once again buries his head against you, laps the salt from your skin. 

Sleep comes with the swiftness of a storm. The last thing he recalls is saline, a sharp hand circling the top of his head. 

—

The bed is cold when he wakes. He reaches, instinctively, for you, but his hands hit nothing but damp blankets. 

When he finally pushes himself into a sitting position, he sees many wet puddle-footsteps leading to the open door, already soaking into the hardwood floor. 

Outside, there is no difference. The sea is placid. Unfeeling. 

He smiles anyways. 

Returns into his cabin and pens with a fervor—a poem, firstly, long enough that it stretches across the length of the paper, and then a letter on the other side, rolls it up and sends it into the sea. Finishes it with his signature, and then, under that, love you always. 

—

One last thing. 

The Dance of the Moonlight Jellies comes with the last bits of dusk. More muted than usual, of course, townsfolk picking their way through the detritus of the beach, and Elliott is already upon the docks. 

Lewis sends off the lantern without much ado, no ceremony or great speech, and the jellies appear as pinpricks upon the horizon that undulate, pulsing with their own internal rhythm. 

But in the water off to the side of the dock, he notices something. Believes it to be a jelly, at first, but no, it’s glassy and hard and, when he reaches down to grab it, he finds that it is a bottle. One of Leah’s old ones, filled with silted seawater and a scrap of paper. 

He opens it carefully, heart staccato in his chest. Out comes flooding the water over his hand, and along with it, the delicate scrap. He unfolds it as slowly as his eager hands are able, cautious not to rip it. 

It’s one of his own letters. Can’t remember when he wrote it, what it was about, but there is clearly a bit of text available, framed by the ragged edges. 

In familiar black script, it reads, until next year. 

He watches the jellyfish slowly approach below, lit by some internal glow, and thinks that it cannot come soon enough.

[fruitalike]

OBVIOUSLY || Trans Elliott x Male Reader

RATING: Explicit, 18+ obviously

PARING: TRANS Elliott x Male Reader

TAGS: TRANS ELLIOTT, as always, you're married, 2nd person, oral/p.i.v. sex, multiple orgasms/positions, pwp, maybe mirror sex, spit as lube/spit kink a little bit..., HHHHAFU (House Husbands Have Heart Aprons Fanfic Universe)

WORDS: 3476

SUMMARY:

“How much longer?” You ask, and Elliott whips his head back around to face you, face even redder still. “How much longer for what?” He’s flustered again; but it’s different now than it was when you’d first come home. You watch him chew his lip nervously, but he stops when he notices you’re staring. “Until the food gets out of the oven,” you say, your eyes still on his lips until you see them quiver, then you look up into his eyes instead, tilting your head just enough, “obviously.”

READ ON AO3

OR...

(genital words: cock/head/tip, chest/nipples, lips/cunt/walls/g-spot)

You arrive home at your expected time, but your husband greets you as you walk up the front steps regardless. He opens the door as you make it onto the porch. “It’s not done,” he says, he’s flustered—you’re not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed or because he’s been rushing, maybe both. “I… I just need, like, fi- ten minutes. Ten minutes and you can come in. It won’t be done but you can come in.”

You can tell by the look on his face that you should probably hold in the chuckle you feel in your throat. Elliott is a bit of a mess, more comfortable clothes replace his usual formal attire, his hair is all over his face, and his eyebrows are a bit furrowed, and he’s red in the face. Any desire you have to laugh is solely based on how cute he looks; but you refrain anyways. “I’ll just wait out here. You let me know when you’re ready for me to come in, okay?”

Elliott breathes a sigh of relief. “I swear it won’t take long,” he says, though even he doesn’t seem convinced, “it’s just- I lost track of time, and… y’know. It’ll be fine.” You go to reassure him, but he just repeats himself, “It’ll be fine,” he whips around and slinks back into the house. Though you’re sure that you can hear him repeat it to himself again as he closes the door.

Once you’re sure he’s too far inside the house to hear you, you do finally chuckle to yourself. He’s just too sweet. Taking a seat on the swinging bench on the front porch, you resign yourself to waiting indefinitely for whatever Elliott had planned. It seemed like he was cooking something, judging by the heart apron he wore, and the various foodstuffs all over it. You rub your eyes as the fall breeze relaxes you. You could use a nice, home cooked meal.

You’re awoken from your near slumber as Elliott opens the front door again. He smiles at you and beckons you inside. It takes you a second to gather yourself enough to follow him in, but once you do, it’s obvious he’s cooking something. “Don’t look too hard at the oven.”

“How about I just go take a shower?” Again, he seems relieved by your offer. Elliott kisses you as you head for the bathroom.

Given the state of the kitchen, you figure you can take your time in the shower. You try not to spend too much time thinking about what Elliott’s cooking for you. Of course, you do wonder. But you try to put it out of your mind. The water is almost viciously hot, but that’s what it takes to soothe you at this point. Your skin grows tender as you scrub all of the farm’s grime down the drain. It doesn’t bother you, though. Better to actually feel clean. You make sure to put on plenty of lotion afterwards, anyways.

You lose track of time in the shower, but years on the farm have made you painfully efficient regardless—it’s barely been half an hour by the time you’ve finished. You still head for the kitchen once you’ve dried off and put clean clothes on. Evidently, half an hour was all that Elliott needed to get the kitchen back under control. He was too considerate to run any water while you were showering, but all of the dirty dishes are stacked neatly in the sink. The counter tops are wiped clean of any of the detritus that had accumulated there as he cooked. More importantly, he seemed much calmer: he’s no longer flushed, or as disheveled (you hesitate to even refer to him that way—Elliott was always far too formal to find himself truly disheveled, well, unless… you know) as he had been before. He comes to your side the moment you enter the kitchen. He wraps his arms around your neck and kisses your cheek multiple times. “No peaking,” he says, playfully turning you away from the kitchen with his hold on you.

“I wasn’t even looking!” There’s just enough playful exasperation in your tone that Elliott laughs a little; even as you can’t help but try to smell what’s cooking in the air. Only now do you notice that he’s opened the windows—clearly trying to keep the aroma from what ever it is he’s cooking from building up in the room, what a tease.

He releases you from his grasp and you sit at the island in the kitchen. Your eyes naturally follow him as he walks in front of you, standing between the counter you rest at and the oven, shielding whatever he was cooking from your prying eyes. “Can I get you something to drink?” He asks, trying to make his appearance in front of you seem a little more natural, as wiping down the already clean counter tops didn’t quite justify it.

“Sure,” you say. You’re not particularly thirsty. You just like watching Elliott squirm, nervously wiping his hands on his heart adorned apron as he prepares a glass of hot apple cider for you. A pot of it was already on the stove, surely another one of his tricks to distract from whatever he has in the oven.

He brings it to you, coming around the side of the kitchen island, mug in hand. Elliott sits up on the counter as you drink your cider, ever the distraction. You were wrong before—you definitely needed this cider. The warmth soothes you more than a shower ever could. Perhaps your husband knows you a little too well. He reaches for your hand and you intertwine your fingers. You pull on his hand and he scoots across the counter so that he’s in front of you. He carefully spreads his legs so that sitting in front of you is easier for him. You’re sure that that’s all there is to it.

Both of Elliott’s distractingly long legs dangle to either side of you. You gingerly place your mug between his legs, looking up at him. The warmth from the cup radiates between his legs, you can tell by how red his face continues to get as your mug rests between his thighs.

Finding yourself parched, you reach for your cider again with your free hand. Of course your other hand is still delicately intertwined with your husbands. You choose to ignore the embarrassed glances that Elliott shoots your way. His face reddens still as you continue to sip your delicious drink so thoughtfully prepared for you by your loving husband, who shifts restlessly on the counter as you make a show of ignoring him.

There’s a twitching in the front of his pants, and Elliott squeezes his thighs together, seizing the opportunity to do so while you still have your mug in hand. He carefully places his feet between your thighs, his own legs pressed together in a slight embarrassment. It’s obvious that his feet don’t really have anywhere else to go (as long as keeping them off of the counter was a priority), but you can’t help but see it as yet another distraction.

You finally release Elliott’s hand to place it on his left foot where it meets his ankle—acknowledging his distraction as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. He turns away from you, to look at the oven, of course. You trace your fingers up and down the back of his ankle, smirking to yourself as you feel him get chills. “How much longer?” You ask, and Elliott whips his head back around to face you, face even redder still.

“How much longer for what?” He’s flustered again; but it’s different now than it was when you’d first come home. You watch him chew his lip nervously, but he stops when he notices you’re staring.

“Until the food gets out of the oven,” you say, your eyes still on his lips until you see them quiver, then you look up into his eyes instead, tilting your head just enough, “obviously.” His breath hitches on your slightly snarky tone. He turns away from your gaze and wets his lips trying to find something to say; he’s already so caught up in you.

“Not long.” Is all he can manage. You’ve finished your drink, so you set your mug on the counter top. The light clatter startles Elliott. “Really?” You ask, calling him on his bluff. You’re tracing your thumb up and down the top of his foot as you speak; the rest of your fingers still, now.

He squirms. “I’m… not giving specifics,” he hesitates, “obviously.” Elliott seems proud that he’s turned your snark back on you but all you do is smirk; and move your hand up to his calf. “Is there time for anything?”

“… Like what?” He asks, as if he hadn’t just squeezed his thighs together. You move your hand further up his calf. “You know.”

“Maybe… it’d have to be quick.”

“Can you be quick?” He huffs but spreads his legs just enough to slide down into your lap, you kiss him immediately; he reciprocates desperately. “Yes.” He says quietly after you’d pulled away. You can tell by the way he’s trembling he’s telling the truth. He’s always so excitable.

You can only kiss him so long before you begin to really question the integrity of the bar stool you’re sitting on; the metal creaking with every sudden movement. You stand and usher Elliott back up onto the counter top. He pulls you to him and you grind against him. You can feel how eager he is through his sweatpants.

Kissing him again, you’re able to slide his sweats and underwear down with ease. You elect to still leave them on, just in case he needs to quickly slip away to cater to whatever he’s cooking. Of course, you hope that he won’t need to; that he’ll be at your mercy until you’re done with him.

You ease him onto his back and crouch between his legs, too weary of the bar stool to use it. Some of your limited time obviously goes to kissing and delicately nipping at Elliott’s inner thighs, much to his chagrin. He whines as you tease him. “Please,” he begs, your kisses inching closer and closer, teasing out more and more of his desperation, “just… please.”

Your tongue slips between his lips with practiced brevity; tracing right up to where his cock aches for your attention. You kiss around it a little at first, just enough to tease him a little more before you allow yourself to fully give into your carnal desires. Elliott gasps as you finally lick him. His hips try to buck up into your mouth, chasing the friction you expertly provide.

You pin Elliott’s legs to the counter top: leaning forward you rest an arm on the back of each of his thighs; using one hand to hold him by the ankles and keeping his feet in the air; the other rests on his pubic mound, and you use your thumb to pull him taught. His little cock is even more exposed to you now, his tip peeking out of his foreskin. He whimpers as you focus the tip of your tongue on his head.

Soon, even you have grown tired of your merciless teasing. “Behave.” You warn before taking Elliott into your mouth completely. You can feel the muscles in his legs flex—desperately trying to keep himself still. He cries out for you as you suckle his tiny cock, letting your teeth graze his head.

Motion in your periphery causes you to look to your right. You can’t help but notice both your and Elliott’s reflection in the screen of the television in the living room. Obviously, you’re awkwardly half-way crouched between his legs, but Elliott’s the main event. He’s sprawled out on the kitchen island, his lower back flush with the bar top, beloved husband folding him in half. His shoulders make contact with the lower part of the counter and his hair billows all over it. You make a mental note that his head is hanging off the edge of the counter top. Occasionally you can hear his nails scratch against the underside of the bar as you continue to suck him off, but his other hand shamelessly gropes at his own chest through his heart apron. You don’t need to consult his reflection to know that he’s teasing his own nipples, you can feel it in the way his cock twitches in your mouth.

Elliott won’t last much longer like this, so you pick up the pace a little. You swirl your tongue and bob your head a little faster, and make quick work of your beloved husband. He’s crying out for you and cumming on your face within seconds. His thighs tremble as you continue to tease his aching cock, and you can feel your own cock twitch in your pants. You need to be inside on him.

You kiss him a few times before pulling yourself off of him. Standing back up straight makes your back crack, so you take a second to stretch it out. Once you’ve gotten comfortable again you let your hard cock rest against his ass. “You want it?” You ask, and Elliott seems to shift a little, checking the oven, again, undoubtedly.

“Please,” he begs, again, “fuck me.” As much as you’d love to hear it, he doesn’t have to beg you twice. You shove your own pants and underwear down to around your knees and let your cock out. You spit on your cock out of habit, but Elliott hardly needs it. You rub your spit up and down your cock as you watch him quiver; if he hadn’t been wet enough for you after his orgasm, he would be now. He whimpers when you rub your cock up against his. He stops holding onto the counter to reach down and jerk your cock a couple of times, you thrust into his hand. “Put it in… put it in.”

You oblige, angling your cock with Elliott’s cunt, but letting him push your tip in since he was so eager. He hisses at the feeling, and you can’t help but snicker a bit as you slowly thrust in. He always wants more than he can take. But it doesn’t take long for him to get used to you, especially as he continues to masturbate openly—still rubbing his nipples and jerking himself off, too.

He only stops when you thrust into him a little harder, causing him to lurch forward and grab onto the counter top between his legs to stabilize himself. You hold onto him a little firmer and trace your thumbs across his sides. “I’ve got you,” you say, leaning forward a little and spitting on his cock, “you can touch yourself as much as you want.”

Elliott whimpers at your taunting tone, but follows through nonetheless, rubbing his little cock in time with your thrusts. You’re careful with how hard you’re fucking him, not wanting to concuss him as his head continued to hang off the lower counter top. But, you’re still picking up the pace. You only have a little while longer to fuck him until dinner’s ready, after all.

Carefully, you fuck him faster still, Elliott hanging on your every movement. As much as you’d love to, you don’t even have to fuck him particularly hard to have his cunt desperately squeezing you with every thrust. Perhaps you know your husband a little too well. You tighten your grip on his sides when you feel his muscles start to tense, and you position your thrusts towards the angle you know he likes the most.

He doesn’t last much longer. His toes curl and you feel compelled to watch him in the reflection of the television again. He cries out for you as he struggles through his orgasm, jerking himself rapidly even as he tries to control his own movements carefully, still in such a precarious position. You keep a slower, gentle pace to ease him through his orgasm, holding onto him for reassurance; your own end far ahead.

Once he’s come down a bit, you pull out and he sits up on the counter. Elliott kisses you sloppily, wrapping his arms around your neck. All care for any mess on the kitchen counter long gone. He’s leaning into you and running his fingers through your hair; swaying ever so slightly, you imagine it’s from all the blood rushing back down from his head. He pulls away from the kiss and just looks at you, excess desperation in his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. “Is there time for just a little more?”

His fingers stop moving in your hair and just hang there instead. He gives a meek nod. “…Maybe.” He says, as if to hide his own desire.

Once more you usher him, this time down from the counter top. He kisses you again but you pull away, kissing his cheek and then his neck. He moans for you, overstimulated but still desperate for more. You have him by his biceps, so it’s easy for you to turn him around and press his chest to the counter top. He whines softly as you rub your cock up against his cunt.

Elliott’s leaned over the bar part of the kitchen island, his fingers naturally wrapping around the edge of the counter, holding himself still. You gather his hair up in one hand, wrapping it around itself for a better hold. “Just keep an eye on it for me, okay? I’d hate for all your hard work to go to waste.” He only whimpers in response, so you tug on his hair. “Okay?”

“I will, I will, just… please.” He’s looking back at you, moving hips trying to push your cock back inside of him. You oblige, pounding into him rather harshly. Elliott lurches forward and cries out for you in the best way. He squeezes down on you when your balls smack against his cock, you can feel it twitch, too.

You’ll never get used to how sensitive he is inside once you’re in the second round. His walls can’t help but quiver around you with every thrust. He’s in a better position now, so you can thrust into him as hard and as fast as you both would like. Elliott continuously begs you for more, and you can only provide.

His thighs quiver with every thrust, and the island itself seems to creak a little when you really pound into him. You ignore it. You can’t possibly pay any mind to something as unimportant as the structural integrity of your home when your husband is crying out for you like this. You’re ratcheting up the pressure, constantly aiming for and pounding into his g-spot. All Elliott can do is punctuate every thrust with a cry of “please, please, please!”

He’s barely coherent. But you can feel his orgasm drawing closer and closer—the way he’s bearing down on you makes it hard for you to keep a steady pace. Your grip tightens on him again as you feel your orgasm building as well. You pull on his hair again, and you swear you can hear his fingernails scrapping against the underside of the counter top.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” There’s something so special about shredding Elliott’s eloquence with your cock—it makes your toes curl. You keep the same hold on his hair as you feel him tense up all over. “I’m going—fuck! I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”

His cunt squeezes you hard and you feel him gush with his orgasm, coating you and trickling down your bare thighs. You’re not far behind him, careful not to tug on his hair anymore than you already had, lest you begin to rip out his delicate mane. Thrusting as hard and as fast and as deep as you can manage, you release deep into your husband; crying out for him just as he had for you. There’s no discernible rhythm to the last of your thrusts, all that’s left is your desperation.

You pull him up from the counter, your cock still inside of him even as you begin to soften. Your hips still pistoning slightly as you pull his back to your chest; hands roaming him all over to soothe the both of you. His chest heaving still, he reaches for your hand.

You intertwine you fingers again, just as you had before. “Elliott…” you drag out his name dramatically, tracing his jawline with the pointer finger on your free hand, “how much longer do we have to wait for the food?”

Elliott glances at the oven. “Just a little longer,” he says, “obviously.”

[lemonheadart]

hoooo boy here we go

these two sheets are a few weeks apart so the coloring's a little different. wanted to try something new.. and messy

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 28 

Cahara + size kink or micro/macro 

I have no idea why I wrote this,,,

This is for me and me alone, cuz I love fear and hunger, and god, I love Cahara. Feel free to ask me about funger, I haven’t kept up with the newest updates but I love it, I even got ocs n shit. 

Reader is a new god, but he doesn’t hang out in the grand hall with the others. You are also like, 30 ft tall. 

Reader has a beastly soul, so, sorry if your bday isn’t in february, I just wanted him to be a massive wolf man with a wolf head. 

Kinktober 2025 masterlist

The dungeons would drive anybody mad. The constant fear, the hunger, the darkness and the doubt if you would ever survive. Being alone only made it quicker, the madness. Cahara had traveled with an outlander for a while, but it hadn’t lasted. 

Somehow, all of Cahara’s running, fleeing from the many enemies who wished to do worse than just kill him, had found him in a strange place. 

It seemed like a dark, moist and stuffy forest. The grass was muddy under his boots, squishing loudly as the branches of the ancient trees seemed to reach for him, dragging at his hair, his clothes, his skin. 

The constant feeling of being watches was worse here, like being watched by a starving beast, salivating at the mere thought of devouring a tasty morsel.  

Cahara swore he saw eyes in the darkness between the thicket, like dogs, or wolves. Something that ran low to the ground, the eyes reflecting light in the way humans couldn’t. 

The mercenary was so starved, so thirsty and halfway mad, that he didn’t even flinch when wolves with hands and human teeth would slink out of the trees. 

Some had the eyes of men, others had patches of flesh without fur, some had fingers and toes, or a tail that was only bone. One had muscles that seemed to move and squirm like worms under its skin as it staggered towards him like a dying deer. 

It stared up at him, opening its mouth too wide where a second set of eyes glinted at him, no visible pupil in the white shiny orbs, like two tiny moons staring from the darkness. 

A wet gurgling was heard from some of the wolves, half formed words in a language long forgotten, yet he knew they were telling him to follow. 

Cahara knew that he would die here, maybe he already had, maybe he was dying and this was his hallucination as he was dragged to the darkest pits of the afterlife, where people like him went to suffer. 

The shifting wolves started yipping, hooting and hollering as they ran, nearing a clearing in the thicket. In the middle of it all, laid what looked like a massive person, bare as the day they were born, except for what looked like a furry head-covering. 

But when it, you, sat up, it was clear it was no clothing, but your head. Cahara’s neck hurt from looking so far up, his eyes barely able to meet the glowing orbs that stared back at him, as your lips pulled back and showed teeth larger than himself. 

The changing wolves shoved at him, some nipping at his legs or boots, and another that could speak, singing what sounded like a hymn in a language he didn’t understand.  

A large hand reached down, clawed and hooked like they were used to walked on all fours instead of holding things. Cahara felt he was gonna die, devoured by whatever was in front of him. 

Instead, you picked him up, lifting him all the way up to your eye to truly look at him. Cahara looked pathetic, starved, mad and dying, a poor weak endless soul with nowhere to go. 

You rumble, the fur on your neck blooming like grass across your chest and belly, your gasp on the weak mortal careful as you lay back, plopping him down on your newly grown fur. 

There was a sickening wet crunch as your neck twisted in a way that shouldn’t be possible, for a human anyways, so you could look at him, at this little lost thing that had somehow entered your domain. 

Cahara could only fumble, his knees giving out as he collapsed against the furry surface he was dropped on. His hair was greasy, his skin dirty, all in all, he was filthy. The obvious discomfort in his body spoke of hunger, of being thirsty and tired. And you were nothing but a good, beastly host. 

All you needed to do was gurgle in the back of your throat, and your beloved servants ran off, deep into the endless thicket. 

In the meantime, you use one of your claws to undress his upper body, letting out little encouraging puffs and grunts. Technically, you could speak, it was just not something you had done in a very long time. 

Cahara felt mad as he let it happen, even letting out a shuddering exhale of pleasure as your godly claw rubbed against his flesh.  

The mercenary flinched and held his arms up to cover his face as your maw opened, so sure he was gonna be swallowed whole. 

Instead, the large flat plane of your tongue lulled out, black and otherworldly in color, before pressing it against him. 

Cahara writhed and gasped as your tongue lapped against his body, wrapping around him from all sides and pulling him towards your maw little by little. It was animalistic, feral in a way that made no sense, but made his blood rush. 

He never imagined he would somehow find himself kicking off his boots and pants to rut pathetically against some gods tongue, wrecked sobbing moans leaving his lips at how desperate he felt for the pleasure, for something good in all this suffering. 

Cahara’s body twisted, but not like your servants. His starved body filled out as servants returned dragging bloody filthy carcasses and satchels with stolen goods and corpses.  

Short fur grew down his spine, his shoulders and around his neck, until a tail sprouted from his tailbone. There was no pain, and Cahara could only howl out of pleasure as his nails became claws, and his ears shifted to the top of his head and became sharp. 

He was still man, but he was also wolf, and the first to have found you in many years, and the first to taste so sweet. Any god would have kept him if they had to chance, lucky for you, you found him first. 

How could you not gift him with your blessing of lycanthrope, to survive the horrors of the dungeon and to grow strength beneath the moon.  

Another time, you may have swallowed him, or warped him into something disgusting like your servants, but for now, you let him tremble against your chest, his body burning with the change. 

Later, you would use the very tips of your large fingers to coax out his cock, to show him its new additions, you would even let him pop a knot against the tip of your large tongue. 

But now, Cahara would lay there, clawing at himself, gouges that would steam and heal in seconds as he pants and drools, his teeth falling out of his mouth as new sharp ones grew in their place.  

His human flesh would steam and heat up as he became half man and half wolf, cursed with your interest and blessing, a mark gouged on his otherwise endless soul. 

[nebbire]

Happy Birthday Nari🥹💚✨

[bubiliviary]

Verdant strider 🌿

[genshin-scenarios]

truths hidden in the snow - rubedo × reader

Wordcount: 1900+

Content Warnings: spoilers for the old dragonspine event and brief references to an attempted (but failed) murder! In case you aren't sure who this is, Rubedo is also known as Susbedo, Primordial Albedo, and etc.

Thinking about Rubedo who lures you to Dragonspine one day with a letter impersonating Albedo; something about how 'the primordial subject' is back. You show up, Rubedo tries to kill you... and it almost works, but you manage to knock him out with a pretty harsh blow to the head, and the snowy mountain falls silent.

...He isn't dead, obviously, but you can't just leave him there to wake up and continue his potentially nefarious plans. So you lug him into your teapot abode and lock down your guestroom. When he awakens after a few days, the first thing out of his mouth is:

"Where am I...? And- Who are you?"

The hand prepped on the hilt of your weapon falls, and all the intimidation you've been hyping yourself up to exude suddenly melts away into hesitance.

"You're in my home." You reply carefully. "Do you remember anything about how you got here?"

Rubedo's brow furrows; more expressive than anything you've seen on him, and shakes his head.

The following days are strange, to say the least. After you left Rubedo in the guestroom to 'get him some water,' you teleport to Mondstadt in a rush and burst into Albedo's office for help.

"So from your understanding, Subject Two has lost his memories...?" Albedo surmised. "He may begin to recall things after some time. But in the odd chance that he doesn't..."

This could be a new start for him. A life separate from the burdens of his past.

'There should not be anything that other humans or I can do, that he cannot.' You recall Albedo's words. Perhaps you may find him as a helpful companion for your adventures.

Or, you may be able to help him settle into a 'normal' life.

Putting aside the moral dilemma of making up a new identity for him, you've been living a little awkwardly with Rubedo in your teapot abode, ever since. He really doesn't seem to remember his vice against Albedo or intent to silence you - and you've been mostly treating him like a patient up until now.

"Good morning," you greet, nudging open the door of the guestroom with your hip while you balanced a tray of food in your hands. "Did you sleep well?"

Rubedo looks up from the Teyvat Travel Guide that you've brought him for light reading (he hadn't requested any specific material; just content that would jog his memory about Teyvat), and nods. "It is still hard for me to recall the contents of my dreams, but I believe I was on the mountain you described you rescued me from." Dragonspine.

You've noticed that he does differ from Albedo in a couple of ways (not that you managed to observe him at all before this debacle, since he mysteriously went into hiding after your first meeting long ago). Rubedo is a little sharp and blunt in the way he speaks - regarding the trinkets you've brought him with curiousity, but not quite wonder. He is curious about the outside world but regards them as new content to pick apart. You've seen the gears turning in his head as you handed him a kamera for the first time, and he spent the day disassembling it and putting it back together again.

You have no doubt that Rubedo is also a genius, judging from the way he copied Albedo's alchemy back during your first confrontation on Dragonspine and effortless dissection of trinkets you've brought him. But you're also starting to feel bad for keeping him trapped in this room; you're cautious for a reason, yes, but he is still a person. You can't keep him under room arrest for much longer.

"Rubedo," you start, causing his eyes to flick up from his book to meet yours. "Would you like a tour of the abode?"

"Are you sure?" He stays put in his bed, regarding you with a stare that is not quite blaming, but not deceived by your demeanor by any means. Rubedo can tell that you're keeping him here for a reason, but he's never attempted to pry beyond taking note of how nervous you seem around him. His lips curl into a small smile. "I was beginning to wonder if we weren't on amicable terms, since you've always been a little wary around me."

You try not to react. "Of course not! It's just, your whole memory loss thing made me cautious; I didn't want to be too forward when you don't remember who I am."

"Forward...?" He tilts his head, a little cat-like. "In what way?"

Shit. "In- In a friendly way!" You ramble, making stuff up. Of course he'd be the type to pay attention to wording. "We used to spar for fun, and get into fights that weren't too serious..." You start to get flashbacks of Whopper-bedo attacking you and your friends. "You... were quite the alchemist." You finish weakly. "We were acquainted, but weren't too close. I just happened to be the one who found you on the mountain that night, like I told you before."

"...And I lived quite a secluded life, so not many people knew me." Rubedo repeats the half-truths you've told him. His smile turns a little crooked. "I must've liked you quite a lot, to have interacted that much with you."

"I guess so!" You agree, ushering him out of the room in hopes that his first view of the rest of your house will distract him.

Rubedo scans over the furnishings, stopping by the picture frames around the living room. It doesn't take long for him to decide that he doesn't know any of these people. "You must have been quite the popular adventurer."

It's a good thing you had the foresight (read: paranoia) to remove all images of Albedo, just in case Rubedo did manage to sneak out of his room when you weren't there. "Well... I've been to a lot of places, so I guess it's natural to collect my memories like this, somehow."

Rubedo hums. "And it seems like there is none with me."

Unsure of how to respond to that, you blab the first reason you can think of. "Well! We never had a reason to take pictures together, and weren't that close, so..." You quiet down. "I wasn't sure about our boundaries."

It's quite clear that you are holding something back, or lying. And despite Rubedo's unfamiliarity with human customs, he's not an idiot. "Traveler..."

"Right! You haven't been outside in a week!" You grab his wrist and promptly drag him out to the outdoor area of your abode; filled with flowers and critters that you've adopted during your travels. "Some fresh air would do you some good!"

Disagreement flickers in Rubedo's eyes until you push the main doors open, leading the both of you into a lush, peaceful scene. Crystalflies and birds flutter about your large garden, which is being tended to by the wonderful means of Tubby, your teapot supervisor.

The 'sunlight' and night in here is also somewhat manually decided upon, thus it's comfortingly warm as you both stroll through the flowers and gaze out at the great expanse of floating clouds. You mention that on one of the far-off islands, you've been meaning to create a little sanctuary walk with waterfalls and the like, but haven't had the time to.

Rubedo's been a little quiet. And finally, he asks:

"...Why are you showing me all of this?" This time, confusion tinges in his voice, as he finally forces you to meet his eyes by turning to you. "No matter how you may have felt responsible for my care, we didn't seem to be very close. I don't understand why you'd keep me here instead of sending me back to where I used to live."

Your bravado wavers. Everything he's said is reasonable, but you don't have the heart to say that you don't know where to send him, nor want him to find out that there's 'another him' walking around in the form of Albedo, and question his origins from there. It's clear from your time with Rubedo that he's sharp and will figure it out in no time.

"The truth is..." You force out, grasping for straws. "You never told me where you lived - we only met on Dragonspine as our little getaway. So I don't know who else you're acquainted with either, or who to contact. But, um... You've also lived here before, so I figured it wouldn't be too bad if I just housed you until you got your memories back, and..."

You would later learn that Rubedo has an excellent memory. And that, mortifyingly, one of the books you've haphazardly brought him based on the title, thinking it was a regular novel, was a romance book.

'When one stays over at another's home, that may imply that a type of close relationship exists between them...'

'...Was there something of that nature between us?'

Perhaps it was the way he was looking at you; intent, thoughtful, and somehow intense, but it felt like something bad may happen if you said no. Something in your gut told you that while saying yes would land you into a whole different boat of trouble, saying no means that Rubedo may discover the truth somehow with that brilliant mind of his - much sooner than you're prepared for.

"...Maybe." You look down at your hands, delaying the inevitable. Twisting this into something that may become much worse, once his past was brought to light. "It was never anything official, but there were things about each other that only we knew."

True, yet horribly false. "Despite that, we still had a bit of distance between us. But we did continue to meet on Dragonspine... and I guess I just didn't want to take advantage of your memory loss, so I've been keeping my distance."

A budding romance that never really caught on or bloomed. That seemed to be enough for Rubedo, who seemed to regard your past behavior as fairly in-line with what you just said; it explains why you were willing to house him but seemed uncomfortable at the same time. Maybe you'll twist this into a 'I think my feelings have settled, and that we should just be friends' situation in a few days, and that'll be that.

...That should've been that, but after a short period of retrospection, Rubedo seems to have decided on something. And you cant be sure if this is how he'd genuinely respond to the situation or if it was just a test.

"What... What are you doing?" You squeak, not having expected a pair of hands to cover yours, taking the knife and ingredients gently out of your grasp as Rubedo replies, standing behind you.

He's way too close!

"I just thought I'd help you cook, from now on." He answers, voice soft due to your proximity. Despite not having any body heat, you could feel his hair tickling your shoulder as he looked over it to chop up the vegetables on the cutting board for you. "I'm afraid you'll have to guide me through the steps, but I've watched you prepare dinner enough times to know how cutting these work." He pauses. "Is it not what couples do?"

Spending time together. Cooking together. And maybe...

Rubedo is not a person who picks his words without thinking, and the word couple hits you like a truck. Suddenly, your ears are burning. And it takes all the willpower in your body to hold still and not expose how flustered you've become.

Knowing Rubedo, even if this was a test - he wouldn't be the kind of boyfriend that's shy by any means.

What kind of a mess have you roped yourself into?

[tor1su]

your honor you should let albedo go , he's literally soooo cute like come on

[librarygarten]

Warriors x Isekai! Reader - Scopophobia

Wars and Isekai! Reader get in a tiff about... a few things. Feelings are hurt, insults exchanged. Word Count: 1709 Prev┃Part 2 (you are here)┃Next

Warriors finished slicing through the last of the fire breathing monsters with ease. He could hear the soft click of doors opening on either side of the room. That must have been the last of whatever those things were.

“Come on,” he orders you as he steps towards the door at the far side of the room. “Doors over here. Hopefully you won't lead us into another death trap.”

Silence.

Warriors sighs. Were you giving him the silent treatment? That was so… childish. Still, maybe he had over-stepped. Maybe he hadn’t had as great of a handle on some of his comments recently. Or maybe you were watching him right now, fascinated by what he would do next, enjoying the show.

The thought makes his blood run cold.

“Look, I don’t care if you got your feelings hurt, okay? Leading us into a combat encounter was foolish, especially given the conditions. We will talk about this later,” He has to force his teeth apart to say it, but the longer he speaks, the easier the words come. And the angrier he can feel himself becoming. “Now can we get moving?”

More silence.

He couldn’t even hear your breathing.

Wait, were you even in the room anymore?

He swore, striding back to the hallway and the room with the ankle-destroying spikes. Nothing. Back to the narrow hallway. Nothing. It was like you had completely disappeared.

Part of him was relieved. Now he didn’t need to worry about you watching him (not that you ever really did, but the thought you used to and might again sent shivers down his spine). The other part of him was cursing up a storm and panicking internally. He may not like you, but the rest of the chain were fond of your presence. They would definitely care quite a bit if he got out of this dungeon without you in tow.

He checked the moving spike room again, copying the way you had stepped forward, then back, to ensure the discs wouldn’t smash into him. The hidden room on the left was just a chest with a small key, which he pocketed. The hidden hall in the middle led to a massive locked door with an angry-looking face formed into the metal. The lock was far too big for the key he had found.

Where were you???

He returned to the dark room, then continued on to the next one he hadn't been to yet. Had you been taken by one of the monsters while he wasn’t looking? Or did you decide to ditch him and continue on yourself?

The room was lit, thank Hylia, and had a statue pushed into the far corner of the room. The door on the far side was already open. Strange. In the short time he had been in the dungeon and from the stories his brothers had told, usually moving from room to room wasn’t this easy. Each room had a trap or an enemy or a puzzle. Usually all three.

He inspected the statue. Beneath it was the shine of something metal, dark blue and yellow. Wait, he recognized that thing! It was one of your keychains, the one that creeped Time out and Legend seemed vaguely concerned you had. While he was looking at the now bent out of shape keychain, Wars also noticed the floor under it was uneven, almost like the stone tile had been pressed down under it. Was that supposed to be what the puzzle was? Move a statue onto a button to open the door? That almost seemed too easy.

The statue seemed to agree, as the moment Warriors took another step forward, it jumped up and slammed into the ground, halving the distance between them. He scrambled backwards as the statue bounced again, shaking the room with the force of the impact.

He swung at it with his sword.

The blade bounced across the surface of the statue.

Brilliant idea, Link. He thought sarcastically. Stab the stone statue. That’ll work.

Maybe he could go back? But that didn’t seem possible. The path behind him was nothing but dead ends and locked doors. The only way forward was, well, forward. Speaking of, that door was still open. Maybe he could just leave? The doorway seemed low enough the statue wouldn’t be able to get through. He backed away from the statue, staying as far away from the thing as possible as it bounced towards him. He pressed against the wall, moving clockwise around the room, leading the statue in a circle as it took one jump towards him, then another towards his new location. When he reached the door, he stepped through backwards, keeping his eyes on the moving stone. It stopped jumping the second he was over the threshold. Somehow, the stone face looked more… relaxed somehow. Like it was sleeping.

Warriors had just enough time to mentally congratulate himself before he tripped and fell backwards onto what must have been the stairs up to the next level. The back of his head hit the corner of a stair with a loud CRACK. From his new position, prone on the stairs, he could see up the staircase. And who should be sitting on the top step but you, wrapping bandages around a few of your fingers.

“Wha-” Warriors gasps accusingly, “What are you doing here?” You glance down at him. You looked tired, the area around your eyes pink and puffy, but you weren’t crying. Warriors thinks if he had arrived a few minutes earlier, maybe you would have been.

“Hey,” you greet him, then tuck the rest of the bandages back into your pocket.

“Did you seriously leave me back there? I went back through this whole bloody dungeon looking for you!” He stands up, but he’s still several steps below you. His whole face is flushed red with anger.

“Yep, figured if I had no reason to be here, I might as well get out of your way, seeing as you know sooo much about dungeons,” you roll your eyes. Warriors sputters for a moment before finding his words.

“You can’t just leave someone behind like that,” he’s yelling. He meant to sound more controlled, more like a captain, but he couldn’t. He’s yelling and the whole dungeon can probably hear him. “You reckless, thoughtless, little… ugh!!!”

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t appreciate it.

“Don’t you have anything to say!? This isn’t some game where you can go prancing through the world like it doesn’t matter. You might not care, but we can get hurt!”

That gets you to talk.

“Not care? Me, not care,” you stand up, voice raising as you do, “I have tried. I have tried so, so hard to be understanding. To give you space. But you’re probably the biggest jerk I’ve met since landing in Hyrule. I get that you have trauma or whatever, and having someone around from another world who watched everyone’s adventures is probably really hard for you, but you don’t get to treat me horribly just because you think I’ll be like Cia!”

“Oh, don’t pretend to know everything about me,” he hisses.

“Obviously I don’t!” you throw up your hands, “You barely talk to me at camp, and even now that we’re trapped in a dungeon, you’ve done nothing but be passive aggressive, if not downright insulting!”

You stop shouting, your chest heaving. Shoot, were you going to cry again? You soooo did not want to start crying in front of Warriors of all people. You take a breath, trying to calm yourself.

“You’re angry. I get that. Someone in a vaguely similar position to me hurt you badly. I get that. It’s weird to have a person know so much about you and almost nothing about them. I get that. But I’m not Cia, I don’t view you as a game, and I am trying my best not to be a burden to the group.” You clench your fists at your sides, your nails making crescent moon-shaped indents in your palms. “I would have gotten out of your hair sooner if the stupid door wasn’t locked.”

You slam your fist into the door behind you. Warriors hadn’t even noticed it was there before now. But sure enough, there was a locked door with a small keyhole right at the top of the stairs.

He felt the key in his pocket, the shape of the metal against his hand. He should tell you he has the key, right? That he had gone to look for you and found it in another one of those hidden rooms. Instead, he decided to run his mouth some more.

“Oh, please. You just love being here. You were practically drooling over getting to meet that Zora from Wild’s era in person. Not to mention how casual you were explaining that Time dies in some timelines,” he grimaces at the memories. You were always so smiley, so excited, walking around with stars in your eyes at everyone and everything. It was downright creepy.

“First of all, Sidon is hot, don’t at me for that,” you place a hand on your hip defiantly. “Secondly, you think I like being in Hyrule? The place has its charms, sure, but it also has twelve feet tall unholy amalgamations of a zebra, a man, and a lion, which for some reason can shoot fire out of their mouths. Not to mention you can’t go a few years without some evil mage or king getting resurrected.”

“What?” the admission catches Warriors off-guard, “I thought…”

“You assumed,” you interrupt him, jabbing an accusing finger at his chest. “You decided how you wanted to see me–who you wanted to see me as–and that was enough for you to hate me.”

Warriors knew you were right. He knew you were right and he hated it. He was acting irrationally. Emotionally. It was causing a breakdown in teamwork that they couldn’t afford. Besides, if it came down to it, he’s not sure the other Links would take his side between the two of you. He bit the inside of his cheek, thinking.

Then he pulled the key out of his pocket, stepped around you to unlock the door, and left.

Taglist: @starlightnova

[wishyoudwell]

did this as a test a while ago, too tired to fix it + old-ish art for the tr au by zarvasace

[diz-eaze]

omg another yandere albedo lover…. i could cry of happiness

pls pls what about being exes w albedo (modern/roomie w scara au or normal) but ofc he’s obsessed with you and is doing whatever he can to get you back

; yandere themes, modern au, not proofread, this strayed a bit from what you asked anon, but he's still an obsessive ex at the end of the day <3.

when the illustrious prodigy albedo gets into a relationship, words spread through the grapevine in the form of hushed gossip. knowledge and phrases are exchanged in the campus halls, hands hovering over their mouths as if sharing something forbidden. the college forums are filled with students inquiring about his whereabouts, waiting for the confirmation that he is indeed off the market.

the campus is set ablaze with the hottest gossip of the year, even teachers are perking their ears for any new information scoured by the investigative ones. it's as if the lectures are put on-hold, everyone sucking in their breaths with tense shoulders - waiting for anything to come through.

an hour later, an anonymous user uploads a photo to the college's forum site. the photo taker is hiding behind a concrete wall, and the quality could definitely be better but it's enough for everyone to audibly gasp over it.

the photo depicts albedo holding hands with (y/n), a humanities major. they're behind a building on campus, probably hiding from probing eyes. yet the attempt is futile, considering they got caught on camera in the end. it's all the confirmation they needed.

for the following months, their relationship was the only thing everyone could talk about.

it seemed outlandish; the idea of albedo, stoic and emotionless in the eyes of the general public, to be in a relationship with a humanities major, no less. whenever albedo walks through the halls, he's often slapped on the back with a congratulations from men he doesn't even bother remembering the faces of. each professor he talks to even shakes his hand in acknowledgement.

a professor whom he even considered to be his aunt, alice, gave him gifts (extra allowance and a box of condoms) when she saw him during her free period. when his eyes widened at the outrageous quantity of condoms, his aunt only giggled and waved him off.

"i do hope you introduce them to us in the next hexenzirkel meeting, I'm sure your aunt barbie would simply adore them!" as she walks away from him, albedo catches glimpses of her wistful mumbling; something about him already growing up and being lovesick.

albedo frowns, his grip tightens, and the force exerted causes the thin cardboard box to slightly crumble. was it really so far-fetched for someone like him to fall in love?

his reputation as a young genius seemed to have painted an image of a ruthless and loveless man in everyone's point of view. sure, he always prioritized his research before any party thrown and he always aimed to pass his work as early as possible... but that's just how he is.

being a biochemistry major doesn't forbid him from finding love.

he sighs and fishes his phone out of his lab coat's pocket.

albebe: i miss you already.

if nothing else, albedo is comforted by the thought that only you know the true him that's hidden beneath several layers of cool nonchalance. no one else. not even klee, aunt alice or his mother rhinedottir.

his phone gives a ping, indicating you replied to him.

(Y/N) <3: i'm at the campus library, saved a seat for you ! 💖

the heart emoji causes his heart to lurch.

and when albedo closes his eyes, he imagines you and him in a distant future.

people expected albedo's relationship with you to last until the end of life itself. it was clear that what you had with him was no fling - it was as serious it can be. people have even started dubbing you two as the college lovebirds behind your backs.

yet surprisingly, it's you who ended things with him, and no one knows why.

you broke things off two months before your first-year anniversary with him. haypasia heard it from sethos, who heard it from wanderer, who heard it from faruzan, who heard it from kaveh, who heard it from sucrose, who heard it from timaeus, who heard it from-

well... point is, everyone has heard it, one way or another. the primary source is now lost to the sea of common knowledge. the halls buzz with speculations for the first few days, but just like any other hot topic, it eventually burns out into mere embers as time progresses.

besides, it seems like the two of you are doing fine on your own; there is no sign of heartbreak to be found in either face. albedo still submits his work alarmingly early, his lab work is still top notch, and his life is... good. you're still the chosen representative to speak at college events, you always come out on top of debates as usual, and your giant circle of friends still keeps expanding.

your relationship with each other is brushed off as something not meant to be. a simple blunder. it's not like relationships in college are a guarantee that one will marry that person. there's still plenty of opportunities to meet other people in the future.

with thesis season around the corner, the topic of you and albedo is put on a backburner.

but humans are not omniscient; they don't know the thoughts that plague albedo's mind, the sheer longing his body holds for you. of how his hands shake from how long it's been since he last held yours.

they don't know the way albedo looks on in the audience during his research symposiums, looking for a hint of you; they don't know that the absence of you leaves a burning hole in his chest.

in hindsight, they know nothing.

unknown: i miss you.

this is the third unknown number that texted you this week alone, fifty-sixth overall. and it doesn't need critical thinking to deduce who's behind these texts. with a heavy sigh, your fingers glide across your phone's keyboard as you curtly reply to him.

(y/n): leave me alone, albedo.

you don't bother with what his response would be, because you've already blocked the number. but you know there'll be another text in a couple of days, and a few more after that. it's routine at this point, yet you don't have the strength to confront him about it in real life. seeing him in person would just mean that you waltzed right into the palm of his awaiting hand.

still, you want it all to stop.

you bite your lip in frustration, staring up at your ceiling dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars, all of which were placed by albedo himself. the memory of it makes you frown.

at one point in time, you truly did love albedo.

you had met him through your mutual friends, sucrose and timaeus, and things kicked off from there. falling in love with him was easy, despite your initial withdrawal due to his stoic and clinical way of speaking. but through shared conversations, you find that there was so much more to him than that.

but feelings are fickle, and when you find out his phone's lock screen was a photo of you sleeping that you don't remember taking, the red alarm starts blaring inside your head. to other people, it's easy to brush the photo off as a lapse in memory, but you know yourself.

and you know that you've never invited albedo into your room until six months into your relationship, the same day when he decorated your ceiling with the glow-in-the-dark star stickers he got from klee. yet the angle taken from his phone's lock screen allowed you to see a good portion of your ceiling.

it didn't have any glow-in-the-dark stars.

and the angle made it apparent that the photo taker must have been hiding beneath your bed, just waiting for the opportune time until you fell asleep.

the recollection causes shivers to rake through your body, and you're left hugging your pillow in hopes that your new door lock is enough to keep him out of your dorm.

you squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to fall into slumber.

life will be better tomorrow.

your chest falls and rises in a gentle rhythm, and your dorm falls into silence. sleep has enveloped you thirty minutes ago.

from beneath your bed, a gentle thump breaks the tranquility. the sound of elbows scraping against the wooden floor is made apparent as a figure crawls out, not much different from the monsters told in children's fairytales.

albedo brushes strands of his messy hair away from his face. he moves to stand up and he takes out his phone, finger hovering over the camera app. his slip-up has caused him to lose you, and he berates himself every day for being too careless.

had he been more cautious, then he'd still be holding you between his arms right this moment.

he sighs, steadying his phone to take pictures of you once more. the flash is off, and his phone is set to silent to avoid waking you up.

still, a genius like him has never retreated to defeat when faced with adversities. you may be a humanities major, but albedo's intellect allows him to quickly learn and understand concepts outside of his field.

in all due time, he comforts himself.

in all due time, he'll have you once again.

the unknown numbers are only a speck of what he's willing to do to get you back.

when he finishes his photoshoot, albedo leans down to give you a forehead kiss, bidding you sweet dreams as farewell.

[karmamira]

Some randomized relationship headcanons for the wife rotation:

Characters: (in this order –>) Flins, Wanderer, Kunikuzushi, Albedo, Venti & Dahlia, Kazuha, Xiao, Columbina, Layla, Kokomi, Arlecchino, Freminet, Durin x GN!Reader

Warnings: crack (cause I can't take writing headcanons seriously), meowing/purring, nothing explicit but there's mentions of sexual intercourse (Kunikuzushi, Albedo, Venti & Dahlia), Polyamorous relationships (Venti & Dahlia), Freminet's & Durin's parts can be interpreted as platonic or romantic.

Flins:

You guys are already married. You're just not aware of it yet.

Does some weird fae courting shit that you don't understand the meaning of. (He knows damn well that you don't btw, but you need to understand that he has to have that cookie.)

Gives you a lot jewelry that you naively accept without thinking much of it, which is an incredibly dumb move when dealing with someone of his kind; You don't take nor give anything to a fae, as everything can be used to steal your soul, even your name.

Of course, he won't do that (unless...) but just pointing out how stupid this is.

If you have horns he will definitly hang a few necklaces/bracelets on them.

He's not claiming you or anything! (Liar) but other men will see the everchanging set of jewelry on your head and decide you're too expensive for them.

Can't purr, but the sound of flickering flames is close enough I guess.

Wanderer:

Doesn't. Just not.

Relationships, I mean.

You two live in the same house, share the same bed, and every single soul who knows you swears that you have something going on but you deny it everytime.

Wanderer mostly cause he hates everyone, including himself.

He is convinced he doesn't deserve you, but as long as your relationship doesn't have a label he technically doesn't have you. (He's so delulu lmao)

You never asked any questions because you're just glad this soping wet cat of a man is letting you exist in his vicinity.

Also because you're afraid if you do as much as mention it he will go back to the hissing at you the moment you look his way faze.

I just know Nahida was the one playing matchmaker during your early days. Y'know, giving you joint assignments, and sending you to long "research trips" where you end up having to share too much personal space.

Also, he purrs. How you ask? He just does. Teyvat has its own rules. I do not make them.

Kabukimono:

Yes, he and Wanderer are two different people to me.

Kabukimono always liked you, he just didn't realize what where his feelings at first.

That is, until you addmitted to seeing him as an adorable little brother figure, and he suddenly felt dead inside.

Which doesn't make sense! You called him adorable, didn't you? He should be happy!

He sulks about it for so long that Niwa takes pity on him and gives him... tips on how to woe you.

He may or may not have teached him some stuff that he shouldn't have (💀)

I think you know how things go from here on...

No, I will not elaborate.

Actually, I'll give you something: Sex with him is so wholesome because he wasn't raised with human standards and doesn't see it the way most people do. Body parts are body parts, they're all the same to him and he doesn't understand why you feel so embarrassing about some of them.

Since Kabu's a puppet I like to headcanon that he doesn't really feel or get anything out of sex which is another reason why it's so wholesome. He helps you get off because it makes you happy and if you're happy then he's happy.

Just like Wanderer, Kabukimono can purr, he just hasn't discovered how to do it. Yet.

Albedo:

Another fucker who doesn't put a label on your relationship.

Except, he genuinely thought you already knew you are dating.

You had sex together once and he was like "that means we're together, right?" (Vro does not touch enough grass to know hooking up is a thing </3)

It didn't help that you kept coming back for more lmao.

Listen, he cleaned you up and made you food and kept asking you "Are you alright?" over and over again during the whole process. Your ex didn't take care of you that way. You can't just not come back.

It's not until that time he introduced you as his partner to Sucrose that you realized the miscommunication.

You wait until she leaves and then you're like "??? I thought we were fuck buddies."

He's low-key hurt, but when you tell him that you don't go for someone else for these stuff even when he's busy because other people don't make you feel as good he jumps at the opportunity to make shit official.

"A date."

"A date?"

"Going out on dates is an essential part of a relationship, yes? How about tomorrow?"

Cannot purr. Gold had the opportunity to do something great for the world and she refused </3

Venti & Dahlia:

DRINKING BUDDIES.

I think I'll go with deity!reader for this one because I really like the idea of Dahlia being this little guy who somehow got sandwiched by two very revered/feared divine entities only to find out they are actually some silly goofs.

Also the yummy yummy angst potential of religious guilt.

I just know he sits a lot in the cuck chair LMAO.

Something something not wanting to taint you with his mortal hands something something it's already scarligious enough that he gets to watch.

It takes you too long to actually coax him into actually joining instead of just sitting in the corner looking constipated.

Cries literal tears from the guilt, but it feels too good for him to deny it <3

Pillow princess FRFR.

Not that he doesn't like to top or anything, but his stamina is quiet... lacking compared to you and Venti.

He gets so embarrassed about it too (😭)

And speaking of Venti.

He adores it when you guys help trim his feathers. Or just touch them in general.

Pats, rubs, brushes; he doesn't discriminate!

Also you and Venti were probably already dating before adding Lia into the mix. The conversation goes something like this:

"So, a pink haired twink. Barbatos, are we for real right now?"

"He's your type...?"

"... Fair."

Remember; he is the wind itself, which means he probably can mimic any noise, so technically he can purr too. On comand even!

I don't think Dahlia can purr. You probably can tho!

Kazuha:

HEAR ME OUT GUYS! Inazuman noble reader who ran away from their abusive household and their faithful samurai Kazuha who swore himself a blade to them.

Basically the japanese version of the prince/princess x knight trope.

It starts as a two sided admiration; you for his kindness and strength in battle, and him for your wits and ability to manipulate people easily to your whims.

He could've been very well swayed by your honeyed words to serve you, and yet he wouldn't mind if that was the case— (fucking simp.)

That's how he realizes he's in love with you.

He starts writing poetry for you, but here's the thing, he always did write words of admiration and respect for you, but this time you couldn't shake the feeling that the tone of these newer pieces is bit... different.

Despite realizing that he has not so platonic feelings for you, he still treats you the same, if only out of respect and admiration.

Which only makes it harder to decipher what those verses mean.

Essentially, you're just verbally edging each other for like four to five seasons before the long awaited kissing scene.

Never mind, actually Kazuha's the only one getting edged here. You're busy playing detective.

Sadly cannot purr, but will definitly meow if you ask.

Xiao:

Another sad wet cat of a man that you probably had to wait centuries for him to finally open up to you.

You mastered the art of cooking almond tofu just to bribe this mofo into hanging out with you too.

But it's worth it, I swear!

Because now, you get to watch him napping, His cheek cutely squeeshed against the pillows (or your titties, no matter how small or big) and his adorably flustered face when he wakes up and first thing he sees is you staring at him <3

Adepti don't sleep my ass.

Very weird about physical contact. He doesn't know what he's supposed to touch and what he's not allowed to. Can he hold your hand? You did that multiple times before, but is he allowed to initiate it?

You literally sleep on the same bed, but domestic abuse/marital rape is thing, y'know. He can never too careful.

Loves, loves when you scratch his wings. It will take him another century to show them to you, let alone letting you lay your grabby little fingers on them but with some convincing...

They're high-key sensitive af, so he always burries his face in a pillow when you're having your fun.

If you heard anything. No, you didn't, or else you're never seeing them again.

No purring for this one, sadly. Do you think chirping can make up for it?

Columbina:

Hand holding!!!

She seems so dainty, but when she grabbed your hand for the first time, she almost crushed your hand in her grip.

The kuuhenki adore you and like to shower you with small little trinkets every now and then. (Most of which are stuff they took to Columbina and she decided that you might like to have them.)

All kinds of animals flock to you. A bird literally flow straight to your palm once and it was the best feeling ever!

Your dates consist of you bringing a new dish every week or so to try coaxing her out of her man(woman?)cave and take walk out with you.

Basically, you're making her touch grass. (💀)

She tells you that she will take you to the moon with her. Your clueless ass thinks that's just her way of flirting.

You asked her to meow once. She decided that she likes it and started randomly doing it when speaking with other people. (You have created a monster)

Is this what they call facing the consequences of one's actions?

Layla:

Eepi elf girlfriend go brrr.

Stay at home comfy couche dates are the go to way of spending time together!

Since she sleeps mid writing a lot, some sentences ends up being barely legible. You always rewrite those papers for her.

Physical contact!

Doesn't matter what type; holding hands, linking pinkis, hugs of any form, whatever you give she will return.

She especially likes it when you cuddle on the couche <3 and you feel so loving and warm and safe and and....

....She fell asleep.

This position is bad for her back. Maybe you should carry her to bed?

Before you could reach a conclusion, she's suddenly up again!

...It's other Layla on her way to continue, well Layla's work.

No, you don't flirt with other Layla. It feels like cheating, even if they're technically the same person.

You do have cute cooking "dates" from time to time tho!

Can she purr? I'm afraid I do not have enough lore of her yet, so this question will stay unanswered for the unforeseeable future.

Is she willing to meow? Yes. But it's like, the most dead inside meow you've ever heard in your life. So, not as cute as you thought it would be.

Kokomi:

Fish lady!

She has a very specific scent to her, most people can't smell it but if you have a particularly strong nose; I'm praying for you cause that fish stank is strong.

Kokomi baths regularly tho! I guess it's just something that has to do with her bloodline...

Also she tops. Trust me on this one chat, I know what I'm saying.

Something about her being a responsible leader raking care of her subject...

She's married to her work as much as she is married to you, so your "dates" mostly consist of you visiting her workplace with a cup of tea and a few sweets to have a chat while she works.

If she's in a good enough mood she'll let you sit on her lap!

But only if there's no one else around. She has a picture to uphold.

I think you and Gorou team up on Kokomi every once in a while to make her take a rest.

...No, I... I don't think fish can purr.

Arlecchino:

DADDY—

Low-key one of the healthiest relationships on this list (💀)

She seems so intimidating at first but is actually such a gentle lover <3

Her favorite activity is dressing you up like a doll!

I just know your closet is filled with sets of outfits like Ciel's from Black Butler.

She also invites you to Sandrone's tea parties just to have The Marionette's and The Fair Lady's opinion on your slay fit. (She's not dead, shut—)

Everyone on that table creeps you the fuck out, except for maybe the captain and la signora cause they're the only semi-normal people there.

You don't do dates and are usually introduced as an ally of hers to her less pleasent colleagues.

It's for your own safety. Which you know and understand; you don't want to fall in dottore's grasp.

What you do, however, is shopping sprees that are disguised as acts of diplomacy from her end.

The children at the House of the Hearth love you. They always wait for your next visit! (Mostly because you bring gifts to them lmfao)

At some point, they started calling you mother— I don't care what gender you are. To them you will always be mother.

No, just no. She cannot purr and definitely won't meow. Don't try asking her, don't even think of asking her. The consequences are not worth it.

Freminet:

Shy diver boy!

I think he'll be so fun to tease <3 like he's so reactive to the smallest of compliments, let alone touches.

I think if you are patient enough, he will eventually open up and start rambling non-stop about his hyperfixations.

Will definitly teach you a thing or two if you ask! But I don't think you'll even need to because he'll probably grab your hands and try to show you how to do this or that mid-rumble without realizing what he's doing.

Gets so flustered when you point it out and has to go cool down a bit. (😭)

Will teach you how to swim if you can't, but fifty percent of your future hang outs/dates will consist of him taking you diving to show you this cool place he found.

I mean, you can always opt out but he's so excited it'll eat at you for the rest of your life if you accidentally crushed that smile by doing so </3

Definitely can't purr. Will meow if you ask him, but he'll be too embarrassed you won't see him for a whole week after. (😔)

Durin:

DURIN DURIN DURIN—

Sorry ma bad.

Can't take a compliment. (This is cannon, you cannot fight me)

Can take headpats tho!

Just... try to not injure your hand with the pointy pointy horns on his head.

Seriously, he'll feel so bad if you do, and the headpat won't feel as fulfilling anymore :(

Very good boy <3 Always eager to please! So make sure to show your appreciation for him to get him used to those compliments and keep that spark in his eyes!

Can and will purr.

He gives weird kid who likes to meow vibes, so there's that too I guess.

This is just for fun! So feel free to add your bits and pieces<3

[librarygarten]

Warriors x Isekai! Reader - Scopophobia

Wars has some complicated feelings about Isekai! Reader Word Count: 1691 Part 1 (you are here)┃Next

Warriors hated you. There, he said it. He hated you. He hated the way you talked. He hated the way you laughed. He hated the way you jingled everywhere you walked because of all the keychains you wore on your belt. He hated how excited you seemed every time the group came across a location you knew. He hated how you knew people before even meeting them. He hated that you knew him. He hated that every single traumatic event in all of their damn lives was nothing more than entertainment for you.

Sure, he knew you didn’t view them as playthings. You were kind to them. You helped Time wrangle the more chaotic of the group. You chatted with Wild as he cooked. You tended to wounds that Hyrule couldn’t. You seemed to genuinely love the worlds you were exploring and the people in them. 

And he hated you all the same.

Your presence left a bitter taste in his mouth. You never acted like… her. You WEREN’T her. But every time he looked at you, all he could think of was Cia. You watched their adventures from somewhere outside of their own times. Heck, you even called them games. You liked watching. Even if you hadn’t realized they were real. Even if the games were played by millions of people in your world. Even if you were here now, treating them like people, it didn’t change that he hated you.

He knew he was being foolish and unfair. And he hated you.

Which made the present situation so, so much worse.

“S-sorry,” you stutter, backing away from Warriors and pressing your side into the dungeon wall a few feet away. The twisting hallways in this place were downright claustrophobic, with hardly enough room for one person to walk down. But he refused to have you behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck raised any time you looked at him. But you going in front of him also wasn’t an option–you weren’t combat trained. You had never even seen a sword in person before you had come through that portal. Any enemies would immediately over-power you, which would leave Warriors not only fighting alone, but also dragging your dead weight around. So he made you walk next to him, even if your arms kept accidentally brushing.

He only hummed in response to your apology, eyes narrowing to scan the hallway ahead. At least, he pretended to. His jaw muscles twitched from how long he had tensed them, a valiant although painful attempt to not say something he would regret. He would never, ever, in a million eras, have chosen you as a traveling partner. But the dungeon floor the level above had other ideas, and had dropped the two of you down into these catacombs. Alone. It couldn’t have been Time, or Wild. Heck, Warriors would even have been happy if he fell down here with Legend of all people. But no, he was stuck with you.

The hallway ahead opened up into a rather large square room. Before he could take another step, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Your hand. His whole body went tense, hand flying to grip the hilt of his sheathed sword without thinking. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything about it.

“Hold on,” you stepped in front of him, into the room, then quickly stepped back. Just as he was about to ask what in Hylia’s name you were doing and why that excused touching his shoulder, two spiked objects slid across the floor, slamming together right where you had stepped out.

“How did you–?” He cut himself off. Of course you knew. You knew everything.

“Oh, this is a pretty common dungeon trap,” you explained with a smile, trying to ignore his comment and stepping forward into the room as the spikes slid back to the corners. “You just need to bait them, then afterwards they move slower. You can step between them as they move apart.”

Warriors followed you into the room, but he still jumped over the area the spikes had collided. Just thinking about the spiked metal slamming into his ankles made his legs hurt.

“That’s it? Just a room full of moving spiked discs?” His eyes swept across the room. It had spiked rings in every corner, meaning stepping towards any of the walls would probably send those cursed things flying straight towards him.

Warriors decided he hated dungeons, maybe even hated them as much as he hated you.

“Normally there’s a bit more to it than that,” you furrow your eyebrows, scanning the room again. It looked like a dead end. But then why were the spikes guarding the walls? Unless…

You step next to one of the empty walls, then jump back before the spikes sever your achilles tendon. When they begin to retract, you place your hand on the wall. Your fingers pass through, as if the stone weren’t even there. You turn around, beaming at Warriors.

“Hidden door,” you explain, as if it wasn’t obvious already. You step away from the wall as the spikes click into place at their respective corners. “Each wall probably has one. That’s what the spikes are for.”

“Great, an underground maze we can’t even see,” Warriors mutters.

“I’m not sure about the layout of this dungeon, but usually stairs are on the sides, I think? The middle path would probably lead to a boss room or something,” you say, pointing to each wall as you speak. Warriors eye twitched. Why were you so… calm about this? Why were you treating this death trap like a fun puzzle to do on a Sunday afternoon? “I think right might be better, but left could also work. What do you think?”

“Right it is then,” he gritted his teeth. Of course you were calm, you’ve done this before. Well, watched people do this before. Controlled people into doing this before. The moment there was any real fighting, it would probably fall to him. Best to avoid any potential “boss” rooms.

The hall behind the right wall was wider than the first, and let out into another large room. This one, at least, had no moving spike wheels. Unfortunately, it also had absolutely no lighting. Double unfortunately, Warriors heard the unmistakable click of the door closing and locking behind you. He swore, hand once again flying to the hilt of his sword. 

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, “There’s probably only three, maybe five enemies in this room. Once they’re all dead, the doors will open again. There’s probably a door across the room.

“And how exactly do you plan on fighting monsters we can’t see?” Warriors tone is more accusatory than he intended, but in all fairness, it was your idea to go right. For all he knew, you did this on purpose, some sick way of getting to see some action up close. Not that either of you could see anything, but that was besides the point.

Before you can answer, a ball of fire shoots towards him.

“Look out!” you scream, pulling him out of the way. He snatches his arm out of your grasp like that’s the thing that burns.

“What’s in here?” he asks, and you hear the unmistakable sshink of a sword being drawn.

“The enemies breathe fire or something. That’s how we tell where they are,” you rub your elbow, where some of the flame had grazed you. Probably not serious, but it would need tending to later. You move to unsheathe your own sword, holding the heavy thing with both hands.

You still haven’t gotten used to the weight.

Whatever was in the dark made a noise, the inside of its mouth glowing with fire as it prepared to send another fireball hurtling directly for your face. Warriors slashes at it without hesitation, the fire dying out with the creature.

Before you can catch your breath from the shock, before Warriors can stand back up from where he had crouched after his swing, another one of the creatures makes itself known. You yelp, smacking the area around the glowing mouth with your sword, at what must be the thing’s face. The cut is crooked, and the creature is able to launch the fire at Warriors.

“Watch it!” he yells, rolling out of the way and slashing at the creature himself.

“Sorry,” you grimace, trying to re-adjust the sword in your grip.

“If you can’t fight properly, why are you even here?” Warriors grumbles.

“What?” your eyes widen. You can’t see in the dark, but you can guess what face he’s making. The same face he makes whenever he needs to talk to you, the face he was making in the hall earlier. Somewhere between disgust and annoyance, with perhaps a dash of fear thrown in. He doesn’t say anything else, and you hear his footsteps echo across the stone floor as he runs towards the last of the fire creatures. 

You sheathe your sword. You don’t have the muscle memory to find the scabbard right away, and the darkness makes it impossible to see what you’re doing. You manage to nick your fingers before you finally succeed in putting your sword away, and by the time you do, you realize your cheeks are wet.

Screw that.

No, screw Warriors.

It’s not fair, how he’s been treating you. Not right now. Not today. Not for the past few months. You expected some big feelings when you explained video games to the chain, but they had mostly gotten over it. Even Legend, the grump, had come around eventually. But Warriors seemed to despise you, and you had had enough of his comments and looks. You had had enough of him bossing you around, then getting upset at any mistakes you made. You were tired of him ignoring every contribution you tried to make to the group. You march out of the room, through the now open door, not bothering to say anything to him through the darkness. He wanted you gone? Fine. You’d let him find his own way out of the dungeon.

[skippingstonez]

Hi Skippy!

I'm just dropping in again to say how awesome those Four headcanons were, I was literally nodding alone and kicking my feet while reading them omg. 10000000/10 made me wish Four was real so I can cuddle him like a teddy bear. You also mentioned being open to writing color-specific heat/rut headcanons and I'm honestly so curious to see your take on that <33

Hi Fyre! @portraitofalinkonfyre I would love to! I hope you're hungry cause I think you'll enjoy these ones <3

Red:

All he wants is to show you how much he loves and adores you. So he is going to do whatever he can to take care of you.

As long as you feel good he's happy to do whatever you ask of him.

He's the shyest of the colors but ruts are when he's a bit more willing to try out new things if that's what you want

Breeding kink. They all have it to an extent but Red is DETERMINED to see you pregnant by the time it's over.

Cute aggression. He's the one that's just going to come tackle you and start full on biting your arm cause he just can't believe how cute and wonderful you are before lovingly throwing you in the room to prove his point.

Hes the best cuddler of the 4 so though he likely won't join in on any of the others time with you, he will immediately jump in during aftercare to come hold you and tell you what a great job you did.

Green:

Body worship. He's gonna convince you that you are above the goddess Hylia herself by the time he's done.

There is not a single place where his mouth has not been or is willing to go.

Big into love marks. Obsessed with the fact that he gets to be the only one to mark your flawless, perfect skin.

Is the one to insist on you taking breaks. You're well being comes first and he will force the issue if he has too.

This man was PISSED when he found out Blue and Vio had started sharing you on occasion. What do you mean that was an option!? He's down for it if it means more time with you.

But ONLY if you have taken an extra break before hand.

Blue:

I hope everyone in a 3 mile radius has good earplugs cause this man is vocal.

Whether it's you and/or him one or both of you with have lost your voice by the end and it's surprisingly going to be him first.

He's the only one of the 4 that actually truly likes receiving oral. (He thinks the others are insane for only giving)

Largely because he's really big on eye contact. It's almost like he can't finish unless he can clearly see your eyes. And it's even better if they are a bit watery.

He's already the roughest out of everyone but even more so when in a rut. Unlike Vio, he is just gonna manhandle you till he has you in just the way he wants.

He is the first to throw hands if he even suspects any of them are pushing you too far. (Especially Vio) Completely shatters if he thinks he was the one to go too far.

Refuses to leave your side until the others literally drag him away. He just needs to know you're okay and he can't do that if he can't see you.

(It's the reason him and Vio started sharing actually. He refused to leave and Vio decided to just go with it and let Blue stay so long as he made himself useful)

Vio:

Ohhhhh this man takes his time. Your time with him often take the longest because

He is the biggest tease

For him it's about the build up rather than the release so he is going to drag things out for as long as he possibly can.

Once he snaps though you better have something to hold on to cause he goes a bit feral.

He is going to boss you around. Tells you every filthy thing he is going to do and explains exactly how he needs you to be/do in order to do it and watches carefully to make sure you are doing it right.

Vio is gonna be the one most open to trying new things. He treats it like research by testing out your reactions to things. (Him and Blue get into really heated arguments after trying something you didn't like that much)

He is the best at aftercare though. He can anticipate your needs the quickest out of anyone and calls for red or blue to come keep an eye on you while he and/or green go grab towels, run a bath or get you water and snacks.