Hihi I absolutely adore all your work, was wondering if thereâs any shot you would write something for the executioner either full on vile or super fluffy I just want anything with it đ„ș
Ladies, wyd if this man pull up and ask to draw you nude.
The Executorâs a peculiar man, in a way thatâs almost scary. He rarely speaks, and when he does, itâs never about himself.
For as long as you had been staying at the Shrouded Hold, along with other hospitable Night Farers, all that you could see through him was, he had a burning passion for art and a never-ending adoration for the Erdtree.
Sometimes, it made you wonder if he was a Crucible Knight in his past life, or before he arrived here. Judging from the designs of his armour, the way he fought, and mumbled about the holy tree as if heâs bound to it his whole life.
You had no troubles with him. You understood well enough that men who bear that kind of artistry are zealots of their own solitude. Still, you canât help but wonder if he remembers how to care for anything else at all. The others speak of people lost to madness, meals shared in distant lands, homes destroyed and rebuilt in memory alone. While he lingered apart in the gardenâs withered shadows, too busy with his canvas.
Nevertheless, heâs anything but evil. He might be stoic to you, cold even, but it's difficult to ignore that he had a kind heart. The kind of beating heart shared by two people in one body, that never failed to give you the help you needed on tough expeditions.
As a newly introduced face to the party, you sure were thankful for him. Itâs just that heâs a bit...eerie in some moments. Like that one time when you accidentally went through his old cabinet and found yellowed scraps of parchment covered in careful sketches.
Hands reaching outward, legs mid-step, eyes drawn with surprising gentleness. They werenât grotesque, just oddly intimate, as though heâd studied every line and curve to remember them exactly. You couldnât help but wonder if, for all his solemn devotion to the Erdtree, he still held some quiet respect for the humans who once filled these lands with life.
Until the paintings began to take on a familiarity you couldnât ignore. At first, they were harmless enough, just studies of hands in repose, faces grimacing in quiet thought. But then you found one drawn in hurried, heavy strokes of a woman sleeping soundly on her bed.
Her hair tumbled across the pillow, her expression soft with unguarded peace. She bore your features in ways you couldnât quite explain. The shape of the nose, the curve of the cheek, something unmistakably yours captured in hurried charcoal.
You stopped being curious when you reached the last one.
Even with only a quick glance, you understood what it showed. It was the same woman, drawn with careful, almost reverent precision. She was completely naked, her body captured in smooth, gentle lines that revealed every curve without shame.
She lay entangled with an unfinished man, all broad armored shape and half-formed detail that suggested a faceless knight. The artist hadnât given him features at all, pouring all the attention instead into her. The scene left your mouth dry as you slipped the parchment back into the pile, the silence of the room getting louder and more suffocating.
The next day, he approached you with a grave calm that made the words even stranger.
He asked if you would help him improve his understanding of human anatomy. There was no hesitation in his voice, no hint of unease, as if it were a scholarâs polite request rather than anything unsettling. He stood there in his worn armor with steady eyes covered by the golden helm, waiting for an answer.
You could almost pretend it was innocent, but the memory of those sketches burned in your mind. The careful lines capturing someone asleep in vulnerable peace. The naked figure twined around a half-drawn knight. Even now, he seemed completely unaware of how close those images had felt. Or perhaps he knew exactly what he was asking, and simply didnât care.
But perhaps it only made sense. He had been wandering these lands with a mind frayed by amnesia, lost to traumas or griefs. Maybe studying the human form would help him recover something of himself, or someone he once held dear in the world before it all fell.
You didnât think badly of him for asking. There was no suspicion in you, just a gentle uncertainty. When you finally nodded, it was shy and a little hesitant, but sincere. He accepted your answer without a word of thanks, only a quiet, serious nod, as though youâd offered something truly valuable without even realizing it.
He settled you onto a plain wooden chair, the old thing creaking under your weight while he laid out his charcoals and brushes with careful precision. His movements were quiet, methodical, and almost ritualistic. You sat still, trying your best to follow every instruction he gave.
When he asked you to tilt your head, you turned slowly, feeling the cool air on your neck. When he gestured for your arm, you lifted it obediently, fingers splayed so he could trace their lines with his gaze. You shifted your legs at his word, folding and stretching them so he could watch how the joints moved beneath your clothes.
He barely spoke except to direct as you watched him work, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration, how the charcoal moved across parchment with quick, sure strokes. It felt strangely intimate, though you told yourself it was just study and art. You wanted to help, after all. Maybe this was how he'd find whatever he was searching for in the dark corners of his lost memory.
Until he paused, charcoal poised above the parchment, and fixed you with that steady, unblinking face.
âWould youâŠset aside these coverings? I need to see you as you are." his finger pointed to your top in a quiet, deep voice. His intentions were as deep as the seas surrounding you.
âUmm...â your voice came out small, a little shaky, as your fingers fidgeted in your lap, twisting together. Heat rose to your cheeks while you tried not to look away from him.
He didnât seem embarrassed at all, just watched you with that calm, focused expression. He clearly didnât mean it in any lewd way. He just wanted to study the shape of the feminine body, that was allâŠright?
You thought about the coming expedition, the way the Nights had grown crueler lately, filled with things that howled and struck from the dark. You knew you couldnât handle it alone without slowing everyone else down or becoming a burden theyâd have to protect.
It's difficult to say, but you sort of needed his help.
The thought made your chest tighten with guilt. Youâd feel terrible if you let other people down. If agreeing to this strange request was the price of his protection, of making sure you could stand your ground without dragging the others into danger, then maybe it wasnât so hard to say yes.
âOkay,â you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the hem of your top, slowly peeling it over your head. The cool air prickled against your bare skin, and you instinctively wrapped an arm over your chest, shielding yourself as best you could. Your eyes dropped to the floor, too shy to meet his gaze behind the helm.
He didnât say anything but simply watched, patient and still, as if he understood you needed a moment. But there was a weight to his silence, too, an unspoken expectation that you would let him see, so he could study every line and curve without barrier.
You swallowed hard and, after a long pause, let your arm fall to your side. The chill of the room swept over you fully, sending a shiver down your bare skin. You tried to steady your breathing, feeling painfully aware of how exposed you were under his unwavering attention.
He set to work immediately, charcoal scratching briskly over parchment. His eyes moved with practiced precision, flicking between the page and your body, noting every shape and angle.
Every so often his gaze settled on your breasts, studying the way the cold had tightened your nipples into hard peaks. Yet, his expression remained serious, analytical, as if committing the sight to memory for the sake of perfect detail. And you sat there as still as you could with burning cheeks, hoping it really was just art to him.
The chill in the room seemed to deepen with every passing moment, settling into your bones and making you shiver so visibly your teeth nearly chattered. You pressed your lips together and prayed silently that heâd be finished soon, that heâd give the signal you could cover yourself again.
For a brief moment, hope flickered as his charcoal paused mid-stroke. But then he spoke, measuredly, asking if you could remove your bottoms as well. The words landed in your ears like a crack of thunder, making your heart lurch painfully.
You sat frozen, eyes darting away, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. Minutes crawled by as you weighed the request, fingers knotting into the fabric of your chair. Every instinct told you to refuse, to clutch your clothes tighter around you. But another part of you remembered why you were doing this.
In the end, you found yourself standing slowly, fingers fumbling at the waistband. You kept your gaze glued to the floor, cheeks blazing with heat as you finally slipped the garment down, trying with everything in you not to think about the raw humility of it, or how exposed you now felt under his waiting eyes.
"I thank you." he lowered his head with gratitude before going back to his canvas.
But his calm was no comfort to you. You sat there tense, skin prickling with the cold and the weight of his gaze. Every time his eyes lifted from the parchment to study you, you felt your arms instinctively drift to cover yourself, pressing over your chest or curling around your hips in a futile shield.
But each time, with a small breath, you forced yourself to drop them again, knowing he was watching every line and curve, every subtle shape of your body laid bare in the dim light.
Surely heâs not interested in you. Thatâs what you kept repeating in your head, trying to steady your breath while the cold wrapped around your bare skin.
You were nothing remarkable, after all. Just another wandering soul seeking refuge in the Shrouded Hold, too weak to survive the Nights alone, too dependent on others for protection.
âMight you part your legs a little?â he asked, voice deep but firm, carrying the solemn weight of command more than request.
âIâI beg your pardon?â youâd heard him clearly enough, but you forced the words out anyway, clinging to the small refuge of pretending you hadnât.
âI would see the shape of your inner thighs, if you would permit it,â he said quietly, already flicking the tip of his charcoal.
The shameless request made you hesitate, fingers curling against the chair with breath catching in your throat. Smoldering heat prickled at your face while you stared at the floor, thinking of all the reasons you shouldnât, all the ways this felt too much.
But in the end, you shifted slowly, knees drawing apart just enough for him to see.
You told yourself it was harmless. He was a loner, a silent wanderer with no interest in gossip or company. Amnesic, evenâhalf a stranger to himself. Surely he wouldnât speak of this to anyone else, wouldnât even hold the memory for long once his sketch was done.
That hope was the only thing that let you keep your legs parted while his eyes, steady and unflinching, took in every line to set it faithfully on the waiting parchment.
Again, he set to work without delay, charcoal moving in swift, practiced strokes across the parchment. His gestures moved with that same unwavering focus, though you couldnât help but notice the subtle way his tongue darted over his lips now and then, wetting them with deliberate care. It was rather lewd.
You tried to hold your posture as best you could, muscles trembling with the effort, but eventually you had to shift, your legs drawing together for a moment or your back hunching from the strain. He noticed at once, setting aside the charcoal with a muted clack.
Without a word, he moved closer, armored fingers surprisingly careful as he adjusted you. He guided your shoulder back, lifted your chin with a touch that was almost gentle, then pressed at your knee until it parted once more.
Some of it felt harmless enough, like a sculptor arranging his clay. But there were moments that made your heart pound painfully, when he eased you into positions that laid you open in ways youâd never shown anyone.
Your thigh slung over the arm of the chair. Your back arched just so, breasts pushed forward. Legs spread wider than felt decent. Every time your breath hitched, every time you squirmed with shame, he only hummed in acknowledgment, studying the new angles like a scholar of flesh and form.
It wasnât malicious, you told yourself desperately. Itâs just art. Just him trying to learn for the better. But in those silent moments, you wished you could simply vanish rather than feel his cool, patient gaze on every vulnerable inch of you.
It took him some time to finally set down the charcoal for good. The scraping of it over parchment seemed to stretch on and on, filling the silent room with a steady, almost meditative rhythm.
You couldnât tell if he was being deliberate, drawing out the moment on purpose, or if it truly demanded that much care to capture every angle and line of human anatomy.
âI am done. Thank you for the enlightenment. You may dress yourself now,â he said while bowing his head with a grave respect that felt strangely ceremonial. The Executor began gathering his charcoals and brushes, slotting them back into their worn case with careful precision.
You didnât answer, throat too tight with relief and lingering embarrassment. Instead, you let out a shaky breath and lifted a trembling hand to wipe at the sweat you imagined on your brow. Without another glance in his direction, you bent to scoop up your clothes, fumbling them on with frantic fingers.
You kept your eyes down, swallowing hard as you fastened the last button. You didnât want to see the parchment, didnât want to see if he was still watching. All you wanted was to cover yourself and be done with it.
When you finally managed to get your clothes back on, fumbling with ties and buttons in clumsy haste, you let out a shaky sigh of relief. The chill that had clung to your bare skin slowly faded beneath the weight of cloth, but your cheeks still burned with embarrassment.
Just as you were about to turn away, another voice drifted through the quiet room. It was softer than the Executorâs, warm and almost playful in contrast to the solemn hush.
âExtraordinary...â came the single, drawn-out word, rich with hidden admiration.
Your head immediately snapped up from the familiar voice. Just to see Wylder standing there beside the Executor, arms loosely folded, his head tilted as he studied the parchment with a small, astonished hum.
But the Executor was already gathering his supplies with deliberate care, art box tucked under one arm, as if he hadnât even noticed the other man arrive, or simply didnât care to react.
The flush spreading from your cheeks to the tips of your ears, your face went hot in an instant. Youâd never felt so exposed. Not even during the sketching itself. Because Wylder, of all people, was the last one you wanted seeing that parchment.
He wasnât cold or indifferent like the Executor because if anything, you had always felt at ease with Wylder.
There was something almost brotherly in the way he took good care of you, always knowing when to speak and when to let the silence comfort you. It was the kind of bond that made you feel safe in a place that had little safety to offer.
Which only made this so much worse.
You could barely stand to meet his eyes now, terrified of what he might be thinking. That youâd stripped yourself so willingly, that youâd sat there exposed without protest, shifting your legs at another manâs command. That youâd had no shame, no modesty.
You tried to avert your gaze, blinking quickly as your vision blurred with the sting of tears you refused to let fall.
âExcuse meâŠâ You turned quickly, nearly stumbling over your own feet in your haste to leave. You prayed he would be kind enough to see past the worst of it. That heâd remember who you really were and choose to look at the brighter side.
Still, you felt his gaze on your back as you leftâsteady, heavy in its silence. It made your heart beat harder against your ribs, part of you wanting to believe it was understanding rather than judgment.
Once you were gone from view, Wylder let out a slow breath and shifted his attention to the Executor, who was busy gathering his supplies with his usual, unflinching focus.
Wylder then rested a gentle hand on the knightâs broad, worn pauldron, catching him off guard enough that he paused.
âTell me.â Wylder said softly, with a warm and even tone. It also sounded rather serious if the artist himself squinted hard enough.
âWould you be willing to make another copy of this?"
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