(Put any of these into my blog’s search bar to find an overview of posts under these tags)
~🔄reblogs - self-explanatory
~💬rambles - for my shower thoughts, brainrot, unhinged ramblings, and general drabbles
~🌶️spicy - for spicier fics, drabbles, headcanons, reblogs, etc.
~🤝mooties - for my Tumblr mutuals! :)
~🔖tag game - any sort of tag game
~✏️asks - self-explanatory
If you’re reading this far then: no bigotry, racism, ableism, or conservatism or right-wing adjacent ideals is allowed on my blog. I believe in equal rights, Palestine, LGBTQIA+, free healthcare, feminism, abortion, and more (to name a few). This should be obvious— as I believe we need to treat others as human beings. If we do not see eye-to-eye anyway, it’s best to just leave.
You’re Lohen’s Captain, or a captain of a close-working company, and are getting sick and tired of how he so easily ignores your orders, ignores meetings, rollcalls, goes on risky missions (unapproved by the way!), and just barely follows any Knightly rules. He only half listens to you and you just want to do your job!
“Mhm, mhm. I understand, Captain!” As he’s halfway out the building.
Everyone tells you it’s “normal for Lohen” and to get used to it, but no! You have a company to run and a Knight thinking it’s his life mission to make yours harder is unacceptable!
One day you are yelling at him, he’s standing in front of you, patiently waiting. Arms crossed, stupid Cheshire smirk painted on his face while he waits for your tirade to end. At some point you sneer and have had enough — pull him closer to you by his stupid collar and make him truly listen.
Oh, Lohen is so so so smitten by that point it’s crazy. He was before, of course, but now he’s just going to continue to make your life — inside the Knights, and outside — a beautiful “hell.”
I’m alive to those in my inbox lol, started seeing someone irl which is… something. Been a while to have someone say they see a future with me. So, new and exciting!
Oh and— I sprained my wrist so there’s delays in writing. Gonna write Tamsy smut then some wlw then maybe Phainon so stay tuned :)
@exltwounds told me they were having a shit day so i wrote this depravity that i’ve had unfinished in my works for so long because we don’t write fluff on this channel. happy saturday!!!!
warnings; 18+, no gendered terms but reader is afab, slight dubcon, improper use of tokushin but i mean that literally, tamsy is an obsessed reprobate
“Get that thing away from me,” you snap from beneath him.
Tamsy pouts. “You don’t like her?” He twirls his wrist and the loose string rewraps itself around the staff.
“‘Her?’” you repeat.
“Tokushin is a pretty girl,” he claims. “And well behaved. Well, better behaved than you.” He stares at the object for a moment as if it speaks directly to him.
“Of course it is, it’s an object.”
“An object that does my bidding,” he corrects. He wishes you were the same. He’ll get you there eventually. He can’t wait to memorise your expressions.
You feel the staff and the harsh wool slide up along your leg, just shy of your pelvis.
“Wait a second…”
You feel his hand shift. He holds onto the larger part of the distaff, keeping the thread tightly locked around the cage. The small handle taps once along the bone, harsh and hard.
You try to close your legs. You manage with some success before he pries them back open and slots his hips in the middle. The bed dips with the added weight.
He stares at you almost like he’s bored. His free hand creeps from beneath your thigh and loops upwards until his fingers find the skin along your hip below your panties.
To this, he looks displeased. “Why do you even have these on?” He tugs once at the fabric. His lips pull to the side. His fingers are skittish, wildly feeling the expanses of skin he’d otherwise never access. Your stomach pools beneath his touch. Your thighs lock around his waist, desperate to just close so you can get up and leave.
“You’re not serious, right?” you ask nervously.
“About?” His thumb presses to your clothed clit. He grinds down, careful not to let his nail snag on the fabric. It catches easily against malleable flesh he wants to ruin.
His thumb then dips around the hemming of your panties and slides curiously until he’s pulled the fabric to the side. He almost laughs at the glitter pooling around your hole. You visibly clench once exposed, and you grit your teeth.
Something cold slides along your navel. It’s solid, like wood.
You bark out a cry, “That’s enough!”
“I haven’t even started yet,” he says. “Just relax.” The rounded wooden tip of Tokushin’s handle presses gently to your clit. It circles the bundle once, twice, three times, then again and again, and you realise he’s not teasing you.
He pushes down harder, angling left and right slightly until your hips eventually twitch. You let out a sob when he hits you just right. His free hand holds you down by the stomach. You can’t help but try to squirm. The ache is awful; the nerves fire up into your belly and deep inside. It’s almost painful. It’s a slow crawl to finish, and Tamsy only lets up just before you can cross the edge.
“See? Isn’t it lovely?”
You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the distaff in his hands. You clench again. He removes his jinki for a moment before his thumb returns to rub gently at your clit, almost like a reward. Almost in praise of laying there and letting him have his way with you.
He’s not really looking at your face though. His eyes are glued to the glitter between your legs. It glimmers tauntingly, and his thumb slides easily to encompass the wetness pooling over your cunt.
You’re so easy.
He shifts for a moment. He flips his hair back with a quick turn of his head before he shrinks down and tastes the pad of his thumb. He almost drools before he lowers himself enough for a gander with his tongue.
He ignores, with effort, your swollen clit. His nose nudges unintentionally against it and you gasp. He needs you wetter than this, and he decides his spit will do the trick. His tongue glides easily against your cunt, tracing the rim of your hole with a dizzy groan. You reel your hips back to pull away from him, but he simply chases.
His fingers lock your thighs in place. Your legs ache from being held so far apart, and the humiliation almost outweighs the feeling of him utterly devouring you. His tongue is hotter than you feel.
Your cunt oozes with slick that he happily drinks.
He wants nothing more than to press his tongue deep inside and stay there for hours. He thinks he deserves it. He thinks the only way to get close is to have every part of him inside of you until he’s in your skin, and you’re one of the same.
His cock strains in his pants.
His brows furrow.
He refrains.
You’re hot. Your skin is on fire. The ceiling only spins. Tamsy is the only thing you can focus on, and how he pulls back every so often and you get a glimpse of his tongue flattening against your clit.
He knows it’s working. He also gets lost eventually when his hand works between his thighs. You’re slowly forgetting his intentions. You barely even register the handle of Tokushin twisting gently and coating in slick. He slides it over the rim of your hole. Maybe you just think it’s his finger; it’s certainly thin enough, but not nearly as warm.
Tamsy’s nose flattens against your pelvis as his tongue works your clit. You heave, hole clenching around the handle before he angles the instrument just enough to push in just an inch.
You immediately seize. The dull ache of his tongue becomes a needed distraction. He sucks gently and your thighs twitch open instinctively.
The ache grows worse. His tongue slides over your clit over and over again.
“Fuck,” you manage.
And it feels so good that you begin laughing.
Tamsy pushes further. The handle sinks deeper inside of you and you sigh in relief.
Ooh. Tamsy grins into your cunt.
It’s when the entire handle is inside that you squirm. The handle is cold and stiff. He twists it gently and you jerk.
“That’s…”
Tamsy pulls back. Experimentally, he pulls the handle out slowly.
You hiss when he pushes the entire length back in. You reach downward and try to shove him off with gritted teeth, but Tamsy jerks his wrist backwards and wretches the handle out of you completely. You tense up as his tongue abandons your clit.
One of his hands splays out on your hip. You stiffen in retaliation, ready to bark out at the premise of him pushing down and pinning you to the bed. He crawls up to your hips, then your waist, then both of his hands push down eagerly on your shoulders.
You huff and his hair blows out of your face.
You can see his grin in the low orange dim of the lamp.
“You look disappointed,” he observes. “Am I not good enough?”
“No…” Your chest strains beneath your shirt. “No, you’re good.” You feel small beneath him. “You’re great.”
He breathes sporadically. His breath hits your face in waves. His pupils are blown out, and his eyes dart frantically across every lift of your eyebrow, or every twitch of your nose, or the slight tremble in your lip.
Then, his smile drops.
“Do you love me?”
You blink, completely stunned by his question. “What?”
Tamsy looks expectant. “I love you.” His eyes widen at his own confession. There’s a shaky grin on his lips, open mouthed and almost too large for his face. His teeth are covered in spit, and a glimmer of saliva escapes the corner of his mouth. “A lot.”
You shift beneath his weight on your shoulders. Sweat covers your neck and every delicate piece of cartilage that weaves into your collarbone. The flesh is littered in pink and purple.
“Really?” you ask.
Tamsy hums. He’s still staring. He leans downward slightly. One of his hands abandons your shoulder to tap the yarn strewn around Tokushin against your cheek.
“I love you,” he reaffirms.
“I…” The handle of his instrument is sparkling in the low lights of your bedroom. “I love you too…”
“Oh.” Tamsy freezes. It’s like the entire world stops for a moment, and he stares through you like he can see every interaction of your veins. Like he could reach beneath your flesh and twist until every line pulled free from its place.
You hear nothing but the creaking of the bed when you shift, and the unsteady breathing emitting from his mouth. It’s so shaky you worry he’s not getting enough air.
“You okay…?” you whisper to him.
You can barely see his face.
“Hey…” you utter.
“Hi,” he responds. He bites his lip so hard it bleeds. The pain is enough to snap him from his stupour. He wants your knuckles embedded onto his flesh. He wants to burn black and blue from all the love you can promise him. “I’m okay.”
“Show me what she can do,” you say quickly. You reach upwards and cup your hand around his instrument. “You said she’s good, right?”
Tamsy doesn’t respond.
You think you’re trembling.
Tamsy’s eye twitches. Jealousy surges hot in his veins.
You screwed up. You stiffen immediately. “What can you do, with her?” Your hand jerks from his instrument to clasp his hand. Your fingers slot between his, and your forearm pressed to his own. You feel his crinkled sleeve that you’d snipped at with your teeth to tease him, and the outline of one of your bracelets he wears. “What can you do to me?”
Tamsy swoons and his nose nuzzles into your cheek.
Tokushin trembles in your grasp, and her strings whirl first around your wrist and his, gathering tight until your fingers feel fused to his. He keeps your hand locked with his. He wraps his other arm around your waist beneath you on the bed.
Can I request Tamsy with the prompt: "You can't get rid of me that easily." Hehe
200 Follower Event (ended)
Tamsy x Fem!Reader - reader is a Giver, a mortician, and whose vital instrument is a scalpel turned scythe
Warnings: Tamsy is his own warning, obsessive, stalking, yandere if you squint, mentions of anatomy as reader is a mortician (nothing too descriptive just be aware), hints at manga spoilers
Word count: 1k
~:/:/:/:~
You inhale the sharp tang of bleach and formaldehyde the moment you step through the mortuary’s double doors, a scent so familiar it feels like the walls themselves are breathing it back at you. Your gloved fingers tighten around your scalpel’s cold stainless-steel handle. With every precise incision, the blade parts pale flesh like silk, revealing the quiet architecture beneath: neat rows of veins, the shining ivory of rib, the soft give of muscle. The hum of fluorescent tubes overhead casts a clinical glare, but you prefer it— no shadows hiding here, only clean lines and order.
Then you sense him before you see him: a height that crates the door, a wash of gold-and-blue hair catching stray light as if he’s illuminated from within. He edges into your peripheral vision— always watching, always patient, like a predator waiting to close in. A shiver snakes down your spine, equal parts dread and something you can’t name, as though electricity crackles between you both.
The people in town call you the Lady of Death, a crown you wear in whispered reverence and fear. Corpses don’t gossip or sneer; they lie silent beneath your hands, and you prefer it that way. Yet your left leg, once wholly operational until a trash beast’s jagged claws raked across it, twitches with a dull ache. You remember the creature’s festering spikes matted with decay, its hollowed ‘eyes’ wild as it tried to pry your bone from your marrow like some grotesque suitor coveting a prize. With your scalpel turned into a vital instrument, a long and beautiful scythe, you were able to hold it off until Cleaners passing by saved you. You swallow a shudder at the memory.
At least it did not prevent you from continuing your work.
Under the stark lights, long dark silhouettes stretch across the tiled floor, converging where you stand bent over a chest cavity. Your scalpel flashes, carving away the stubborn skin, gliding along the sternum’s edge. The scent of damp linen and antiseptic mixes with the faint metallic tang of old blood. Your heartbeat is a slow drum, matching the drip of embalming fluid into a pail at your feet.
Nights blur in this hush, measured by the ticking of a wall clock and the echo of your own breath. Then Tamsy slips into your world, turning the stillness inside out. The first time you see him, it’s at a dimly lit bar on a rainy evening, a night you were forced out with your coworkers: he leans against the polished mahogany with that same impossible poise, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. His gold-ringed eyes lift to you over the rim; they’re too curious, too fond. He speaks in a clipped, lilting tone that makes every word feel custom-tailored, and you can’t decide if you want to laugh or run.
Later on, outside the Giver headquarters— a mass of concrete block you pass by on occasion for business— he emerges from a side entrance as though summoned. The scent of damp stone and wind-whipped shampoo clings to him. Each time he appears, you catch a flash of those knowing eyes, calculating and strangely intimate, as if he’s mapping you out like one of your cadavers.
He approaches you after you finish a report on Cleaners who will receive a burial at your business, Tamsy holding an antique scale cradled in gloved hands. Its brass plates are etched with ivy tendrils, and its mechanism moves with the soft click of centuries-old hinges. “This would suit your collection,” he murmurs, voice soft as velvet. “And you needn’t ask where it came from.” The scale’s weight in his hand is indisputably precious, though stolen, you suspect— and it makes your chest tighten.
“How do you know what I keep?” you demanded then, fingers tightening around your coat lapel. You keep your voice even as always, there was no need to lay out grievances to a man you had no qualms with. He only smiles, that maddening half-curve that promises secrets.
But today, with him invading your work, the air grows taut. Your tools lining a steel tray gleam beneath his scrutiny. Heart hammering, you sheet a body’s arms at the shoulder, coaxing them into place. He hovers in the doorway, eyes tracing the curve of your favorite scalpel.
“So this is where the magic happens,” he purrs, voice echoing off the tiled walls. “Such exquisite artistry.”
Your jaw clenches. Beneath your professional mask, adrenaline surges; half fear, half something darker. You pivot the cadaver to hide your trembling hand, stealing glances at him: the way his coat hangs loose, how the fluorescent light crowns his hair like a halo gone awry.
As you stitch a wound closed, he leans against a counter, fingertips tracing the rim of a forceps as though afraid to touch. “You fell from the Sphere, didn’t you?” he says suddenly, eyes alight. “I can see it in your stance.” Your fingers freeze in mid-stitch, eventually placing them down altogether.
“How—” you begin, voice brittle.
His index finger lifts to his lips in a single, deliberate shush. The tip of his nail glints unnaturally. “Don’t trouble your pretty little head.” He steps forward. “I know enough to keep it between us, yes?”
His posture is unhurried as he moves around to stand in front of you. His warm palm covers yours, and you taste copper on your tongue. “I’d hate to see you on this table instead of... these others.” A veiled threat you understood perfectly.
Your breath catches. He circles you, each soft-footed stride pulling you further into a web of fascination and fear. The overhead lights stutter, shadows flickering across his face.
“Confess,” he whispers, voice low, a cascade of silk that sends gooseflesh racing across your skin. “The nobles framed you. They feared your brilliance.” He stops close enough for you to feel the electric pulse in his shirt. “But I know the truth.”
His grip on your hands tightens as he leans closer, enveloping you in an intoxicatingly bizarre aura. “If all goes to plan,” he murmurs softly, “at the end of this, I’ll take you there with me, as my bride.”
Before you can answer, he leans in and, with an almost casual cruelty, sinks his teeth into your left ring finger. The crack of bone is loud in the hush. You gasp, tear-bright eyes locked on his elated grin as blood wells around his lips. You wrench your hand free, distant, yet you cannot look away.
He withdraws, blood staining his lips as he chuckles— light, triumphant, completely unhinged. You stand frozen, staring at him in horror as he chuckles, the sound light and jovial.
“You can’t rid yourself of me so easily, darling.” His voice echoes off the walls, you realize he has woven you into his web; and there, you are more conflicted than ever before.
