So how about Sagau Zhongli, Venti, and Childe be like when their god, who has been known to be a single pringle ever since they came into existence, is suddenly announcing they are finding a consort among their acolytes?
word count. 2k
୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, sagau + cult au shit, religious themes, g/n reader.
୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. i had to go back and reread my childe fic to remember how i characterized him fuck my baka chungus life. anyway im sorry it's been a while but as it turns out if you sit down to write something you'll actually write, so here's this!!
zhongli
Despite himself, Zhongli is unable to quell the dim light of hope that swells in his chest.
It's one he's instantly ashamed of. Zhongli is, as one so aged and so familiar with you, intrinsically aware of how little he compares. Where you step, he follows; his mind beckons even if his body resists. To think of himself as somehow worthy of you would be his greatest folly.
Yet he does so anyway, no matter how desperately he tries to kill his arrogance.
The fear is overwhelming, but the acerbic aftertaste at the thought of you with anyone else is worse.
The shame at his own hubris gnaws away at him, but Zhongli can't find it in himself to entirely let it go, to better himself as he should. If bettering himself comes at the cost of losing the opportunity to be entirely yours, he would rather be consumed by his pride.
He knows he should be disgusted by himself. To want is a terrible sin. It's one thing to worship you, and another to see himself kissing your skin every time he closes his eyes.
When Zhongli is beside himself, alone with only his thoughts to keep him company, he wonders what it would be like to be yours. His mind supplies every possibility with no incentive. He aches, and wants, and feels so vividly and impudently that he thinks his thoughts must be some kind of punishment.
You're everything, he thinks. There is nothing in this world that is comparable to you.
What would it be like, to feel you? Would you give him that honor? Has he done enough to deserve it? Or do you torture him so, filling his mind with images— things he should never think, things he should never imagine— because he dares to think himself worthy of calling himself yours, in a manner no one else has before?
Zhongli's greatest failure is that he's unable to stop himself from wanting.
He's ached before. He ached for the thousands of years he spent without you. He ached when he saw you for the first time, enraptured, unable to understand how a form could be so perfect. He ached when he let his fingers linger on your skin for longer than he should at every opportunity, he ached when he wondered if you found his achievements worthy of praise, and he aches every time he has to leave your side.
This hurts more, somehow. To want for something he knows he could never receive. To want for something he knows he isn’t worthy of. But knowing doesn’t ease it, when he follows after you every day like an old, obedient dog; when your back is as familiar as the sky overhead, as commonplace a view; when he imagines what it must feel like to have your fingers run along his skin, touching and prodding, pressing long enough against his skin to leave imprints in their wake.
He wonders how heavenly it would be, to be yours. He imagines it so frequently it begins to become difficult to differentiate reality and fantasy. Your skin, his skin. His warmth, your warmth. Your touch, your touch, your touch.
You.
Zhongli doesn’t realize that he’s said anything at all until you’re staring at him, a certain look on your face that makes him stammer. It’s only the two of you, and suddenly the room feels much smaller than it is; every uniform pattern underfoot suddenly holding him still, the air suddenly dry, and his body suddenly tense and taut.
Zhongli wonders if this is fear. He wonders why it feels so cold. Why suddenly all he can see is you— why suddenly, nothing else matters.
His heart is tumultuous in his chest, aching and creaking and so, so loud. He can feel it in a way he’s never felt it before, and he wonders if this is how every mortal who’s ever knelt before him felt. Did they, too, feel their throat tighten by a phantasmal hand? Did they, too, feel so tiny and insignificant; like their lives were in the center of another’s palm, to be lauded or ignored?
Did they, too, wonder if they were enough?
You’re smiling, he realizes, but he doesn’t know if you’re smiling because you find it all amusing, or because you wish to comfort him.
Your smile is a thing of wonder. He finds it doesn’t matter if you’re doing so because you find him funny or pathetic; his fingers tremble either way.
“I was waiting for you,” you say, and you speak the words so softly he wonders if he misheard.
venti
Venti is aware he's too selfish for his own good.
He knows he shouldn't be as needy as he is. Ideally, he would rise at your call and simper at your demand; and he does, except he does it even when you haven't spoken a word.
Watching you with others feels like a brand on his skin. A strange, terrible emotion that he knows must be some sort of blasphemy. Venti washes it down with whiskey and wine and tries his best to mask it with mirth. You wouldn't like him if he was anything but the blithe bard who worships you.
He worships you. That's the problem, he thinks.
You don't even have to do anything specific for his skin to feel like it's not his own. You glanced away from him. You smiled at someone else. You laughed at something that wasn't him. You exchanged this look with someone else and it almost felt like there was something there in your eyes, something he could never have—
Venti stops the thoughts there. It's always been like this. He's demanding when he shouldn't be.
He's not ungrateful. He chokes on how intensely he loves you. It's so suffocating it hurts.
Venti wishes he could worship you properly.
He wishes he could have you all to himself. He wishes you'd never look at anyone else. He wishes he could have some sort of assurance that you love him past your words. He wishes he could stay by your side always, that he could stick himself to you, that he could intertwine your nerves and bodies until everything he is becomes all of you.
Selfish.
What you give him should be enough. But it's not.
You say you're looking for a consort. Venti's heart twists with a sickening flutter.
He imagines it so sweetly it's painful. He dreams of loving you purely. He writhes with restless agony every night. He wants to hold your hand and feel your warm palm against his. He wants to rest his head on your shoulder. He wants to touch you, delicately and softly, until he knows every part of you. He wants to know you, enough that it's a semblance of how much you know him.
That sort of intimacy is something he doesn't deserve. He wants it anyway.
Venti knows his thoughts are some sort of sacrilege. He doesn't care. All he wants is for you to hold him closer than you have before.
You'd be warm, he thinks, and his fingers twitch imagining it. He'd be safe with you.
He would be yours.
Selfish to want and arrogant to believe he has any place so close to you. Neither matter.
Venti lies his head on your lap, trying to appear as small as possible. Love me, he wants to whisper. Love me.
He doesn't. Instead, he says: "choose me."
Venti doesn't look at you. He tries to project confidence in his voice, but all that comes out is a weak tremble. It's still a plea, after all. He's still only begging you, even if he tries to paint it as something else.
You card your fingers through his hair, pinning his hair behind his ear. The softness hurts. It hurts more than the fact you haven't said anything yet.
He braces himself, hugging his arms to his chest.
"Okay," you say, voice warm and so, so soft.
Venti's chest heaves.
childe
Childe knows his thoughts are wrong.
His desires aren't what they should be. He should be happy you glanced at him at all, and for the brief, blissful moment where everything is you and you're all he knows, he is.
You look at him, and the world is right. The euphoria feels like it might break him each time, but he somehow manages to stay standing. A testament to his worship, he thinks, that he can hold on just long enough for you to look at him some more.
Then you look away, and suddenly it feels like you've just gouged out his heart and gutted him.
It's not your fault. You breathed life into his body, but you can't shoulder each of his mistakes.
A mistake, he tells himself. Something he needs to fix. You wouldn't like him if he showed you that part of himself.
It becomes harder to fix when you announce you're looking for a consort.
Suddenly, everyone looks more disgusting than they did before. They're not just people who are demented enough to believe they have any right to your time or attention. They're people who now believe they're worthy of you, and it's that thought that makes him sick.
There is nothing in this world that comes close to you. There is nobody in this world that could hope to be truly worthy of sitting by your side.
He feels his stomach twist because of the hope that dwells within it.
Childe remembers when you were all he had. Your whispers were his only company in the abyss. When he's with you, he's reminded of it, and every time you look away from him, he's reminded of how many times he called for you and was met with dead air.
People think he was saved when he was ripped from the abyss. Childe thinks anyone who believes that are fools. The day he was ripped from you felt more like a death than a miracle.
He doesn't blame you. You saved him and that should be enough. You look at him and that should be enough. You breathe in his presence and he should be euphoric to share your air. And he is, but so neatly tucked along the inseams of his soul are thoughts of how much better it would be if he didn't have to share you at all.
Childe tells himself the thoughts aren't his. The dreams aren't his. The will to make them into reality isn't his own. The urge and the turmoil aren't of his own making.
You're not his. Your gaze isn't his. Your attention doesn't belong to him. Your love is not uniquely his own. It can't be, he tells himself, but then you smile so sweetly in his direction, and he wonders if it could.
He knows he's pathetic and needy and sick. He knows the burning in the back of his eyelids every time he sees you with another is far from holy and far from what you deserve.
Childe's disgusted by the fervor and desperation of those around him. He's disgusted far more by his own desires. He's disgusted that he begins to lean into them as time goes on.
You smile, and he buzzes. You laugh, and his world tips. You look at him and he wonders if the affection he sees in your gaze could be anything more.
"Ajax," you murmur, petting his hair.
Childe kneels before you like a loyal hound. He doesn't move, hunching his shoulders. He wishes he could make himself smaller. Maybe he'd be more palatable. Maybe you'd like him more like that.
"Pick me," he says.
He doesn't realize he's spoken until your fingers stop threading through his hair.
Childe freezes, an apology on his lips, but he can't bring himself to speak. He can't bring himself to look up at you, either, his copper lashes trembling.
"I have," you say, your fingers resuming their ministrations as if you'd said the most obvious thing in the world.
Childe shivers, nestling closer, hiding his face so you don't see him break. You rub his trembling back despite it, shushing him gently as his tears wet your clothes.
Yandere Genshin men as ex-husbands who try to cope with their divorces. || Completed stories. || More parts for other characters to be released in the future.
MDNI. Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, and it is not a portrayal of romance/love.
If the debt did not make him lose his mind, everyone believes the divorce surely has after he tells people that he is building his ex-spouse a home to live in. He does not care for your insistence that you do not need nor want him to design and build a home for you, especially since the divorce has left him in greater debt than he was before marrying you. Even if the weight of the debt crushes his back, crushes his soul—he will continue to borrow from loan sharks looking to cause trouble just so that he may build you that gorgeous home he so desires, and he desires it because it is not really a home.
At first glance, it seems to be a palace constructed by the gods themselves. Its intricate designs rival both the current architectural wonders of the world and the ruins of past civilisations speckled around Teyvat. However, looks are deceiving. One could rather argue that this palace, extravagant as it is and decorated with expensive materials that will last for centuries to come, is a cage instead. A home, a fortress, and a tomb meant to house his beloved forever.
This cage shall sit where the ancient trees and flowers bloom right on the outskirts of Sumeru City. This way, it is within the serenity found in Sumeru’s green landscapes but still close to the perimeter of city life that Kaveh is most familiar with so that he may visit you whenever he wants to, whenever he needs to. Columns will stand high, holding stones encasing rare gems that shall form the shell and structure of this cage. A beautiful sight for anyone walking past.
And the interior will be just as lovely, if not more. It will be grand and breathtaking as if one is stepping foot into a whole new world, a whole new paradise. The several luxury bathrooms will be designed with marble flooring to complement the tubs carved from glistening stone. The many living rooms will be lined with grand windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling so that the beauty of Sumeru’s wild forests feel as though it is part of the home, and silk curtains—in the same shade as your bruised lips that he loved to kiss until it was hard for the both of you to breathe—will fall from those ceilings, complementing the green scenery as seen outside. And in the hallways will be beautiful murals depicting the nation’s history along the walls, so that if you were to walk down any hall, it will feel as though you are transcending through time and space.
Yet, despite all the beauty of this magnificent home, the corridors will seem to lead into one another—effectively trapping you in a never-ending labyrinth of lavish decor. And the rooms will be unusually large as if to make anyone inside them feel small and miniscule—helpless. And should you manage to navigate through the dozens of halls, the figures in his murals will seem to move with you under the dim light of the candles that will be perched on small shelves, ready to be blown out if you run past them while desperately looking for a way out. And if the smoke and scents melted into the wax begin to suffocate you, you will find that none of the windows can be opened wide enough to let in a breeze large or strong enough to quickly purify the dirtied air, and of course, they will certainly not open wide enough to let you escape. The serenity of the outside world, the same world where Kaveh resides, will become ever so tantalising.
He designs this home not only to flaunt his magnificent skills, but also to remind you of how lonely and cursed life can feel without him.
Kaveh may say that he has accepted your divorce from him, that he has moved on from his past marriage, but his drunken slurs to any who wish to comfort him in this time of distress reveal his more honest and darker way of coping.
“Let this home be my parting gift to you, my dear. In these walls, may you be free as you have made me,” Kaveh whispers to himself as he rests his head on his crafting table, his wine-stained lips pressing onto the blueprints of your palace before he drifts into a drunken slumber.
Scaramouche
It may be written in history that when you initiated a successful divorce from the Sixth Fatui Harbinger, there was unimaginable wrath unleashed on the lands he was assigned to spy on at the time. For weeks following your divorce, his temper was at its limit. The smallest of inconveniences pushed him over the edge of insanity where his subordinates felt their lord was teetering on the daily. If his mere presence struck fear in the hearts of his soldiers before the divorce, his presence after you left him became one that felt like a dangerous toxin that could sicken the body instantly.
Scaramouche, however, felt that it was not he who was at fault for the monster he had turned into. It was you. You were and are the poison he consumed, killing his soulless body over and over again even after you left. Clearly, he thought, your presence still remained within his vicinity. So, in an attempt to free himself from you once and for all, Scaramouche instructed his soldiers to burn controlled fires in every stronghold of his that you had ever set foot in so that the embers flickering off the flames could burn your lingering presence. He seemingly wanted nothing to do with you anymore.
And most of his subordinates believed it. No one dares bring up your name even now. It has been forbidden in his presence, but what is forbidden becomes the most intriguing thing of all. Even the strongest of Fatui Harbingers cannot cease the whispered rumours that circulate. Some say that you became bored with him and others say you found another to love. When these rumours reach Scaramouche, he not only dismisses them, laughing hysterically at the soldiers he had instructed to go around and find out what rumours were being said about him behind his back, he also commands that those who spread the lies be publicly punished by various means. It really depends on how insulted he feels at the moment.
What he does not reveal or admit is that each one of those rumours shatters a piece of him. Whispered lies for others’ amusement are hammers that break the porcelain encasing this puppet’s internal world where he battles between his immortality and his human emotions—an incongruence that serves like a naturally occurring poison, except it is one that he is not immune to.
No matter how much he claims to loathe you, no matter how much he claims to want nothing but your humiliation and doom, he cannot fool everyone of the lies that roll off his tongue with such ease. This is the same man who was rejected by his mother for his ability to feel far more than he should. Abandoned for crying and left alone to fend for himself in a world riddled with monsters and chaotic evil, yet somehow, this same man does not seem to care enough to shed a tear, at least publicly, for having been left by the very one he believed had freed him from the spiritual ache he had held onto over the past five centuries, and the very one he now obsesses over constantly?
The two soldiers who guard the door to his bedroom can confirm—at least to themselves because if word got out, the punishment would surely be severe—that the Lord Scaramouche truly does feel for his loss, and that he hurts deeply.
Choked sobs are muffled by the thick wooden doors to his bedroom, but they can still be faintly heard in the dead of the night when all have gone quiet. Inside the chambers lies Scaramouche on his bed as he hugs his pillow tightly, wishing it is you. The very thought that he, a feared Harbinger, has been reduced down to pathetic, sobbing mess over someone who no longer cares for him and likely despises him only makes him cry harder. His eyes are puffy and red as stinging tears burn his pale skin, while his hands shake and tremble uncontrollably. It is as pathetic as it may be heart-breaking, given that he is a ruthless man who has committed enough crimes to last an eternity in prison.
The lonely nights never get better nor do they get easier. He grows with rage and sadness, his body feeling as though it burns from fire ignited by the electricity of his Delusion that, if anything, keeps him more sane than his obsession for you. Conflicted, he does not know whether to truly hate you or to miss you dearly.
And as the night moves along and the moon shines more light through his bedroom windows as it moves across the sky, Scaramouche’s attention is caught by the moonlight that reflects off the glass panel over the small picture frame on his bedside table.
It is the last of your presence, besides your wedding ring, that he has not banned, perhaps because he actually cannot let go of your presence as much as he wishes he could. It is a picture of you and him on your wedding day. He dons a special Fatui uniform gifted to him by the Tsaritsa while you wear the most beautiful clothes weaved by the most skilled of seamstresses who are only commissioned to craft garments for the Fatui elite. And in that picture, he looks so happy even with his small smile. The happiness is evident in his eyes that sparkle like the sacred sakura petals that glimmer in Inazuma’s forests under the moonlight. You, however, are cast out by that same moonlight now. The light leaves a sheen right over your face, covering up your natural and effortless beauty as well as any emotions you had on your wedding day. The picture thus seems to only be of him—alone, abandoned, and rejected once again. More tears fall from his eyes, blinding him with a blur that burns.
Perhaps you were never meant to be his, but he hates to even acknowledge such a thought. So, he chooses to both hate and miss you.
“For as long as eternity lasts, you shall reap what you sow.” Scaramouche whispers angrily to himself, his voice muffled as he speaks into his pillow while he readjusts the leather strip around his neck from which yours and his wedding rings hang as intertwined pendants, a symbol of ever-lasting connection. “If I shall drown in tears, so shall you.”
Diluc
Any who find themselves at the Dawn Winery and who do not know of your divorce from the manor’s lord may believe you are still married to him. There in the main hall where all can see, where all can behold, is your portrait. Beautifully illustrated by the most skilled painter in Teyvat that Diluc could commission, and painted with the most expensive oil paints imported from Natlan. And yet still, he found that the portrait only captured a fraction of your real beauty. To him, your beauty was divine and it could not be replicated on canvas.
But he keeps the portrait up no matter what because it is the only visual representation of the beauty that once lived in his manor.
There are times when Adelinde urges him, in a subtle manner, that it may be time for him to find another spouse, to move on and let go. Diluc refuses each time. He is entirely and utterly devoted to you in body, mind, and spirit. He will continue to risk his life as the Darknight Hero to keep Mondstadt safe for you. He will still think of you no matter how much his friends, brother, or Adelinde attempt to distract him. And he will continue to devote every part of his life and legacy to you even if it drains his soul to linger on a past relationship the Lord Barbatos even tries to whisk away with his strong winds that flow through the opened windows of the manor, chipping away at the paint of your portrait.
So, he keeps the windows closed instead. Diluc has never been very religious anyway, even if he knows his god exists.
And that is surely not all he does. All that you have left, such as accessories and ornaments you left at his home while moving, are kept in the exact position you had left them. Whether because you no longer cared for them or forgot about them, he does not care. Your belongings decorate your old, shared bedroom which he still sleeps in. The maids are instructed to clean around your belongings, and if they need to move them, they must do so momentarily and place them back in their rightful positions. Diluc will notice any misplacements, and while he is not one to get angry at his maids, Adelinde reluctantly instructs that they try to respect this unhealthy command so that he may remain as sane for as long as possible.
But is sane a word that can be associated with Diluc? The very man who went on a killing spree in Snezhnaya when his father was tragically taken from this world, and now the very man who obsesses over his ex to the point where you are the only thing and one on his mind? While tnot a popular rumour, some of the maids have reported smelling something sweet in his bedroom; they don’t know it but Diluc sprays your perfume on his bed every night, clinging onto any remnants of your waning presence as he wishes you and himself a goodnight. Mad is the lord of Dawn Winery, and nothing less.
And when he sees you every now and then while visiting the city, he finds that it is harder to behold the real you as he has become so accustomed to the painted you and to the you he knew when you were married.
There you are sitting in the Favonius Cathedral where much of the entire nation has gathered to honour the God of Freedom on a blessed day that has become an annual tradition in Mondstadt over the centuries. He sits in a pew a few rows back where he stares at the back of your head from afar. And while the church bell rings and the choir sings, the irreligious Diluc finds himself silently praying in his mind to a god who drinks himself to near death at his tavern each night for a chance that you may come back to him. The man wants you crying in his arms, he wants you clutching onto him like he is your very life source. To be frank, he wants to be the air you breathe to stay alive; he wants to become your freedom.
But does the lord of the manor realise that he prays to a greater lord who represents true freedom to bring back his ex to a home where they may never again experience the freedom of Mondstadt? Does the lord of the manor realise such a prayer will never be answered, for his god is not so cruel? Surely, Diluc has gone completely mad.
“I will keep your presence here alive and well, and you shall always be part of my life and a part of the Ragnvindr history,” Diluc thinks to himself as he watches the very painter who he had commissioned to paint your portrait retouch the chipped pieces of his artwork. “You will always be mine.”
Childe/Tartaglia
With enough wealth to drown himself in, this Fatui Harbinger does not hesitate to make use of his great wealth to buy your love back. Childe is a simple man who believes he can throw mora at anything, yet still, he loves a challenge. His heart beats quicker at just the thought of an obstacle hindering his path to reach his goal because it makes the value of the prize so much more worth the difficulty. Your refusal to have him waltz back into your life may be frustrating given that he yearns so deeply for you, but it also excites him in a way that it should not. Playing hard to get? No, but he seems to think otherwise, and he loves it.
Childe wants his message to be clear, so he buys you an abundance of what he believes to be nature’s greatest symbol of love: the rose. Its velvet petals, soft like your skin, are as red as the heart that feels deeply for you. And its thorns remind him of your courage and valour that he fell so deeply obsessed with simply because they posed a challenge to him. The rose is thus the perfect symbol, the perfect message—he believes—to send to you.
The deliveries of roses are a routine you become accustomed to; Fatui lackeys, usually two or three, knock on your door each morning with enough roses to fill up a cart. They do not ask for a signature or if you are willing to accept the roses at all when the bouquets quite literally spell out your name. The front yard of your home looks like a rose garden due to the excessive deliveries, but you soon find that you have no more space outside to plant the roses, so you are forced to keep some indoors in the vases and pots you have on hand. Roses and vines hang from every corner of your home, serving as a constant reminder of his past love and ever-lasting obsession.
However, there are too many to tend to all at once, and those uncared for whither away over time. He does not worry about that. With his rough hands, he wraps each bouquet with pink ribbons, the thorns cutting into his fingers, before he sends them off to your home to replace the ones that could not withstand the obsessive and sickening love they were supposed to represent.
The thorns, of course, are not cut off from the stems before he sends them to you; they are meant to also prick and cut your fingers as you handle them and bring them into your home. The blood, red as roses, that seep from your small cuts shall serve as a reminder that his obsession has transcended the realm of love, marriage, and divorce, and has situated itself as close to your heart as is your blood.
Yet, despite all the roses he sends, you never respond. Not once does his subordinates report any signs that you may be gradually welcoming his gifts with good spirit or perhaps even getting fed up with the absurd amount of roses being sent to your home. They say you simply accept them with apathy—expressionless with little to no emotion or surprise laced in your voice as you gesture for the Fatui soldiers to bring in the boxes of roses they struggle to carry on their persons. It seems as though you do not care, even when the roses you had planted in your garden had grown out of control, climbing onto the outer walls of your home as if to encroach on the very space you felt was otherwise untouchable to the obsessive Harbinger.
That is because you and your home are untouchable. You have turned those roses into a shield to defend you from the man sick with determination. Perhaps you know Childe better than himself. Childe is not as mysterious as he may seem to some. In fact, he is rather open and quite manipulable. That, nonetheless, does not mean you are stronger than him, at least not physically. However, you do not need to be stronger; you need only be smarter, for Childe is but a simple man. You know that he wants—no, craves a reaction, and it does not matter to him whether it is positive or negative, so your silence and easy compliance irritate him in a way that he hates, in a way that frustrates him unlike any obstacle he has ever faced. Who knew that by refusing to be an obstacle, you became the greatest challenge to him yet?
You did, of course, and this challenge is one he will never win.
“Am I to hate or love this challenge you have given me?” Childe crushes the rose petals in his calloused hands. He then looks at the dozens of open boxes in his office that are filled to the very top with roses he himself plucked this time. “If I fail, perhaps it is because it is the will of the cursed heavens. And what then? Will I then hate you or admire your wit?”
In which the male harbingers kidnapped you to Snezhnaya and you refused to leave any warm place in the house (bc you can bet my tropical ass won’t be able to withstand the cold).
[Edited]
***
Despite your nudity, Pierro seemed less than amused at the sight of you standing under the hot shower. Not that he hadn’t seen it before.
“You’ve been there for almost half an hour now.”
“Yes.”
He scanned your wet appearance from top to bottom. Your skin was already wrinkled in some places, begging for dryness.
“You’re pruning.”
“I know.”
“You’re wasting water.”
“You’re rich.”
Pierro narrowed his visible eye, unimpressed by your quip.
“Get out. Now.”
“No.”
Sighing heavily like a father being tired of his child’s antics, he wrapped your body with a towel and dragged you out of the shower. You winced at the sudden drop of temperature.
“I will not have you miss breakfast just for this.”
You huffed and crossed your arms pettily, letting him dress you up. Once upon a time, you used to be embarrassed by this moment and tried to kick him out of the room. But nowadays, you’d do anything to annoy him.
“You kidnapped me. Take responsibility for it.”
“I will,” Pierro intoned, buttoning up your blouse. “if you stop acting like a child.”
“And yet, you chose me.”
“Careful, I might give you a new reason to take another shower.”
Your eyes widened at the threat before you looked away and grumbled to yourself.
“There are many warm places in this mansion, and yet, you choose to stay in bed all day.” Capitano remarked, staring down at the lump under the thick blanket.
“I don’t deign to step my foot on the floor.” you retorted, voice muffled.
“Should I start carrying you everywhere from now on?”
“You’re cold.”
“I’m not that cold.”
“You have cryo. I don’t trust you.”
“Having cryo doesn’t guarantee the coldness of someone’s body.”
“You have these little accessories in your clothes. They’re cold to the touch.”
“Your body will be stiff if you stay there for too long.”
“Isn’t it better than escaping?”
Capitano exhaled through his mask and ripped the blanket open. You hissed like a vampire being exposed to the sun.
“It’s cold, you jerk!”
“Get up. We’ll take a walk in the garden now.”
“Are you serious right now? It’s freezing out there!”
“Get. Up. Before I force you to.”
You tried to plead with him, and even complemented it with your wide, puppy dog eyes.
“Can we just cuddle instead? You always wake up earlier than me, so we never have a morning cuddle.”
“I need to train, and don’t you dare find a way out of this.”
You sulked, hoping he’d deem you too childish and leave you alone. But instead, Capitano continued to glare down at you. At least, that was what you felt from the heat of his stare through the mask.
“Thrain, please.”
“No.”
So, in the end, you reluctantly left the comfort of the bed and wore your thickest coat for the hardest and coldest stroll in your entire life.
“Interesting. You curl up in an attempt to conserve body heat.” Dottore remarked, observing the way you hunched on his chair.
“Shut it.” you grumbled, wrapping his harbinger coat tighter around your shivering body. “Can you just turn up the heater? Or better yet, can I just leave? What am I even doing in your lab?”
The said man hummed cavalierly, choosing to ignore your second request.
“What makes you think I have a heater?”
You narrowed your eyes, unamused.
“This lab has all these fancy machines, and you’re telling me you don’t have a single heater?”
He waved his hand dismissively.
“It’s not necessary. And besides, my body has been designed to withstand extreme heat and cold.”
“Does that mean I can leave now?”
“No, you don’t have anything important that requires your presence.”
“Because you kidnapped me!”
“Even if I didn’t, it won’t change the fact that your life is still incredibly dull and unremarkable.”
“Why does that matter to you?!”
“At least with me, you can learn something useful. Something that will change the fate of Teyvat.”
“I don’t understand a single thing you’re doing.”
“Then, start paying attention.”
You sniffed, knowing that the reason why Dottore dragged you here was because he wanted your company. His segments were only there as an assistant of some sort. Nothing more, nothing less. So, he might as well make use of your presence, whether you wanted it or not.
Whether he admitted it or not.
“You’re such a weakling. A little cold, and you’re already hiding away?” Scaramouche sneered, crossing his arms arrogantly behind you.
“Well, at least I’m not a puppet like you.” you muttered, sitting comfortably near the fireplace.
He narrowed his purple eyes.
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“You talk big for someone who looks like a wet dog right now.” he scoffed.
You closed your eyes and decided to focus on the warmth of the fire. And obviously, Scaramouche didn’t like it. He might insult and condescend you in every way, but you both knew he couldn’t live without your attention.
“Oh, growing a spine now? Well, let’s see how strong it is once I splash a bucket of water to the fire.”
You froze, before sighing at his attitude. Taking a deep breath, you turned around and softened the edge in your voice.
“Darling, why don’t we enjoy this warmth together?” you cooed, patting the spot on the floor beside you. “I feel quite lonely without you.”
“And why should I indulge in your whims?”
“Because you’re the only man I want beside me.”
“Tch, funny how quickly you changed your mind just now.”
Despite the typical scowl on his face and sharpness in his voice, Scaramouche still relented to your request anyway. You scooted closer to him and leaned your head on his shoulder, choosing not to mention his instinctive tenseness at your proximity.
“Thank you for indulging me, darling.”
“Hmph, don’t count on it.”
But you knew he secretly liked it. Enjoyed it, even. And he’d continue to search for more opportunities like this.
“I hate you. God, I hate you so much I wish you die in a ditch somewhere.” you hissed, teeth chattering.
Pantalone merely chuckled and patted your snug body on his lap.
“Of course, darling. And I know how much you like the warmth of my body, even if your pride prevents you from admitting it.”
“You forced me to come here! And you don’t bother to light up the fireplace because you’re a lowly bastard!” you snapped.
“That’s quite a statement from someone who’s nearly burrowing their way into my ribcage.” he mused calmly. “But then again, that sounds rather romantic. If I can keep you inside me, nobody will steal you away from me.”
“Freak.” you muttered.
Pantalone purposely brushed his rings against your bare thighs, and you jolted slightly at the sudden sensation.
“Hey!”
A rich, mocking laugh filled the frigid office.
“Perhaps I should have you wear this kind of dress more often. My eyes are certainly blessed by the sight.”
You gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to insult him further. You knew that if you did it, Pantalone would take what little of thick clothes you had left.
Because he was the one who gave them to you, so he had a right to confiscate them, apparently.
So, you conceded and leaned your head on the crook of his neck.
“Don’t. I’ll sit on your lap for as long as you want me to.”
Pantalone hummed and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of your breath against his skin.
“That’s a good girl.”
“And here I thought you liked reading. Turns out, you just wanted to hog the fireplace, huh?” Childe commented lightly, leaning on the doorway.
You kept silent and merely buried yourself deeper into the blanket. You knew that he was aware of your main motive in choosing the library as your favorite spot, which was to avoid him. But, alas, this room – this whole mansion – was still his territory. So, it was only a matter of time before he decided to end this secret, little game.
The sound of his footsteps was muffled by the carpet that covered the floorboards, but your body was already tensed like a cornered prey.
“You know, if you want some warmth, you can just ask me.” he said casually, perching on the arm of the chair you were sitting in. “My hands are always open for you.”
“No, thank you.”
Childe laughed, carelessly dismissing your bitterness as usual. Then again, when you knew that you were the dominant one in the relationship, not much would bother you.
“Come now, you know that you can’t stay here forever. This isn’t your rightful place.”
“I didn’t know someone has already marked this place.”
“Well, no, but I’ve decided that this room won’t be open when I’m here.”
“What?”
A burst of water spurted from his gloved hand and extinguished the fire. You sat frozen, staring at the faint smoke that swirled up from the now charred woods. The culprit turned towards you and smiled coyly.
“There, problem fixed.”
“Ajax, what the hell did you do?”
The said man shrugged and lifted you bridal style, blanket and all. Squeaking at his sudden action, you immediately clung to his neck and glared at him.
“You look so cute like this.” he chuckled. “Maybe I should do this more often.”
“Ajax!”
“Come on, princess. It’s time for our daily cuddles!”
; written with yandere in mind, female (y/n), ooc, mostly crack, talks of being desperate for pussy, modern au, they're being weird to a woman (you), don't take this seriously, not proofread.
♡ "not like other guys" kazuha. see, most men are brutish and obnoxiously loud, always blabbering on about their latest investment in a bitcoin that's sure to rise or how they've been going to the gym more often to buff up. either a finance bro or a gym rat or something in between, still horrendous options when dating women - emotionally unavailable, vain, narcissistic, etc. etc. but not kazuha, he's different, for your information. incredibly so.
whereas other men are always out in clubs or attending football games, kazuha prefers to stay in the comfort of his home and play with his guitar or write poetry. while other men are out getting their dick wrung out like some dishcloth and getting passed around in a circle, kazuha very much prefers to abstain in hopes of saving his first time for 'the one'. not giving it out to the first girl he sees!
his mentality of standing out and being unique compared to the general populace of men only strengthens when he develops feelings for you. his pick-me behavior is amplified. starts taking seats near you and lays out all his quirkily designed notebook covers while he's blasting music from his earphones. makes sure to dress up like those soft boy fits ethically sourced from pinterest, too, as he tries to look like he isn't glancing in your direction every two seconds.
ignore him and don't make conversation, please. unless you like getting stunlocked into what feels like an unskippable dialogue sequence in a video game. you could just say "hi." to him as a simple acknowledgment, but the next you know, he's yapping your ear off with how lowkey different he is.
"ermm i'm kind of a weird kid 🤓🤓🤓 not like the other guys in our classes, you know? i watch weird documentaries and childhood TV shows instead of cool stuff like NBA matches or action films >.< also i don't disrespect women, unlike" gestures to some guys behind him, "them."
the type to embarrass you in class by purposely making it known that he has a crush on you by leaving behind poems on your desk, and even has the audacity to act out the corny main character confrontation scenes from movies when he learns that some -129 IQ guy named maverick is also interested in you. like, relax.... you are not the main character in a coming-of-age movie; you are in college !!
but that's okay, because like he said, errmmmm he's kinda not like other guys, got that 🤓☝️? so please go ahead and start stripping off your panties the moment he shows you his lego collection :)
♡ "guy best friend" scaramouche. alternatively called, "i hate my best friend's boyfriend final boss" scaramouche. but then again, your past boyfriends never lasted long enough for him to be infamously known as that. the type of guy who quite literally plays the longest waiting game and plots for years because he was too much of a pussy to express romantic interest in you back when you first met him and now has to deal with the damned consequences.
he's always by your side, making it known to everyone that the two of you are, in fact, a package deal that should not be separated. even when you're on a supposed date with your current boyfriend, scaramouche will be found proudly third-wheeling as he lags behind a couple of steps. like.... why isn't he home yet? who exactly is the boyfriend here, uhmmm??
you never even question this freakish antic of his because he excuses it as, "looking out for you just in case he tries anything weird," and well, it works. since you view him as a brother figure, isn't that how brother figures usually act? all protective and stuff :000?
and because it gives him the pass to crash in on your dates, scaramouche has no choice but to suck it up and agree with a strained smile. right, right... guy best friend and brother figure.... definitely. yup! he knows his place in your life :) never mind the fact that he'll cry himself to sleep while 'i fell in love with my best friend' blasts on repeat, slowed and reverbed.
still, there's a reason why your boyfriends never last long, and this is because scaramouche acts like that one junji ito comic with how he's whispering in your ear saying, "you could do so much better than that useless guy" and "i'm just saying... if he was the one, you would've felt the spark by now. besides, are you really willing to babysit after a grown ass man like him?" and not to toot his own horn... but it works like a charm every time, heh. he's even there by your side after each argument with your boyfriend, listening intently and agreeing to every point you make against that douche (even if you're objectively in the wrong, because hey, brownie points) and repeatedly chanting 'break up with him' in his head.
he's doing everything but putting in the work to charm you, though. he's out here threatening your boyfriend behind closed doors and spreading malicious rumors about them online to 'protect you' but he can never open up etsy and order you a bouquet of flowers online before asking you out on a date. he just longingly stares at you 50 miles away in hopes that you'll get the signal and finally text him to eat out your pussy or something. :/
definitely tries out the corny move of goading you into having sex with him to "make sure you're prepared once you get laid by someone else!". you always snort and playfully push his head away every time, fully believing that he's just kidding. oh well... back to the waiting game, it is. one day.... >.< !! #1 waiter.
♡ "indie pop gatekeeper" flins. makes indie his entire personality, like oh, you discovered x and y artist through the trending sounds on teyvatok? psh, he's been a fan of theirs ever since they were playing their songs out on public streets. nice try, buster, but you're gonna have to try better than that to outclass an indie appreciater like him 🤓
it extends over to the games he plays. refuses the mainstream games created by billionaire companies because he refuses to support capitalism before turning around to drink sprite and use his samsung phone like, buddy... seethes when the indie games he plays get popular, though. ugh, it's just not the same compared to when only seven people across the globe knew about it!!!! even lives with that 'indie>>>' principle with how he only buys clothes through overpriced local businesses that probably have their items mass produced regardless. lowkey looks down on people who like popular media, subtly rolls his eyes, and huffs quietly. "how typical."
but quickly lowers his gatekeeper tendencies when around you because he absolutely refuses to fumble. quickly chases after you when the lecture ends, dressed in his local business-approved college fit, and asks you to check out this lowkey library that opened up near campus. he's the only student to discover it so far because the location is hidden in a secluded alleyway... so uhm, wanna go? :)
unfortunately, you're not immune to his alt rizz, so you bite. the biggest regret of your life, actually. the walk there is unbearable because the quiet guy who usually sits at the back suddenly transforms into a nonstop talking machine, blabbering about indie this and indie that and how he hatessss pop singers like yun jin from liyue. oh, but don't get him wrong, he supports women!
"only me and the three ants i found under a chocolate chip cookie listen to this band, but since you're kinda (read: incredibly) cute, i don't mind sharing them with you :)" pulls out his earbuds and gives you the other half so he can reenact the inazuman dramas that he secretly watches. "they're kinda indie, so i don't expect you to know them, haha... but i can show you more of their songs if you'd like ! >///<" no, thank you.
by the end of this archon forsaken hangout, you just want to go home and laugh about his loser ass with your roommate, but you're stopped by a hand on your shoulder before you could even bolt out of there.
so, huh.... this was a good hangout (read: date), right? can you, likeee.... type in your number now so you two can have e-sex on snezhcord once you go home? pretty please? ...with cherries on top?
♡ "nonchalant outcast" kinich. yare yare daze... college isn't big enough for a nonchalant cool guy like kinich 🥀🥀🥀 he's a distant cousin of flins with how ostracized they are from their peers, but kinich remains unbothered, something something too busy aura farming by the window seat. he's not bullied per se, he's just the one who detaches himself from the people in his class. some speculate that he acts like that because of a traumatic childhood or has something to do with how he was raised. the truth is far simpler...
he just really, really wants to bag the baddie (you) who sat in front of him during orientation two years ago and happened to overhear you gushing to your friend about "nonchalant men being the best!" and he literally switched up his entire personality since then. now he's in his third year and has shared more than 50% of his classes with you, and yet still no luck... you haven't looked at him twice. he'd approach you if he could, but ugh, first moves weren't in the nonchalant guy instruction manual.
archons above... please let this third year be the college year where he finally advances his romance novel-esque, slow burn trope that he has going on with you... please. like, look! he's too much of a loner to have other friends, isn't that what girls like nowadays? something something isolation and having no worries about him having girl friends so there's no chance of getting jealous? he's literally spiritually prostrating himself at your glorious feet !!!
expections never align with reality, however, because the one time you got paired up with him for a class, he was too busy keeping up the nonchalant guy act that he just came across as a total douchebag who had a tendency to reply with just one (1) word. despite everything... he still fumbled. baddie not acquired :(
♡ "white knight" childe. ladies !! calm down and stop throwing your bras and panties at him the moment he walks out, please !! >////< except the ladies in this case is singular and even then, the world will have to bend in on itself before you begin to contemplate the idea of throwing your underwear at him... sigh :(. oh, but don't get him wrong ! he's not a woman (read: you) defender and protector just to acquire some pussy (he definitely is) !! he's doing this all for the love of the game!
you could be the worst person ever, and white knight childe will still be on the frontlines defending your honor because he feels it in his bones that one of these days he'll finally be given a crumb of pussy 🥹🥹 acts so dramatic about it too, panting and wiping sweat off his forehead as if he just went through a grueling war and won by just a strand of hair when in reality he was just on his monitor all night alternating between jacking off to porn stars that look like you and camping under your instagram comments to drive off any suitors.... capital L Loser.
he camps like crazy, too. replies to guys with, "she doesn't want you bro lmao." "i know where you live." "i'll put you on life support" and he means it. can he stop scaring away your possible roster !!!!
still, this white knight has some uses. he'll unironically beat up some guy who offended you, maybe it's over something minor: a mean comment made in a whisper, an anonymous remark left under the college forum, a simple eyeroll, etc. regardless, that nameless nobody's still getting his shit rocked by childe behind a lecture building. probably records it with his phone propped up on the wall and sends it to you after all is said and done, the kaomojis he adds to his texts don't match the gruesome content, but... eh. who are you to stop him?
apart from physical altercation, he's surprisingly adept at attending to your every whim and need, obediently bowing down with a foxy grin on his face as he asks what you need. doing your essay, perhaps? or do you prefer him making the presentation slides for your ethics class? maybe both? just tell him, he's all yours now and forever :)
though, just so you know.... if you give him even just a blowjob, his work efficiency increases by 300% !! >///< it's not a lie, he swears! you can test it for yourself! sadly, you're too smart to be baited like that </3
♡ "total feminist" ifa. average daily routine of ifa's: wake up and remember how badly women have it, clench fist in anger, and sigh deeply. have breakfast and think about the patriarchy still standing and frown. go to work and mull over how unfair it is that women have to go through periods. post a caption story on teyvatgram about loving women during break and then go back to work. go home, eat dinner, and then lie in bed as he mourns the gender inequality of modern teyvat. repeat this the following day.
wears a "feminist" t-shirt beneath his work scrubs and was so close to getting a tattoo of it, that is, until he meets you and starts using his superficial feminism as a way to charm you. starts reposting hot takes of women which contain takes that are... not hot at all, not even near to boiling point, actually. amps up the instagram story posting agenda and even sneaks in home pictures as he whines about how he wishes he had a girlfriend right now because he would be such a good boyfriend 🥺🥺🥺 !! tries imitating the golden retriever energy that women love, but uhm, he makes it weird. fast.
whenever his good bro ororon visits his clinic, and you happen to be there, best believe that ifa is switching up and starts painting his friend out to be an absolute villain.
you could make a minor mistake, like accidentally going way past the allotted amount of medicine inserted in the syringe, and ororon would laugh at you in good nature. he'd nudge ifa then point at your fumble, and just as you're also about to laugh, ifa frowns and starts dishing out a lecture then and there.
"bro, not cool," he'd chide, shaking his head, "don't you know how much courage it takes to become a vet student and pursue this field, dude? not only is (y/n) trying her best at all times, but she also makes sure that all the saurians in the clinic are comfortable and happy in their own ways. are you even hearing yourself, bro? next time you make fun of her, think about-" yap yap yap.
😭😭😭 it is NOT that deep, ifa !! she's still not picking him, regardless :((( he's so locked into being perceived as the number one women supporter for plus points that he forgoes all common sense. oh well, he can stew in common sense once he's picked as the best man for your wedding with ororon 10 years later because you chose a man with a good sense of humor over the feminist king.
heh.... you know, nice guys finish last anyway. that's exactly why he brought over a tranquilizer gun! :)
♡ "ugly guy" xiao. nobody knows if he's serious or just outright ragebaiting when he starts acting edgy and spewing out things such as, "don't get close to me, i don't want to stain you with my sins" or "i'm too unsightly, it's best you keep your distance" like, uhm, okay.... he cannot be talking with those blessed looks lmfao. and the sin in question is probably gooning too much because what else could he be on about? unless he's talking about an underpaid service worker in yaedonalds, then :( regardless, they take his advice and steer clear from him, another distant cousin to kinich and flins with being a social recluse.
he's always uglyposting, both in conversation and online. casually just slips it in and continues the topic as if he didn't just drop that??? it's hard to discern if self-conscious or otherwise, too. so cryptic and for whatever reason :/ leaves you thinking about it hours after the conversation ended, because what does he mean by that... is he fishing for compliments or??? and you're essentially forced to ruminate on it further because his posts are the first things you see the moment you open social media. cowabummer.
the longer you know him, the less it bothers you. it goes from, "hey, do i need to get you a therapist? :)" to "what the hell, sure." whenever he starts acting up. works against him because you're now unfazed. "ugh. i'm so ugly, don't pick me >:( nobody would want a guy like me" wow, masterful work of reverse psychology, mister xiao! except, uhm... this tactic clearly isn't working on a baddie like you anymore :(
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who arrives at the sanctuary where you volunteer in the dead of winter. He's brought in by a group of hunters who found him in a decade-old bear trap on the verge of freezing to death. He's aggressive at first, still rattled from such a close call, but comes around quickly after a warm bath, a visit with your on-call vet, and of course, something to fill his stomach.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who can't be released back into the wild while he's still in recovery or left alone overnight, not when he's so eager to play fight with the other hybrids. He gets along well enough with all the volunteers, but he's constantly trying to get your attention, either sulking as you tend to another hybrid or drinking in your generously-given affection. You're clearly his favorite, so you're the one to take him home. He's ecstatic about the change in scenery, to say the least.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who takes to being a housepet like a fish takes to water. You try to make up for the lack of stimulation with a never-ending supply of thrifted toys and as many walks as his injured leg will allow, but he prefers to spend most of his time curled up at your feet or trailing after you, ginger ears perked-up and blur eyes wide and bright. He's surprisingly good at household chores for a wild animal. By the end of the first week, he's cooking and cleaning on his own, and when you insist that he's your guest, that you don't want him to get too domesticated, he just laughs and tells you that he likes it, that he's used to hunting for his siblings. Since you won't let him bring the birds and rabbits he catches past the front door, this is how he's decided to provide for you.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who destroys your apartment the first time you leave him alone for more than an hour. It makes sense, even if you can't say you've ever seen another hybrid react so violently to being separated from their handler. Foxes are social animals, and he hasn't been on his own since he was brought to your sanctuary, since the day he stumbled into a trap he couldn't understand or struggle his way out of. Still, when you come home to find all his toys gutted and all of your furniture overturned, you can't say you're thrilled. Childe spends the rest of the day buried in your sheets, pouting until you finally give in and forgive him. Childe goes wherever you go, after that.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who suddenly seems a lot less friendly than he did, when you first took him in. You try to write it off as him being overly protective of his temporary skulk, but it's a little hard to tell that to your male friends when he bares his teeth and snaps at their hands. In public, he refuses to leave your side, his tail constantly thrashing and his ears pressed flush to his scalp. He'll still smile, laugh, promise he doesn't get jealous that easily, but it's difficult to take his word for it when he holds your hand so tightly.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who's been scenting you in your sleep for weeks, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and gripping at any flesh he can reach and humping your thighs until he inevitably climaxes and has to clean his cum off of your skin with his tongue. He makes a point of 'accidentally' staining anything he doesn't want you wearing in front of anyone but him, letting you think he's too vulnerable to his animalistic urges to not mark your favorite top with his cum, that his separation anxiety is just too severe for you to shower without him, let alone close the door when you change.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, whose leg has been fine for months. You're too much of a bleeding heart not to buy it when he puts on a half-hearted limp, and while he hates having to lie to his future mate, he hates being away from you more. It's not a permanent arrangement, either - he'll be able to tell you the truth when you're fully bonded, when you're heavy with his pups and coming undone on his knot every night, every minute he can get with you.
Fox Hybrid!Childe, who's not going to let anyone take him away from his precious mate now <3
A Grab Bag Commission For A Very Lovely Anonymous Commissioner.
Summary: With the help of the Akasha system, Dottore strives to keep you happy and docile and, most importantly, unaware by his side.
Word Count: 1.0k.
TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Unreality, Slight Gore/Blood, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Obsessive Behavior.
“Do you think Ajax is free?”
Dottore hummed thoughtfully, pressing his scalpel downward and severing a measured length of small intestine from the greater mass. With time to spare and the patient he was extracting his materials from long-dead, he took a minute aside to note the patches of scar tissue lining their internal tissue on a blood-spotted journal, to test for unusual viscosity or durability that’d have to be accounted for in his research. It was a minor study, something that would’ve been handed off to a younger branch of himself not yet ready to play a hand in more dire schemes, but due to the intervention of a certain archon, he was forced to carry out more of his own grunt work than he had in decades. Not that he minded getting his hands dirty, of course.
Especially when the same archon’s nation had given him such a lovely lab assistant to keep him company while he worked.
“Planning to replace me, little mouse?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. It’s your own dinner party, for the Tsaritsa’s sake.” He heard you sigh in mock exasperation, then again – your frustration more genuine. You were sitting at his desk, working away at whatever little task you’d assigned yourself, the ring of blue light encircling your head pulsing brightly. It was his own handiwork – a version of the Akasha system he’d been able to maintain even after returning to Snezhnaya. He had no idea where you thought you were, what you thought he was doing, what you saw through those clouded eyes, but he knew you couldn’t be here, in his dark, cluttered lab - couldn’t see your beloved husband, the man who you’d crossed half of Teyvat to stay with, elbow-deep in a vat of disembodied organs and viscera. That was what interested him most about your experiment, really. It was one thing to wonder how you’d react if you ever found out the man you loved had such grisly pastimes. It was another, to watch what lengths your mind would go to just to substitute your reality with a more palatable fantasy. When it suited him, he could play a more involved hand in your fabrication, make himself into a hero or a villain or something else altogether, but most days, he was content to let you create your own daydreams. You were the most obedient when you could make him into exactly what you needed, that day.
“To celebrate your return to Snezhnaya,” You went on, as he piled the segmented pieces of a malformed liver onto his scale. “Pierro says that you haven’t been holding up your social obligations. I know it’s not customary, but I thought it’d be nice to invite another Harbinger – so you don’t have to suffer a room full of noblemen and merchants alone.”
So you were aware of his status as a Harbinger, today. More often than not, you treated him like a neighborhood doctor, or a traveling scholar as far from home as you’d found yourself. Sometimes, he was a low-ranking diplomat, or a medic you could welcome home from the battlefield, but you rarely acknowledged him as something so dangerous, something so far above yourself. It must’ve been the occasion. It would’ve been hard to deny who he was when you were sending out the invitations to a Harbinger’s event.
On that note, he abandoned his work, positioning himself on the opposing side of your desk. He was already smiling – it was difficult not to, when you were in his position – but his grin broadened further as he looked over your half-finished guest list, your attempts at calligraphy scribbled across what little scrap paper you could find. “I believe Tartaglia was sent back to his post in Liyue last week.”
You pursed your lips. “Pantalone comes with good company.”
“And he charges market-price for every precious second of his time. You wouldn’t want to bleed me dry, now, would you?” You tilted your head to the side, pretending to consider it, and he let out a breathy laugh, rounding the table and settling behind you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “There must be an alternative.”
“Well,” You tilted your head back, your smile now matching his own. “It has been a while since I’ve heard Columbina sing–”
“Anyone but Columbina.”
“I write Pantalone a letter tonight, then.” You allowed yourself a moment to bask in your own self-satisfaction, leaning back in your seat and allowing your gaze to drift – first to your lap, then to your shoulders, where the blood and viscera coating your hands was beginning to soak into the fine ivory silk of your sleeves. There was a flash of repulsion, a sound not unlike a half-choked scream, and then you were shoving him away, your expression only growing more pained when he refused to move. He felt something tighten in his chest – not quite fear, but pure, zealous excitement. Had you, somehow, managed to break yourself out of your trance? Was there a flaw in the Akasha system he hadn’t accounted for? How much would you force yourself to forget, overwrite, warp and distort into something loving in the coming hours if you saw him for what he was, now?
“Zandik.” The sound of his name on your lips was to die for. He leaned down, pressing nipping at the corner of your jaw, and you groaned, brushing him away. “I’ve told you not to touch me while you’re painting. Look at me – it’s going to take ages to get this out of my clothes.”
Oh. Painting. How adorably quaint.
How adorably wrong.
With a sigh, he leaned down, pressing a fleeting kiss into the corner of your neck. You crossed your arms, sulking, but allowed him to. It wasn’t as if you’d be able to refuse. “Forgive me, darling.”
He straightened his back, watching red seep into white and begin to stain.
“I’m sure you’ll forget all about this in no time at all.”
Hiii hello I went down a rabbit role and now I made a guide of (almost) all the fonts used in the game, here's the link for the drive I put them all in:
thinking about “you haven’t met all the people who will love you” and like!!! you also haven’t found all the things that will make you happy!!!! there will always be new authors and musicians and artists whose work you will one day discover and love!!!! there will always be new hobbies and skills for you to learn and feel fulfilled by!!! there will always be new things around the corner that will bring sudden and unexpected happiness!!!!!!!!!!!
Miserable ★ Soul @ceruleancattail - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
