Yandere Platonic Farm Animals X Wolf Pup Gender Neutral Reader Idea Blurb (Guard Dog Edition)
Summary: A pup is told to infiltrate the Warhill Farm to find an opening, you obviously fail with flying colors. How will the Guard Dogs receive you?
TW: Obsessive Behaviors, Child (Pup) Abuse, Kidnapping (apologies on the cringe)
-As a clumsy pup, you were grabbed by a bunch of teens who thought it’d be funny to dress you in sheep costume. Their hands roughly tugged your tiny legs through the sleeves, the loud jeering covered your shrill yelps.
-A growl reverberated through a treeline, a hulking mass of snarled teeth revealed itself from the shadows. Scared, hands dropped you onto the ground causing you to wheeze momentarily from the force. A shadow slowly covers the sun as it approaches your slack figure.
-Your caregiver regards your prone figure with judgement. You timidly open your eyes. You remember you weren’t allowed to wander alone–especially due to your small size. Knowing your faults, you lie back first to convey your apologies.
-With a flick of a grey tail, gravity is lost as teeth grab your faux wool. The journey back was filled with sharp silence that only intensified the shame you felt. Orphaned several moons ago, caked with blood, you called for warmth that was long gone. A burden is what you were regarded as this meant more food, finding a caregiver to hold you. It was a mercy that you weren’t left for winter.
-As the full moon rose, the ravens that circled the air shrieked at the duo’s arrival. Teeth tightened on your nape as it raced through the shrubbery and logs that marked their territory. The scent of the pack caused you to wilt even further.
-Several eyes glowed in the dim light, eyes pricked at your figure. Barks and cackles echoed through the air when they noticed your costume. You suddenly wish that you tore this off before you came back to the Fenra Pack.
-A shadow stood tall by the Main Cave, a tall canine with black fur slowly strode forward. A deep voice rumbled through the air, “Did you find the lost whelp?”
-Ears drawn back, you failed to bite back the whimpers at the disappointment coating his voice. Amber eyes flicker down at you,”No, but I found a sheep.”
-A raven subordinate landed on his head, beak agape at your form. Beady eyes drinking in the sight of the “sheep” in question. Sebastian threw his head back, hysterically laughing at the comical sight,”What are you wearing?!”
-The pack were stuck with an air of disbelief, muttering to themselves at your slack form. Snouts curled in confusion at the image. “Where did they even get that,”one of the head hunters said with heavy exasperation.
-Another huntress piped up,”I think I won the leftovers today. It took them an hour out before they messed up.”
-The clamor only grew louder until a warning growl cut the air. Eyes pinned towards the Head Alpha, their snouts were pinned shut with the dagger-like teeth bared at them. Assessing the bowed heads, creased eyes went back to the Caregiver and troubled pup. “And why did you sneak out when I forbid you? Also—what are you wearing?”
-Ears flared back, your shaky voice answered back,”I’m sorry! I just wanted to see the outside since the other pack keeps talking about Warhole Farm! Then-then a bunch of two legs grabbed me and put this on me.”
-Each barks caused the Head Pack Leader to look at you with incredulous eyes. The ground suddenly seems more interesting than the esteemed leader. As your eyes dropped down, your Caregiver gave your coat a reprimand shake which jolted you out of your piling thoughts.
-Sighing, he looked like he aged significantly. Looking at the distance, there were rolling hills. On top of one of the hills lay a red building on the north. Another white cabin close where the two legs rested. The fences towered from any approaching predators while it was guarded by vigilant pets. Obedient at their owners beck and call. They were from the same branch of the wild, but they were domesticated to betray their roots.
- Sebastian looked down at the dull pup and shook his head in disbelief. “WarHill, pup. It’s WarHill Farm. Who also was foolish to talk this loudly around a pup,”he squawked scanning the crowd. “Speak up, c’mon! Tell your old pal, Seb!”
-At the silence, he tsked with wings thrown up. “Cowards.”
-”Wait!” Eyes glistening as if the moon was gifted for him, Sebastian's wings flared up in revelation. The leader flinched at the loud noise before his ears. Growling slowly at his advisor who chuckled meekly. “I mean wait. Hehe… I have an idea for our sheep wolf here.”
-Tilting his head, his ears flicked in confusion. The raven hopped closer, wing obscuring his words from the curious crowd. A couple muttering as a light peeked in the leader’s eyes, greed embellishing his iris.
-Drawing back, Sebastian rubbed his wings in anticipation. Clearing his throat, he looked at the pup,”By order of the leader, keep that second coat on and meet us by the fire when the sunrises. You will be tasked with a mission."
-The Pack Leader dismissed everyone with a bark. Staying by the entrance, he watched the crowd depart into their den. Eyes lingering by the pup that was steered into a small den by an impatient caregiver. His eyes flickered with a troubled light for a millisecond before determination took over. This will work and the pack will survive for the fortnight and more.
-In the morning, you are well fed and cleaned in a lake. Wash any impurities from the wool that covered your shivering body. Tasked with finding any vulnerabilities with the Farm entrances and exits, you braved the forests with tentative steps.
-Although cowardice curled your throat, you knew two things. One, you mustn’t disobey the Pack Leader no matter how high the order is. Second, this was a clear chance to integrate back into the clan with honor.
-You just didn’t know how fast your plans would fall for the months to come.
Buddy (Australian Cattle Dog)
-”You have a lot of nerve showing up here. If Dolly wasn’t in the way, I would’ve skinned you bloody, runt.”
-A cautious and cold guarddog. Speckled with white streaks in a mass of black fur, stalking the farm with vigilance for any intruders. He saw through your disguise and his eyes remained pinned ever since.
-He remembers patrolling the fence when his nose picked up on a wolf in the fence. Stalking closer, he sees on the northern edge of the metal fence, a nest of curled wool–Dolly talking to a smaller figure. His eyes were taken aback by the mass of curls on your bodice. Shaking his confusion, he charged forward.
-As the faker turned with wide eyes, his vision was blocked by an angry ewe who embodied maternal anger. He was swiftly scolded by the sheep who blocked his every move.
-Giving up, he crawled back to his post, stewing in anger remembering the sheep that retaliated against his accusations. A baby, he scoffed. No lamb had a fanged grin or pointed claws. He’ll prove it all right, just wait.
-To his dismay, several days passed with no one believing him. He badgered the other guards about his discovery, but he was only met with a scoff or a dismissive wag of a tail. He provided proof of the danger you wield by mentioning you stalking the perimeters at night. A curious lamb, they’d say.
-He tried getting closer to you, but he was shoved back by Dolly's wrath. Didn’t they understand, they were in D-A-N-G-E-R!
-It was one night when he stalked the perimeter, he saw your form curled up in the grass. Outside of Dolly and her flock of friends embrace, you shivered as the merciless gust brushed against your coat. Stomach growling in dismay at the lack of food. Grass isn’t a substantial resource for a pup. But it was the only way to maintain cover.
-Stalking closer, he couldn’t really see a wolf at the moment. He saw a shivering pup which brought some bad memories of his past. Trying to harden his heart, he tried to remember the nature of the wolf and the risks of trying to fester your kind. But your whimpers caused his heart to pang.
-Turning around, he ran to get some subsidence for you. Returning back, he noticed your attention on his form.
-Flinching, you thought it was really over which caused your eyes to close in defeat. You only felt the earth shift beside you like a bowl of kibble. Meeting his eyes, he only nodded and ran off.
-Since that day forward, his comments became less barbed and more open. He still monitored you, but only for your safety. He could only laugh at your drooped tail as you found no openings. You were really bad at this spy thing.
-You in turn, tested your boundaries, asking for more food and sharing his bowl. Each night is silent with a sense of calm harmony. The distance between you became smaller, trust shown with your back turned from him.
-It was the last moon when you decided it was time to return. Unrest laid in your heart as you listened to the howling in the distance. Home. You couldn’t help, but nuzzle back into Buddy’s coat.
-Sneaking out, you felt a force crush to the fence. Your lungs squeezed as you felt the large body get up causing you to gasp harshly. Teeth dug at your nape harshly, a warning hard enough to remind you. Paws flailing in the air for traction, you whimpered helplessly.
-Thrown harshly back into the barn, hay bedding flew in every direction. You looked up with startled eyes. Buddy?
-With dark eyes, he snarled at you to get back in. Scared you scrambled into Dolly’s sleeping embrace, trying to ignore the pang of pain. Sleep did not come easy that night.
-Buddy watched closely now, teeth bloody with every reminder he had to dish out to you. Fences were banned from you and you can’t help feeling trapped. Nipping at your heels every time you make a wrong move.
-”You wanted it so badly and you got your wish. Why are you acting so ungrateful?”
Titan (Kangal Shepherd Dog)
-”Hey, get down from there. We wouldn’t want you hurt now.”
-A giant with a larger heart. Thick sandy fur with a dark snout, ivory teeth for wolves at night. Soft coat for gentle flocks at day. He knew first hand you were a wolf pup when he stumbled across the noise. Your long tail gave it out before your scent did.
-He tried placating a fuming Heeler and sheep and it was not easy. Buddy almost lunged at him which caused him to dodge swiftly with a disappointed look. Hurt by the disbelief, Buddy left swiftly with a promise of proof.
-Looking at the shaking pup that licked at their snout nervously, trying so hard to ignore the sheep licking at their face. He couldn’t help, but crumble at the cute sight in front of him. Silently of course, he had a reputation to maintain. Even if you're bred for violence, you are a small babe at the end of the day.
-Tongue lolled, he escorted the two of you to your new flock. The mass of fluff bleating at the sight of a proud mother that clamored on finding their child. He watched with curious eyes as your round eyes expanded with each friendly nuzzle.
-He was elated on Dolly’s improving health condition. Dolly was in better condition nowadays. No longer in the depressive struggle of finding her lost lamb. It has been months since the wolves dragged her baby away and she wasn’t able to eat or sleep properly in a while. Sleep was the only remedy for her sore heart. And it hurt to find his family like that.
-It’s the main reason why he keeps sending Buddy your way when you line the fence. He would obviously mention a sound from the perimeter you were exploring. He remembers several nights when he would see you sleep with your hood down, clamping on your disguise and tugging it back onto your slumbering figure. You didn’t need to be here long, just long enough that she got better.
-He remembers laughing at Buddy’s crazed episodes of finding proof of your long nails. A genetic mutation, he would laugh back. Your teeth, well we can’t judge when we also have them. Your canine scent? Well maybe we didn’t bathe and rubbed it off them. Your eyes would stare at him in surprise with each rebuttal, wonder and relief bleeding over with each word.
-How cute…He kind of wants to shake you around like a chew toy. But without the chewing part.
-With how you stumble and titter around the sheep, he can’t help, but forget your wolf status. I mean, you are really bad at this gig.
-One day, a shriek rings out the air, hysterical sobbing coming to the center of the flock. Moving politely against the crowd of sheep, he sees Dolly crying about her lost lamb. Meeting his gaze, she begs him to find them before they get killed.
-You are at the fence stumbling around the entrance (fault from a clumsy farm help). Snickering with mischief you ran out. Scenting the air, you hear large paws slamming against dirt causing you to scramble in panic.
-The giant chases after the “sheep” into a bush which causes you to be dragged out with branches in your fur. In the mess, shards of bones caught his eye. Dropping you momentarily, he ignored your faint yelp as he inspected it.
-He drops into his rump as horror floods his mind. His vision blurs as a whimper breaks free. Is that–that… Guilt crackles in his heart as the world grows mute. He promised he would find them before–it really is his fault.
-Pawing at the lamb skull, fractured from powerful jaws. He buried his head into his paws, deaf to the small teeth that tugged at his ears.
-Panicked, you dug at his ear harder to bleed him. Causing him to flinch. Watery eyes gazed at you and looked down in shame. You couldn’t help, but feel bad for a blood spilled from your clan. Desperation curled at your heart with each heave.
-“It’s not your fault,”you cried. His head only shook in disbelief in response.
-”I’m a failure, the flock don’t deserve me,”he pitifully sniffled.
-Licking at his face, you swiped at the drops that fell onto his face. “It’s not your fault. I don’t know what happened, but I know you tried your best. Your flock deserves you.”
-Looking at you silently, he searched your face silently before looking back at the bones. With a heavy heart, he continued to cry silently until sleep took him. While he slept, you looked at the bones and decided to give respect one final time. You buried the bones under the dirt even as your paws grew tired of the force.
-Once finished, you laid your head onto his weeping body. In the morning, you woke up with Dolly the Sheep scolding you on your dirty “hooves”. Your mind wondered the night before and begged the moon that Titan is okay.
-Titan now looks at you in thoughtful silence, gently licking your face off any debris. Escorting you back into the room. When he notices Buddy's weakening animosity, he says nothing. A wordless agreement exchanged between them as they escort you back.
-He will never violently reprimand you, Buddy does that enough. But he will whisper doubts into your ears.
-”I just don’t want the same to happen to you. Not–not like the poor lamb before. Please understand I do this for your safety.”
Sweetie (Pembroke Welsh Corgi)
-”You’re awfully fast for a lamb. Race me to that line. Ready se—Hey! Wait!”
-Like the name, easy going, energetic, and a kind guard dog. Rustic coat with white undercoat, small legs for better access to biting heels. Honestly had no idea you were a wolf–because who would be that dumb to sneak on a guarded farm? Also, trusts with an open heart, so willingly blind to a fault. She remembers getting scolded heavily by Titan and Buddy for wearing her heart on her paw (wrist)?
-She remembered being curious about you due to Buddy’s rambling about you being a “demon dog”, she almost fell for it.
-But then a massive paw laid on her head, causing her to almost tip over. Looking up, Titan greets her with twinkling eyes. He was laughing at Buddy and reassuring her that Buddy is having his episodes which made him blow up frequently.
-She remembers from her past owners that episodes on TV, when there are many. It has become a season. She remembers lamenting at Buddy’s rabid barking that they are on their fourth or fifth one. It is rather amusing to see her mentor break at her placating nod.
-Her mind churns as she runs from defending you like Titan said, to investigating you. The only thing she really found though is that you would be a sucky wolf, if you were one. Watching as you stumble into a puddle, masking your face with muddy water.
-On a shift one day, she remembers stalking your steps and noticing your speed. How unusual! She wants to race you to that fence once she finishes her training or chores. Though, the corgi doesn’t like to do chores. The animals never listen to her! Bucking at her when she nips hard at their heels or calling her a “city girl”. It is a great secret under the grin that it tears at her confidence.
-Any reassurance from her trainers are left flat. How can she contemplate the validity when they are bigger than her, stronger, too. The doubts just keep piling up, her steps followed in sadness.
-If only they took her seriously, then she will be able to prove she belongs. She doesn’t want to be left behind like–like before.
-You watch her wilted frame with a tilted head. Eating at the grass, you ignore the tears of disgust that pile up as you choke it down. Grass…disgusting.
-Your admiration grows due to her smiles as she is scolded by the elder guard dogs. The determination to fight back against advisories that question her place. Your runt status makes you feel kinship to her.
-It was dinner time with the Farm owners and their family. The smell of mouthwatering casserole and buttery loaf clung to the air. Looking onto the table cloth, there’s a glaze of honey and frosting that lines the vanilla cake, sprinkled with powdered sugar. The two legs welcome the guests on the table as the three guard dogs stood dutifully by the door.
-Collars embroidered with the Farm Head’s name in gold stitching, her tail wagged as she sat by the table. The rumbles of laughter that emanate from the dinner table with the light spreading a warm glow.
-It was good, good… Her body shivers as she sits under the tree. The stars fade in and out in mockery of her bad mood. Flipping over, she felt frustrated tears well up as she feels the damn bow clip pinched her ear.
-She’s not sure what happens. She remembers one of the young two legs grabbing her, tugging her roughly at fur. Sticking stickers and accessories onto her fur. Her heart burned when she remembers the family laughing–laughing at her. The shrieking laughter cut into her insecurities as she felt the cold metal clamp onto her.
-Her flailing and whimpers were ignored as the grip tightened at her. The noise became louder, she remembers nipping as light as she could on the finger. With a yelp, she ignored the growing sobs as she slammed into the door with such speed. Her mind whirl winded, repeating the words that mocked her several times. Doll, is she really just going to be a doll?
-Laying there, her ears pricked at the steps taken towards her. Oh, great. Is it going to be freaking Buddy and Titan, scolding me on something that isn’t my fault.
-Turning her head, brown eyes widened at the small sheep that looked at her curiously. “Sorry for interrupting you, Sweetie.”
-Shaking her head, she forced a smile,”No, no. You’re good. I’m just relaxing. Why aren’t you with your mama?”
-Wagging your tail, you grinned back,”Ah, I just wanted to look at the stars for a bit. But then! I saw you. If you're not sleeping, can I ask something?”
-Nodding at your figure, she couldn’t help, but stare at your tail. Why is it long anyways? Mutation? “Yeah, shoot me your shot, lil’ lamb.”
-”Can…can you teach me how to be like you…”
-Her eyes widened at your words, “like you”? Squinting her eyes at you, she tried to ignore the slow rhythm of her tail wagging,”Why not just ask Titan or Buddy, they are ages better than me.”
-Grin weakening, you averted your eyes,”Because for them it’s easy to be scary. But you and me are small, so you understand what it’s like to not be taken seriously. I want to scare any predators that try me.”
-Watching you silently, you continued. “Like—like that bark. It got really, really deep. Like a wolf or maybe a monster! You made the other animals run with a single nip and–and I think it’s cool.” Feeling embarrassed, you stopped abruptly.
-Sweetie stared at the small youth that stood in front of her, heart racing. The stars and moon were truly hung by your tiny hooves, she thought dazed. With renewed vigor, she jumped onto her paws even as you cringed at the sudden movement.
-Tugging the bow off her with her hindleg, she felt like she was on top of the world. For a few hours, she taught you to deepen your voice with some practice. Furthermore, she remembers prancing as you complimented her on her lessons.
-She took to guarding the flock more, butting you back into your mother when she received you from Buddy or Titan. She remembers suggesting a bell when it became too frequent on your visits.
-Her frequent training she mandated, tired you out. Tuckering you down makes escape less likely. She can’t let you go out, what if you were hurt. She is your mentor, so you understand right?
-She later finds out about your wolf status and becomes more protective. What if others found out? What if the farmer found out? When your hood falls off, she tugs it back on. Nipping your ear to discipline your carelessness.
-She will snitch to her mentors if she finds you missing and comfort you as you weep with a dirty coat. She will lick your tears off and embrace you in a fuzzy embrace.
-”Hey! You missed your lesson, why don’t you back up from the fence? You are so lucky that I got here and not the other two. Let me tell you, they wouldn’t have been this nice.”
End Note: What is morality when we are discussing animals here? This will continue to the other animals, but count this as PT I. Anyways, this will be added to the wall of shame (Master list). I will one day write stories with substance. :)
Yandere Platonic Unicorn Hybrid Family X Gender Neutral Child Reader
Summary: An unknown disease taken over the kingdom targeting children and teens leaving behind an older generation to struggle. You, child of the king, fallen ill. The only cure of this ailment is the horn of a hybrid unicorn. Tensions bled through the realm of magic and non magic villages.
-Long ago, unicorn hybrid clans and human lived in peace. Living side by side with no violence at sight. But all that vanished as a plague hit the nation, children falling unconscious as they coughed up golden dust
-Studies have been conducted by scholars and could only see this as a magical disease. Old texts found in the Ancient Library, the words enchanting gleam whispering dark deeds. The disease is called, Ashes of Stars. Inhalation of meteors only impact souls of the pure, each adding a star in the constellation.
-The only way to stop this was ingesting crushed up unicorn’s horn. Taking a unicorn’s horn is like taking their heart. That damning sentence was enough to cause a blood filled war. Ever since, a guild of hunters formed, a desperate cause to protect the children.
-Bodies of human and unicorns scattered the forests. The trees towering high with each ingestion.
-You, a child royal, fell ill. The king ordered the guild to capture a unicorn. Days past as your bed piles up with gold blood. Finally, the door opens. You are led to your father’s throne room and you find a unicorn hybrid, younger. Horrified you demanded your father to let it go, not knowing it was your cure.
-Swiftly sent away, you stay in your room. Hearing the wails of the foal. The night crept in, making shadows your willing assistance.
-Sneaking out you evade the guards with shaky steps. Each coughs masked with a hanker chief. Ducking into the columns, you crawl in the velvety rug until you reach the throne room. There is a faint glow of the unicorn foal. Tiny ivory horn emitting a sparkle as it’s head pressed against the bars. Curtain of curls masking their fluttering eyes.
-Creeping forward, you manage to hush the foal as it almost whinny in shock. Whispering instructions, you opened the cage. It tentatively stepped out and shook as you grabbed their hands.
-Leading them to the forest was slow and shaky as your head grew fuzzy. Every branch reaching toward causing the tail to lash out, accidentally hit you. In shock, you can’t help to huff a laughter. The foal stared back in confusion and giggled back in confusion. You can’t help it, it’s the most fun you had in the while. You’ve been trapped since, since…you’re not sure.
-With lighter steps, you lead the white goal to a safer patch of grass. Stepping back as if waiting to see them go. The foal ran to the hill in a merry leap, but stopped abruptly. Tilting your head, they looked back and smiled brightly before dashing off.
-Little did you know, a group of unicorns watched you, vigilant—waiting to mandate a judgement day. But you defied them, you weren’t like them.
-Walking back, you didn’t know a foal was wailing in the mare’s chest. Babbling about a human foal who saved them. Babbling how they miss their mama. The village shed grateful tears as the matriarch mare nuzzled her face against her child.
-A party is thrown that a war didn’t take another. That the prince have returned safely. Once the night quieted, the Queen Mare listened to her warrior’s reports and heard tales of a brave child, unafraid of death, generous to a fault.
-A maternal desire grows in her bosom as the tale moves her to tears.
-Whispering to herself, her hand glided softly on her son’s hair, “maybe not all pure humans are dead. Some are just buried under pests.”
-“Maybe, my son would love a new playmate. The child certainly doesn’t belong there.”
-Although the warriors pretend not to hear, a grin slides into their faces. A bell-like laughter emanated through the hall.
————————————————————————
End note: Joke prompt, it’s supposed to be dumb. But the cure for Ashes of Stars is not unicorn’s horn, but unicorn thorn. A plant grown in the outer banks. It was a mistranslation and the clan tried telling that to humans, but were marked as liars. Anyways, whatcha gonna do now that the unicorns are there for you~
Please please please write more for the yandere Graysons whenever you have the time😫😫 I’d happily devour 500 more one shots with them. Especially Nolan and Debbie. #nolanandhispoorcowriter
But really I’d love to see more of the dynamic between the three. Anyways I hope you have a wonderful day and get lots of time to write 🙏🙏
We desperately need more invincible writers 😭😭😭
Thank you!! I’m so glad that you liked it! I was very inspired by your ask hehe. I def agree! I need to find more Invincible writers to get my fix lol
Part 1
“Ah… This is perfect. My wife on one side, my bestie on the other, and my sons playing together. This is just the ideal family day.” Nolan sighed as he soaked in the sunshine
He had one arm wrapped around you and the other around Debbie as you all sat on a blanket and watched Oliver and Mark play supersonic catch. He had decided to take you all out for a picnic after Oliver told him how fun he found your picnic together.
“I’m… Your bestie…?” You questioned incredulously, not expecting a grown Viltrumite man to be using the term.
“Of course you are! Who else would forgive me like you did? Who else would pick up the slack for me while I was gone? You’re my best friend in the entire universe.” Nolan hummed as he rested his cheek on the top of your head.
Your eye twitched. You hadn’t forgiven him. You didn’t even like him. The only reason that you let the Graysons treat you like the (very well loved) family dog was because you didn’t want to end up like any of Nolan’s victims in Chicago. You’d also seen how Mark and Oliver had started behaving more aggressively and you didn’t want to risk anything like that from them either. Even Debbie wasn’t safe with how much sway she held over the family and how much she enjoyed keeping you around.
“You’ve been such a good friend to us for so long. You’re a part of the family! Don't pretend that you're anything less. The kids basically see you as a third parent or maybe an older sibling.” Debbie said as she passed you another weirdly large alien berry and patted you on the cheek.
You took the grapefruit sized berry and began eating it as Debbie and Nolan began chatting with each other again. You were exhausted from constantly being held, petted, poked, and prodded by almost everyone that you came in contact with. At least the food was good. You’d definitely be writing about this in your travel guide. You were about halfway done with the berry when a huge gust of wind covered it in dust. You took a few calming breaths before looking up to see a familiar orange alien levitating a few dozen feet in the air. You sighed before putting the berry in the trash bag and digging through the picnic basket for something else. You were interrupted by Nolan scooping you up and lifting you into the air, kissing Debbie goodbye as he floated.
“Look buddy! It’s Allen! You love Allen! I’ll take you to say hi.” He cooed at you while pointing at the alien in the air.
You were getting sick of this. You crossed your arms as he flew you up to the Unopan and cradled you as he floated alongside him. You forced yourself to give Allen a smile and friendly wave. He smiled back and waved at you in return.
“So, I’ve been meaning to ask but how did you get another human?” Allen asked Nolan.
“They’re a rescue. Humans are wonderful for families, you know! They’re very tolerant and forgiving and phenomenal with kids! They are just great companions. You should consider one if you and General Telia end up having a family. The boys just love them and they’re such a good support even for me and Debbie. I mean, they’re been a shoulder to cry on for years and they’re so sweet once they’re bonded to you. They’re awfully clever too. Would you believe that I found them wandering the halls of the transport ship storage building after they figured out how to get out of our housing unit? Such a mischievous little thing! Speaking of, we’ll need new locking mechanisms for our doors. We’ve been keeping them in our room since Debbie loves staying up and talking with them. Don’t get me wrong, I love it too but I think we could use some privacy without sacrificing our need to keep them safe. You know how it is.” Nolan said warmly.
You side eyed Nolan. How on Earth were you a rescue? You were a successful writer for goodness sake! You took care of yourself! If anything, you rescued Debbie and the kids after Nolan lost his mind.
“I see. They look a little grumpy. Is something up with them?” Allen asked.
“They love their food and their snack got dirty. They’ll perk up when they have something else to eat. They’re funny like that.” Nolan replied, smiling down at you like you were a grumpy puppy.
“Let me get this straight. Your wife is a human but she’s your equal, right?” Allen said slowly.
“Yes.” Nolan said lightly, adoringly petting the top of your head.
“And your best friend, who is also a human, is kind of like a pet that can talk and babysit your kids. You lock them in your family’s quarters when no one’s there to watch them and your wife, a fellow human, is cool with this?” Allen asked, squinting his eye at the Viltrumite.
“Mhm. Different humans are good for different things. Some make superb partners and others are an alien’s best friend. Last night, Oliver had a bad dream so we had them sleep in his bed with him to snuggle away the nightmares. Like I said, great with kids. Mark likes it too but he usually cuddles them during the day while he’s reading or watching a show. I wouldn’t be surprised if humans had some kind of calming pheromones or something. I always feel at ease around mine.” Nolan said as he gently nuzzled your cheek.
“Yeah, fair enough. I don’t know much about Earth’s social systems and structures so I’ll take your word for it. I could watch them for you sometime to see if they get along well with Vorg. I need to make sure that he isn’t allergic or anything.” Allen said with a shrug before beginning to pet the top of your head,
“That would be great! I’m sure that they’d love to meet him!” Nolan said with a smile.
Hey, I saw requests are open can I ask for college student reader with either Lex Luther or Superman (or both)
Thanks for the ask anon!! I’m super fond of intern! and student! readers so I decided to combine them. I really wanted to write something about Luthor because he has so much potential!!! I think that the concept of an entitled yandere is absolutely delectable hehe. 🥰
Defeated, yet again. Lex’s fist tightened and his jaw clenched. Superman always managed to find his weaknesses. All except one, that is. He carefully picked out a small wrapped gift from a large bin of similarly wrapped presents. He brushed the imaginary wrinkles off of his shirt and took a few deep breaths before opening the final door to his most secret and secure bunker.
“Sweetheart, Dad’s home! Come say hello!” He called as he took his shoes off in the entryway.
The bunker perfectly replicated a luxurious highrise apartment. Sunlight from an artificial sky streamed in through large windows and lit up the leaves of your houseplants with a beautiful green glow. A warm breeze flowed through an open window, keeping the cool apartment at your preferred temperature. Cozy furniture covered in plushies, pillows, and soft blankets filled the living space covered in fluffy rugs and abstract modern art. The apartment was clean but lived in, though you were nowhere to be seen.
“Sweetheart? Dad had a bad day. Come give him a hug to make it better and you’ll get a present.” He said a bit more sternly.
He was getting frustrated. All he wanted was to cuddle you and enjoy how soft and sweet you always were with him. You used to be his intern. You visited him in prison every Wednesday and wrote him letters about what you had been up to every Saturday. You were such a devoted employee that he couldn’t help but start to think of you more fondly. You became his companion. You were his source of comfort as he rotted in jail. Over time, you became his mentee. You would confide in him and he would make things all better and teach you how to do well in life. You told him about your awful landlord and he had one of his people buy the building and fix all of the issues that you complained about. He listened when you talked about rude professors and sent them bribes, then threats, until they treated you with the respect that you deserved. He taught you how to fix your TV when it wasn’t working and told you stories about his own successes to help you feel more confident at meetings.
Once he got out of prison, it wasn’t hard for him to reintegrate himself back into his role at LexCorp. What was difficult was when you would leave to go home, leaving him without anyone to talk to. He had become reliant on you for conversation and attention and whenever you weren’t at his side, he felt empty. He had grown so fond of you that it felt impossible for him to go on without you. He had a bunker built and made sure that everything was perfect for you. His normally strict personal and professional boundaries had blurred so much that he couldn’t help but see you as his child. Maybe he had one too many concussions or maybe he was just subconsciously desperate to have some kind of family to care for. He didn’t care about the cause. What he wanted was to be able to come home to his kid after a hard day and you were being difficult again.
He felt a weight off of his shoulders when you peeked out from the doorway to your room. You were finally listening again. The isolation that he kept you in was finally doing its job. You slowly approached him and then hesitantly wrapped your arms around him in a loose hug. He hugged you back and nuzzled into the top of your head. The soap that he picked out for you smelled like oranges. He liked it. It was much better than the cheap old one that you used to use. He enjoyed being able to practically customize you. You were his precious child and he would only give you the best.
“There you are! Tell Dad about your day. Did you use the new markers he got you?” He cooed as he lifted you and carried you to the couch.
He could feel how tense you were. He didn’t care. He wanted to hold you so he would hold you. You’d start loving his affection eventually. He knew that you’d come around eventually. Anything that Lex Luthor wants, he gets. That includes you.
CHAPTER ONE: AKAZA (5 of 5 Parts):
Part One: Communication
Part Two: Uneasy Company
Part Three: Strange Lessions
Part Four: The Fracture in Calm
Part Five: Promises Spoken
CHAPTER TWO: (1 of 1 Parts):
Part One: One Missing
CHAPTER THREE: (1 of ??): A Different Kind of Quiet
Part One: Aftershock
Part Two: A new type of normal
Part Three: ???
tw: yandere, horror, gore, graphic sensory deprivation, some gore. yandere!god!gojo/human!reader. yearning and devotion like you wouldn't believe. objectification? object body horror? gojo's in a very weird situation.
Satoru Gojo as a forgotten god who once protected humankind from curses.
Only, he protected them a little too well - centuries have passed, and with Sukuna sealed away, and curses gone from living memory, humanity no longer has any need of him.
Satoru Gojo who has exactly one "believer" left to sustain him after all this time.
One devotee who cleans out his dilapidated shrine, whose visits break out the monotony and isolation of his defunct existence, whose prayers anchor his frayed mind to this plane of existence.
Darkness had long since surrounded him. Without worship, without people, without any reason to continue his existence -
He's just like another rusted nail in this ancient temple. Old, crumbling, holding up a rotted ceiling that could barely be called a shelter.
A lonely god. A tool with no use. An exercise in futility.
And then you showed up.
You'd be the first to admit it's a sort of creepy shrine.
When you stumble on it, you're sore and exhausted from the hike. The eyes carved into the gate stare down at you; heavy, piercing, boring deep into your soul.
But you had never been very superstitious, and the sun was blazing. You head in, quickly, darting into the shade with a relieved sigh.
Weary limbs cry out in relief as you slump down inside, in the shade. There's still that hot, oppressive summer heat, but at least you're out of the sun.
Lazily, you glance over the interior of the building. It's modestly sized, but not so small as to suggest this wasn't once a frequently visited shrine.
It's seen better days, you're sure. Actually, as soon as you take a long drink from your bottle and sit there a few seconds, the nagging urge to tidy creeps up on you.
There's a broom against one of the walls. A pain - there's no water in it, though - and even some burned away incense at the altar.
Eyes again, you note as you sweep the dust methodically towards the entrance.
They're engraved in wood, with deep burrows in them that you suppose are meant to be pupils. Two, four... six of them, it looks like.
There's dust everywhere in here, really. One day wouldn't be enough to clean all this up, even if you had everything you needed.
Still, it seems a little rude to just leave after rushing in.
You dig out some trail mix. Oats, cranberries - fruit and rice count as offerings, right?
There's no incense, so you awkwardly set a match down in the incense holder and light it.
Hands clasped in prayer, you bow your head, just a little. Thank you for having me. Please let me return home safely.
You should say something nice, too, right? Uhm...
I like your eyes.
Awkward! If there's a spirit here, they're probably laughing at you.
It's a good thing they don't exist! But if they do, they can feel free to laugh, you suppose.
As you leave, you swear the floor is creaking; but it's a light sound, rustic and almost bouncy. Funny.
It puts a skip in your step, and you do in fact arrive home safe.
The darkness had been complete. Absolute. Divine, in its way, surrounding him in perfect blackness so thick he couldn't even see himself.
Perhaps he could have faded away like that. Found peace in the emptiness. Returned to the ether from whence he came; after so long like this, he would have welcomed true nothingness.
It hadn't always been this way.
He had been celebrated, once. A protector of the people. Exorciser of curses. They had sung his name in praise, prayed to him for protection from curses, knelt at his altar and filled it with finery.
But he grew mighty, and the people grew safe. Curses around the world dwindled. The mortals lost their fear, and later, their knowledge.
His power was infinite, but their need of him had not been. Fool that he was, he thought it was a good thing.
As the mortals had trickled away over time, his attachment to this earth had also withered.
And that never mattered to him; not as long as his followers, his friends were there to keep him company.
Even if it was just one person, Satoru didn't mind. He wasn't a greedy god.
But for the mortals, who no longer had any use of him, it seems even that was asking too much.
His friends had disappeared. Slowly, over time, and then all at once. Mortals were like that - fleeting. Eventually all who remained were there by courtesy alone, and as centuries passed, they visited less, moved away, lost interest.
With no purpose, he had lost his power. With no offerings, he had lost his form. When his eyes had been stolen, he had been unable to even protect himself, and lost his sight.
And because no one had spoken to him in centuries, Satoru Gojo could no longer hear -
Until you.
it's just another day for him. if it's even a day at all - it's not like he has any way of knowing. There's no way for him to tell time.
Except, you come.
He hears your thoughts, your feelings, your little worries. He receives your humble offering like weight on a limb that can hardly bear it. A withered tree branch struggling to hold up a budding fruit.
Light as it is, your thoughts, your easy humor is filling.
"I like your eyes" - ha! Millenia ago, he would have howled with laughter at the understatement.
Today? Your inflection, your sincerity, your gratitude despite how little he had to offer...
He feels again. In the darkness, in the silence, with no body or surroundings to speak of, Satoru feels it -
Warmth.
The feeling is gentle, at first, like a quiet acceptance at a gravestone.
It was a nice moment, but the exception to the rule. He had long since understood his fate. Consigned to the void.
Like all the other mortals, you had no use for him -
But still, you returned.
You pass by here often, he gathers. His shrine groans, and he feels it, like old bones shifting underfoot from the new, bustling visitor.
When you lay down a rug before his altar, to kneel on as you pray, it feels like a blanket laid over him.
Your prayers are nothing special. Which is good, because he can't help you anyways.
Please let my boss give me a raise...
I hope the convenience store has the sandwich I like.
Don't let it rain tomorrow... I hate hiking in the rain.
Small, modest prayers, for his small and modest shrine.
But with you lighting incense and leaving rice and wine, he feels his essence gather again.
A candle flickers by his altar, and he finds his breath. And each breath is painful, splintering in his side with each movement... until you peel out the bad planks to put in new ones.
Your repairs are patchwork, clearly done by a novice - but you try. You labor and toil for him, for his empty, worthless, ugly shrine which has nothing to offer you but a smattering of shade.
It's something he would have been ashamed of, once. Being unable to reward your devotion. Generosity had always been in his nature.
For all the good it did. Perhaps that's why they all died out - of all the gods, he was the most powerful, the most beautiful, offered everything to the mortals, and what did it get him? Nothing.
It's silly, now, to feel bashful about his welcome to the sole follower who scampers about his exposed ribcage. To wince at the creak in the steps that raise you up to meet up. To feel his windows flush as you look them over and decide they need dusting again.
He does it anyways. His time in the darkness should have taught him not to hope. It should have cracked him open beyond repair as the mortals drained him dry and left him to rot.
Maybe it has. If you were to scavenge his corpse, if you could be the last in the very long line of mortals who exploited and used him, who picked at his meat until he had truly nothing left... he thinks he'd be happy with that.
But as he is now, it's just so embarrassing. To be in this state.
When you fix up his doors - the paper was yellowed, dirtied, torn, and you replace it with a fresh bright set - Satoru almost feels beautiful.
When had he stopped being beautiful? It's been centuries. The memory of it is gone, the vision - no living mortal has seen his face, now - but he wasn't always this decrepit thing. He'd been beautiful, once.
But he's starting to remember the shape of it. Nourished by a thousand tiny acts of devotion, even if it's just from one person.
As much as it is, he still can't manifest a physical form. Even if he could, he wouldn't; how could he make his grand entrance as your one and only god with so little of his power?
He still can't even see. The god of the six eyes, stripped of his vision. Powerless.
What do you look like, anyways? Are you tall? What color is your skin? Your hair? How long is it?
You're his only follower, after all. It's natural to be curious. The only connection he has to the world, the only company he gets, the only stimulation he has - it's all you. His lifeline in the darkness.
Color disappeared from his world so long ago; he can't even envision it in his mind, but he wants it so desperately.
It doesn't matter the shape or shade. He just wants to see you.
But it's not the only thing he wants. Satoru had never thought of himself as greedy. Starved of contact as he is, devoid of every form of sustenance a god requires, even this little bit should satisfy him.
It only makes him hungrier. You'd given him a taste, shown him what it felt like not to be alone anymore.
It makes him scared.
And with each return, it grew. The terror.
How long will it be before you come back?
Will you come back?
Was this the final time he would encounter you - encounter anyone - and he simply didn't know it?
The thought alone causes him an anguish so severe it's like a physical pain. Electrifying his nonexistent form, searing alarm and suffering into every facet of his being.
There's this one step, the last one your foot touches as you leave his shrine. It feels like a raw nerve.
A glance against it shoots anxiety though him. The candle by his altar flickers, breathless. He cannot see the darkness anymore; his whole world is dark. But he feels it closing in. Suffocating.
This really might be the end, every time you touch that step. Humans don't live long lives, or even safe ones. What if you die on the way to him? What if you get sick and can't come?
What if you stop caring? It's surprising that you've cared this long. He doesn't have anything to offer you.
It would only be natural for you to abandon his shrine. He does nothing for you. He only takes and takes and takes and enjoys your company and effort for nothing in return.
Satoru has never quite wanted to die. And he still doesn't - he wants you to keep coming back.
But if you don't, he truly will go mad with craving of it.
Where are you when you aren't with him?
Family, maybe. Surely not a lover - you've mentioned in a prayer or two; It would be nice to meet a cute guy.
If you just keep coming, he can show you the most beautiful man you'll ever see. You won't want anyone else once you see him.
There's so much he would do for you, if only he could. Even if he couldn't see ever again - if he could just touch - if he could just speak to you -
Satoru tries to curb those thoughts. Excitement comes to him slowly, in inches, weary and unsure after centuries of disuse. After countless instances of being crushed.
Before you, any hope for an improvement in his situation had been met with a long, slow, drawn out defeat.
He'd learned not to dream. But he could not stop himself now, just as he can't stop his endless worries.
How... how long has it been? He doesn't know. Can't tell.
You're... coming back. Right...?
Won't you?
In some ways, it's more agonizing than the emptiness. Waiting in the emptiness, sitting idly in the void.
There are no days or nights in his world. No sunsets, no cicadas crying, not a single thing to observe or interact with.
Every second you're not there. That's all it is. Second by second, instant by instant, drowning in the depths of countless worries. His thoughts are all he has.
And they're terrifying. He tries, now, because he has something to try for, to count the seconds until you come back.
One hundred seventy-two thousand eight hundred fifteen.... one hundred seventy-two thousand eight hundred sixteen....
Seventeen...
Eighteen...
Nineteen...
Twenty...
...
...
Twenty... two? Twenty three?
...
Please... come back soon.
Please... please...
Come back.
It's not worth anything, you're sure. Probably just glass, to be honest.
But as soon as you lay eyes on it in the thrift store, something about it catches your attention. Maybe it's the size - it looks like it would fit exactly.
You make your purchase and head off to your little shrine, almost giddy with excitement.
It's a far hike away from a populated area. No visitors. You have to take a train just to get to the trailhead, and then remember the way from there.
It's like having a secret fortress as a child. Your little project, the tiny safe space you had away from anyone else.
After days and days worth of labor, you've prettied up the interior a bit. It's not craftsmanship, not like the people who must have built this place - but it was well-done, sturdy, and you're proud of the work you've put into it.
It's clean. Everything that's damaged has been replaced - or repaired, where you could.
You pass your cozy little spot by the door, setting your bag and shoes aside in the entryway you built. There's more supplies in the far corner - mid-hike snacks and offerings, included!
Sometimes it's just nice to take your lunch out here and leave out a little food offering at the altar to pretend you're sharing a meal with someone. Talk about your day and all.
The food is always gone, so there must be a mouse or cat or some other animal sneaking in and eating it.
Or maybe there's other visitors... doubtful, though. No one comes along this way. And that's just fine.
Even if you had the money to get someone to come out here to do repairs, it's all the more special to do it yourself, right? Plus, you didn't want to share this place.
Of course, you ponder as you settle beside the altar, it's not as if there's much to share.
The chimes you'd hung at the entrance seem to rattle in disagreement. You've gotten a little eccentric since visiting this place - but that's the fun of it, isn't it?
Superstitions are just made up folklore and nonsense stories. It's far better to make your own little traditions, your good-luck strategies, your relaxing routines.
You take a moment to admire the surroundings. The shrine had a lot of character; inlaid decorations, paintings, faded paint and special carvings in the fixtures.
It must have been well-loved, once. Though it's on the smaller side, and it was suspiciously empty when you got here.
But you'd filled it up - little by little. Just dragging cleaning supplies in here, at first, and then containers and counters to store them.
Then a proper incense holder, and then a pack of them. Then a trash can for when you have to sweep things out. Then the rug, and a chair or two, and some pictures and trinkets to lay by the altar.
A picture of your cat (okay, a few). Your graduation. Some nice photos you'd taken on the walk here. Even a picture of the shrine from outside, once you'd dusted off the exterior as best you could.
Plus an anime figurine from a show you loved, your favorite hair pin, and a very pretty ring you'd found at the thrift shop. Little treasures.
It is your altar, after all. This whole shrine is just for you; you won't deny there's a special feeling to it. Having a sacred place, forgotten though it may be, to call your own. Even if you didn't really believe in that sort of thing.
Just being here, all by yourself, had a calming, meditative effect on you. Or maybe it was the walk here.
You dig through your pouch for a granola bar. Unwrapping it, you stare for a moment, then split off a little part to set on the altar.
Can't let your little friend go hungry, can you? And if there were a god in here, it would be rude not to share.
Speaking of!
You pull the dubious gemstone out from your shopping bag, standing right in front of the intricate, ancient carving.
As you'd suspected - it fits in just perfectly! Right into the carving of one of the eyes, where the pupil would be.
Looking at it again, even if it's just glass, it's a pretty brilliant blue, isn't it?
If you were superstitious, you'd swear it was glittering at you.
You make your pointless offering, your banal prayer, and then - after lighting some incense and carefully sweeping the place again - you leave.
You don't catch the eye blinking at your back.
You couldn't really believe it when you first saw it.
A building with a line through it. Glowing hot. It crumbles, falling down - there's people in there - there's people down there -
Screaming, of course. It fills the streets, loud and harrowing.
People are - it's like -
Like something out of a video game. Guts. Gore. Blood and viscera being spread around.
Their bodies are just flying apart, for - what the fuck is doing it? What's happening?
You back away from the scene, but you hear screams behind you, too. Glancing away from the carnage only to watch a grown man's body crumple and curl up, as if in the maws of some giant, invisible monster -
And there it is.
Massive. Looming. And there's so fucking many of them.
Ravaging the crowds, chasing after people. Men, women, children, running and stumbling and being caught. Limbs lost, only for the person to follow -
You fall to your knees. Heart beating out of your chest.
But you - you can't stop here - there's on nearby -
It doesn't matter, does it? They're everywhere.
A comet, seemingly shooting through the sky, blazes a fiery path into the street.
Not a comet. A person. Red - no, his hair is a faint ink - tattoos everywhere four arms - four eyes -
You think of your little shrine, tucked away and hidden in the middle of a peaceful nowhere. A blue gemstone for an eye. What you wouldn't give to be there now.
This person's eyes land on you, red, vicious, unforgiving. He points a finger at you, flicking, and -
But nothing happens to you. You open your eyes, hesitant.
There's someone in front of you. Clad in white, with pale hair. Standing in the midst of the blood and carnage, completely unbothered.
A strange... aura surrounds him. Like an air of power and weight to the surroundings that warps the space inches away from him, curving the light like some kind of refraction through glass.
"Sukuna," He greets the man like an old friend, "How long has it been? I see you're a little fussy after just waking up."
'Sukuna' snorts. "Still playing the hero, you fool? You're a shadow of your former self."
"Oh," The purr in the white-haired man's voice sends shivers down your spine, "Certainly. But a shadow of infinity is still infinity, you know? Unless you've managed to think of a way to get past it in all that time you were locked up."
There's a sound - words you don't catch - and the white-haired man is next to you all a sudden, hands on you, and you're -
You're somewhere else completely. It takes a moment to look around you - open - open skies? - and below you -
Carnage.
The white-haired man whistles. "Using his domain right away, huh? He really is grumpy."
You cling to him, suddenly filled with a weightless terror at the height. An arm around your waist secures you to him. You're - you don't know how many stories it is in the air but you're level with the tops of skyscrapers.
"Who are you?" You say, throat raw, coughing as you speak.
His eyes, when they lock onto yours, are the deepest and purest blue you've ever seen.
"Satoru Gojo," He says, smiling, glowing, as if he's wanted to say that his whole life, "Don't worry, I've come to save you."
As close as you are, you notice now, in fine detail, the delicate, smooth lines of his face. Elegant, regal, and profoundly lovely.
His skin is clean, unmarked, so impossibly perfect he looks like a doll. Eyes bright and happy to see you. He glows, ethereal, with some kind of inner light.
"GOJO!" An angered shout, so loud that it carries up from what must be ground floor, sounds out.
One of the nearby buildings collapses, and you watch a figure dance up the rubble of it, the impact of its movements splintering concrete like particle board.
Your heart nearly stops in its chest as the figure approaches - Sukuna - like lightning, face full of fury, about to rain down on you -
But he stops still in the air. Sneering in rage.
"Awh," Satoru drawls, his arm wrapping around you tighter, "Looks like you're not doing so hot, either, huh? Not at full power yet? Sure would be a shame if I used my domain..."
Sukuna's face contorts in shock, "And what about your other worshippers? You're going to leave them down there to their fates?"
"Yup!" He chirps, but his smile grows sharp. "I'm only here to save one person."
Red eyes narrow... and Sukuna backs away. "Have your fun then. Next time I see you, you're dead."
"Have fun with that," Satoru sings and Sukuna charges back down into the fray, leveling an entire city block.
"What?" You're shuddering now, even as he wraps another arm around you, gasping as your racing heart slows down.
Satoru's face nestles against your hair. "Oh, don't worry about him. He doesn't have a way to hurt me anyways. And even if he did... I'd just kill him first."
"Then - " This is insane, this is all so insane and make-believe that you barely think about what you say, "Then why don't you?"
He squints. "Do I haaaaave to?"
And those eyes - those eyes - examine you carefully and you get this strange sense of nostalgia, of something.
"What do you mean? He's killing people!" You sound almost as hysteric as you feel.
Instantly, you feel insane for demanding such a thing from this guy, but - everything happening is crazy, too. He'd said that he could, anyways.
"He's killing other people," Satoru corrects, "Not you. You have me. You'll be just fine!"
"Oh my god." Other people. Everyone - down there - they'd been ripped apart like dolls, "Oh my god - you have to do something - Satoru-"
His face twists, mouth turning downwards, "This is the very first prayer you're saying out loud, and you want to pray for other people?"
Something in his voice makes you pause. Not warning, but sheer, unmitigated disappointment. As if he had been expecting something specific from you and been let down.
"Prayer?" The word is almost lost on you. There's a vibration - shock. Shock, you're shaking.
You notice, then, that his arm around you - his whole body pressed against yours - is unusually cold. As if he's made entirely from ice.
Or maybe it's just those icy eyes staring at you, into you.
"I said I was here to save you," Satoru continues. His voice has this strange, echoing quality, rattling around in your head like a melodic hymn, "No one else."
"Why?" The word emerges from you before you can think about it.
And then he smiles again - beatific, gorgeous, something so pure you could almost call it divine, and he speaks.
"Why wouldn't I save you?" His face draws closer to you, breathtaking in its beauty. He nuzzles your nose playfully, "My one and only believer. You're the only person who's prayed at my shrine in centuries."
The shrine. You -
"You thought of me, too," White lashes lower softly over those impossibly pretty eyes, "Of being with me. I could tell... I could see, actually. Because of you."
Your heart is racing, now, so many thoughts crashing together in your head - but an explosion in the distance makes you flinch, brings your mind back.
Satoru hugs you harder, closer, "Let's go home, now-"
Home - "Please," You beg, thinking frantically of where your loved ones might be right now, "My family - my friends - can't you-"
And that pretty face twists again. You feel your heart drop right through your stomach.
"They don't matter," He bites out, vicious, "They've never prayed to me, never visited. I'm not their god, I'm yours, and I don't care what happens to them."
"But I do!" Your hands come up to his chest, clutching at his shirt, "Please! How were they supposed to worship you, they - they didn't even know you existed - "
Your mind completed the thought - you'd never told anyone. You liked the shrine as your special, secret place. You liked having it all to yourself. It was your fault, if anything.
But for the first time, you catch yourself. It... might not be a good thing to admit.
Satoru laughs, "Even if they knew, they wouldn't care. It'd make it worse, even. Until the end, you're my one and only..."
Those eyes seem to glow, shimmer, iridescent - you think you're seeing double, or something, superimposed irises over each other -
"You don't know that," You say, desperately, thinking of the people below, their bodies ripped into shreds like tissue paper, "I promise, I'll bring them to the shrine, I'll-"
"No!" His voice sounds, ringing again through your head, but this time loudly, like a thunderclap, "I don't want them. It's fake, all of it's fake - so many people worshipped me just to save their own worthless little mortal lives. And do you know what happened to me? When I was no longer needed?"
"They wouldn't do that!" Your entire body aches with the strain, as if his words physically compressed you, "I wouldn't-"
"But they would!" Satoru snaps, and it feels like a rubber band stinging in your head, "And I'll be left alone - abandoned - do you have any idea what it feels like? How long I was stuck like that?"
"I don't," You cry, "I don't, I'm sorry, please. Please, just don't leave them to die!"
Those blue, blue eyes take you in for a moment, and Satoru relaxes briefly. For a moment, relief courses through you, and you can't help but sigh.
"No, you don't. You're only mortal. You've known so little in your small mortal life, you think they're important. You've never felt anything like that..."
No... oh, no.
"It's okay," He holds you against him, closer, "I can show you."
Everything goes dark.
It's... it's still dark, now. Nothing has changed. It feels like it's been a while - or, has it been?
You... can't tell.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand... even counting seconds in your head feels disorienting, inconsistent. You can't hear your own thoughts.
But you know them. You have to know them, right? Otherwise you couldn't be thinking at all right now.
You can't see anything. Or maybe there's just nothing here? It's black, everywhere, in all directions.
It's... which way is up? There's no pull on you, nothing at your feet, nothing on your shoulders, no pressure anywhere or direction that you can tell.
You look down at your hands - there's nothing there.
In fact, you don't even feel yourself move. You try to look left, right - nothing changes. It's like being underwater, like floating, but you don't feel - you don't feel anything.
The numbness is all-encompassing. It's not that your limbs are still; it's more like they're gone completely.
There's nothing there, just empty space. You're no more able to move your own arms than you were able to move the moon in the sky.
If you could feel your heart, maybe it would be racing.
Distantly, terrifyingly, you realize that you haven't even taken a breath. You can't take one.
How - how... does that work again?
It's so familiar - you remember it - air rushing into your lungs, chest expanding, then letting it out -
But it just - it won't come, it's not working, you can't breathe and maybe you don't need to but there's a panic inside you too because what if you never breathe again?
What if you get out of here and you don't know how to breathe? What's happening to your body now? Why can't you feel anything?
The questions rush over you like a flood, overwhelming, all at once. Anxiety fills you like breathlessness would, like the desperate, overwhelming need for air but -
There was - you'd gotten home and. And then that person, Sukuna - and then all that bloodshed, the chaos, and then Satoru and then - and then here?
Was that what happened? It feels like it's been a while. Has it been?
Maybe this is a dream. Maybe you're dead.
Fuck, what if you're dead? What if this is what it is, forever?
"See?" The voice - it's him, you recognize, but the sound of it shakes you, shakes your entire universe, because all you have now are your thoughts.
"This is what it was like. Every time you left, this is what you left me in. This is what the mortals condemned me to."
It's hard to listen, to understand, and yet you KNOW - you FEEL it, so profoundly.
The sound of his voice fills you, fills ears you still can't sense, that you can't tell you even have.
As soon as he finishes speaking it's like your hearing is gone entirely, replaced by a supreme silence, one that makes you question if you heard him at all.
If you just hallucinated.
And then -
And then -
You feel them open. Six of them... six eyes.
He looks - and his eyes define you, fill in your body like the sound has filled your ears. Like you exist because he sees you.
And you realize, suddenly, that you are not inside your body at all.
You are looking at yourself from the outside, seeing parts of yourself you've never seen before -
Satoru blinks, and you feel all six eyes close and open again.
What is this, you cannot whisper, for you have no mouth, but Satoru knows your thoughts.
Instinctively, you know this; that he can hear you. There is no mouth to produce words, and yet they appear in your mind all the same, and you know that it is from him.
"This... is godhood," Satoru answers, "This is my life without you. Before you. They left me to rot."
Even though you can't hear - you just know the words - the bitterness comes along with them, and you feel it like you would your own.
A person you'd done a favor who turned their back to you instead of repaying it. A friendship where you always seemed to make the effort to connect, to show care, to meet up. A relationship of all take and no give. Showing up to a party only to find out everyone had already left.
The wet, heavy, raw-throated rage that had once accompanied different instants is old, festered. Stale.
Every feeling from your memory seems to coalesce into that final word, rot.
Rotted, pilfered, abandoned. You're worth nothing now; you know it deep in your bones. You have no power. No one is coming to help you. You don't even have a body.
"Do you understand?"
The words hit your mind like raindrops. Splattering against your awareness, trickling, sliding along formless surfaces of your consciousness until you can conceive an answer.
He'd - he'd been here whenever you weren't here. And it was because of... mortals? Everyone? There's so much feeling there, but nowhere to direct it; like a dam build up and ready to pour over anything that happened to be in its path.
The weight of it is unbearable. This place is hellish enough as it is -
"And your friends, your family, everyone out there getting torn apart by Sukuna - what did they do to help me? What did they do to help you?"
Nothing. They've done nothing, they could do nothing, they were worthless and weak and they deserved their fate - how could you feel sorry for them when they'd just leave you behind -
Thoughts crowd up, it's all blending together. Twisting, invasive, the words just seep through your brain, steeped in centuries of dissatisfaction.
This - it's people you care about! It's not their fault they can't help you! It's not their fault they couldn't help Satoru -
"Stop saying my name in the same sentence as those other people. You should only care about me. I'm your god."
Yours. All yours, he'd said it before. The god of the six eyes, your precious secret in your little shrine all to yourself, your safe place.
Why should you share him with anyone?
Why should he share you?
"No one else deserves your love. Why love something that does nothing for you?"
That - it wasn't like that - was it? Maybe with some people you knew, but - not all of them - right?
Questions trickle through you, sticky, tacky. It's hard to even muddle through them, to question what's yours, what's his.
And that's the scariest part. Where one begins, where the other ends, it's not clear anymore. Your own feelings, from your own memories, things that happened to you - you know they happened to you - and then -
Shrine gates empty. So many had walked through them, praying for salvation.
Each and every desperate wish had moved your heart; "Please save me," "Protect my family," "I've lost everything."
Of course you should help them. You want to help them. That's the right thing to do -
Empty, now. Bleak, forgotten. Lonely.
They didn't need you anymore. They all left. You're hungry, now. Starving. Wasting away.
They pick at your body like vultures. Peck your eyes away. Leave you in the dark.
It's dark. It's so, so dark.
Dark. Silent. Empty.
You and your thoughts and your grief and nothing else. Memories of a time when you had a life. People cared about you.
To... him? Everything is so overwhelming, so mind-numbingly terrifying, so vast in the emptiness that surrounds you. The body you see in the darkness but can't feel, it looks so lonely, so alone -
Arms that embrace. A chest against your back. Breath returning to your lungs.
"You're everything. You're the reason I'm still here... the reason I can see. You gave me my eyes back."
I wonder if a yandere will regret ruining their darling?
Keep in mind I mostly stick to platonic yandere Batfam, but I observe that the many times they won, however temporarily, they were perfectly satisfied with a broken you. Constantly kept drugged, brainwashed, lovingly tortured until you were a ghost of your former self–as long as it meant you were available and unresisting for them to cuddle or 'hang out' with despite you being as active as a life-sized doll, the yandere Batfam was perfectly satisfied. Sure, it would've been much better if you were less... resistant to their love that drove them to do all that, but hey, they love you no matter what 💕
But suppose this yandere Batfam, who have broken won you, were to meet another version of themselves... and a genuinely happy, loving you?
(For ease of differentiating, the original Batfam will be referred to by their hero names while the alternate ones will be referred to by their actual names.)
The portal appeared in the Batcave suddenly, as suddenly as the Bats piling out of it. Batman–the original one, the owner of the Batcave and the Manor above and you in the safest room inside of it–immediately stood up, ready to take down the alternate Bats should they prove to be hostile.
Fortunately, that was not the case–immediately, anyway. Alternate Batman, Bruce, grunted out the code for hailing from an alternate dimension seeking temporary sanctuary after some magical mishap, which Batman begrudgingly granted.
A glance traded with his children (sans you, the most precious) sufficed for them to agree to not even mention your existence. You were theirs and theirs alone; they refused to risk these alternate Bats trying to steal you away.
Then Batman turned towards the alternate Bats again and stopped dead at the sight of you.
Perfectly awake, eyes clear, figure neither limp from drugs nor tied up. You weren't even stiff as you had always been ever since they held you prisoner, no. You willingly clung to the neck of Jason who was carrying you piggyback, until a vexed-looking Tim rammed one end of his bo-staff against his side.
With a hiss and a glare towards an unrepentant Tim, Jason dropped his hold on your legs. You landed lightly on your feet and grinned at them.
"Green doesn't look very good on you, Timmy," you teased.
Tim snorted. "And pretending to be weak isn't cute," he paused, then stressed, "Reader."
"I wasn't pretending to be weak." You assumed an offended face. "I was injured! Wounded! Hurt! Can't you see?"
"I saw you walk off a gunshot to the abdomen," Tim deadpanned.
"A gunshot to the abdomen?!" Red Robin yelled. What the hell were these Bats doing, letting you get injured? You were so fragile! You were–!
–were looking at Red Robin, absolutely baffled.
"What are you being aghast for? It's hardly the worst injuries any of us ever sustained," you said. Your eyes swept past Batman, who was visibly clenching teeth, to the rest of the original Bats who looked similarly horrified. Your expression then softened. "Oh, sorry. Do I not exist here? Or did I... Never mind. I assure you I'm all right, Red Robin."
Red Robin opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to it by his counterpart who pointed at you triumphantly.
"Aha! You admitted it yourself, you're perfectly fine!"
You stuck your tongue out, and would have retorted something had an exasperated Damian not interjected.
"If you two are quite done embarrassing yourselves in front of our alternate selves, can we have a move on?"
"Say the magic word," you cooed, gliding behind to hug the boy.
"Now."
Without a pause, you shifted the hug to a 'gentle' headlock and noogie. When Damian snarled and bat you away like a kitty, you burst out laughing.
Robin gripped the handle of his katana so tightly he could have cut himself on it. His you never did anything like that, never treated him like that.
"Really, you guys..." Dick sighed, shaking his head like a tired adult, followed by Bruce. Not a second later, though, Dick darted towards you and Damian and hurled himself to hug the both of you. You and Damian went down with a yelp and a curse respectively, causing Bruce to sigh again while pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I'd say we were more professional than this, but that really only applies on the field," Jason explained placidly before fishing you out of the pile with one arm, hauling you by the back of your cape not unlike scruffing a kitty. In order to not be further like Damian did with you just now, you refrained from swatting Jason and calmly let yourself dangle off him instead.
Red Hood eyed Jason's hold on you and subtly flexed his hands. His you was always so stiff, so scared no matter how gently Red Hood moved. Why...?
Nightwing stepped forward, fake beaming smile plastered on. "Hi, there! How are we to call you?"
Unhesitatingly, sincerely, you beamed back so bright Nightwing nearly recoiled. "Hi, Big Wing! I'm Reader S-Wayne, alias Pink Robin*. Dick often calls me Medium Wing though!"
"The stupidest nickname in the world," Jason jeered. You jabbed him in the stomach, dropped into a handstand, and sent a kick up his chin while he tried to sweep your arms off the ground. You avoided it by doing a front flip while flipping Jason double birds.
Then, as Nightwing stared with badly disguised fascination, you proceeded to tattle to Dick. "Jason is calling your nickname of me is stupid agaiiin!"
"I've said it before, I'll say it again!"
"Little Wing, come on!"
Like a train crash, Nightwing couldn't avert his eyes when you just as unhesitatingly embraced Dick, pouting exaggeratedly. He... He'd always treated you as his most adorable baby sibling, always spoiled you and cuddled you, but–
You never happily returned the gesture. You never initiated.
Gods, you never smiled except when ordered requested. Never since they kept you home.
"Reader," Batman finally choked out. Even then, he remained unable to form words long enough that you looked concerned at him.
For him? But you–the you they had–never did. The you they had only ever looked scared for their self.
It was the realization that made Batman speak again. "Are you... happy? With u–with them?"
You blinked, confused.
You answered, "Obviously, duh."
The Bats fell into further silence. Obviously, you said. And it was indeed obvious.
They had been able to lie to themselves so far, but now that they were confronted with this you, so happy and free–
(They thought of their you, the you sprawled in bed with an ankle cuff chained to a bedpost and a collar with fingerprint lock around your neck and the drug keeping your eyes glazed and your mind foggy.)
(They thought of you from before, and saw every trace of it in the you before them here.)
(They thought and thought and thought, and for the first time in ever so long, they weren't eager to see you.)
(The you they had irreparably broken.)
A/N: Written in one sitting with no proofreading or editing. Hopefully it's still readable 🙏 *Pink Robin is my idea for yet another platonic x reader story, ask me about it ;)
Dick Grayson was six years old when he first started wondering about his soulmate.
At the time, his greatest concern was whether pirates were cooler than cowboys. A debate he took very seriously.
His mother, however, seemed far more interested in the scrape stretched across his knee.
"Stop picking at it."
"I'm not."
"Dick."
Mary Grayson sighed and gently caught his hand before he could peel away the corner of the bandage.
The injury wasn't actually his. That was the whole reason she was tending to it in the first place.
Somewhere out there, another child had tripped and fallen.
The scrape on their knee had appeared on his moments later, bright and stinging against skin that had never touched the ground.
Dick considered this one of the most fascinating things in the world.
A person he'd never met.
Someone who somehow belonged to him. Connected to him by something no one else could see.
"Maybe they were climbing a mountain."
His mother's lips twitched. "A mountain?"
"Or a castle."
"A castle is much more likely."
"I think so too." Dick nodded solemnly. A castle explained the scrape much better than simply falling over.
Castles had stone staircases and secret passageways. Castles had dragons and villains and daring escapes.
His soulmate was probably off on an adventure.
His mother finished securing the bandage before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"Your soulmate must be having quite the day."
The thought filled him with excitement.
For the rest of the afternoon, Dick imagined another child racing through hidden corridors, ducking beneath traps and escaping dragons by the skin of their teeth.
The possibility that they had simply tripped over their own feet never even crossed his mind.
←↓→↑
When he was seven, he spent two days complaining about a toothache.
The pain settled deep in his jaw, throbbing every time he tried to smile.
By the third day, it disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived.
His father explained that soulmate resonance sometimes worked that way.
That his soulmate had probably gone to the dentist.
Dick immediately sat upright. "What if they were scared?"
"I'm sure they were brave."
"What if nobody held their hand?"
John looked up from the costume he was repairing. "Dick."
"What?"
"They're not stranded on a deserted island."
"You don't know that."
His mother laughed so hard from the other side of the trailer that she nearly dropped her equipment.
Dick didn't see what was so funny.
His soulmate was out there somewhere.
They might be scared of dentists. Or hated needles.
The thoughts lingered with him long after the conversation ended.
Sometimes, late at night, Dick would stare at the ceiling and wonder if they ever thought about him too.
Whether they looked at the strange injuries that appeared on their skin and imagined a boy they'd never met.
He didn't know it then, but that question would follow him for years.
↑→↓←
Dick had developed a habit of asking questions nobody could answer.
What was their favourite colour?
Did they like animals?
Could they do cartwheels?
Did they live nearby?
Did they know about him?
Did they ever wonder the same things?
His parents always answered as though the questions mattered. With interest. As though his curiosity wasn't silly.
As though wondering about the person connected to him was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe that was where it started.
Not the soulmate bond itself, the encouragement. The way nobody ever told him to stop asking. The quiet certainty with which his parents treated his soulmate's existence.
They never spoke about them as a possibility. They spoke about them as a certainty.
That somewhere in the world, there was a person who was completely his.
→←↓↑
At night, after the performances ended and the circus grounds settled into a comfortable hush, Mary often read to him before bed.
Dick's favourite stories weren't fairy tales.
They were stories about connected souls.
The old book lived beside the couch in their trailer, its spine cracked and softened with age. The pages had been turned so many times that the corners curled.
Inside were dosens of accounts collected from all over the world.
Stories about soulmates separated by oceans, soulmates born years apart, soulmates who searched for decades, or who stumbled into one another entirely by accident.
Dick never grew tired of hearing them.
He already knew most of the endings by heart. But that wasn't the point. The point was that every story promised the same thing.
No matter how long it took, how far apart they started, or how impossible it seemed, the soulmates always found each other.
Every single time.
The certainty of it settled somewhere deep inside him. A truth as unquestionable as gravity. As natural as the rising sun.
His soulmate was out there. And one day, they would be his.
By the time Mary finished reading, Dick would already be staring out the trailer window.
Wondering how they would meet. What they looked like. If they laughed loudly or quietly.
If they liked the circus.
Wondering if they were looking at the same stars scattered across the night sky. If they ever touched the marks that appeared on their skin and thought about him.
The thoughts comforted him.
No matter how large the world felt, where he went or how many cities the circus travelled through, there was always someone in it who belonged to him.
Someone he hadn't met yet.
A person he was already learning how to love.
↑→↓←
When he was eight, before the fall, he started keeping things.
Not intentionally at first.
A postcard from a city the circus had passed through. A photograph he liked. A joke that made him laugh. A story he thought someone else would enjoy.
Small things.
The kind of things most children forgot about by the following week.
Dick didn't.
Because whenever he found something special, he caught himself thinking the same thing.
I should tell my soulmate about this someday.
The thought came so naturally he never stopped to question it.
Why would he?
His soulmate was part of his future. Everyone said so.
Some days, he imagined finally meeting them and emptying years of collected memories into their hands.
Showing them every postcard.
Telling them every story.
Introducing them to every place he'd loved.
As though all the little pieces of his life were simply waiting for the right person to share them with.
As though he'd been saving a seat beside him all along.
Years later, after Gotham, after Robin, after everything that came afterward, Dick would still remember those moments.
The scrape on his knee.
The toothache.
The bedtime stories.
His parent's laughter.
The quiet certainty in their voices whenever they spoke about soulmates.
People often assumed his faith in destiny came from the bond itself.
They were wrong.
The bond only connected him to another person.
His parents were the ones who taught him to care. To wonder and to wait.
They were the ones who taught him that somewhere in the world there was a person meant for him.
Someone important who was worth searching for. Someone worth believing in.
Long before he knew anything about them at all.
He loved the idea of them first. Everything else came later.
Before he ever even had a reason to.
Most people loved talking about destiny.
Adults spoke about soulmates with the same certainty they reserved for death and taxes. Teachers smiled when the topic came up in class. Grandparents reminisced over holiday dinners. Entire television networks built reality shows around reunions.
It was impossible to escape.
Not that anyone seemed interested in trying.
Soulmates were proof that the universe cared. Proof that nobody was truly alone. That somewhere out there existed a person created specifically for you.
People loved that idea.
You hated it. Not the concept itself, just yours.
When you were younger, you'd thought soulmate injuries sounded romantic.
A sore wrist because they spent too long writing or a tiny burn from touching a hot pan.
The sort of stories people laughed about.
"My soulmate tripped over again."
"Mine wears his rings on too tight."
"I love when she bites her lip when she’s nervous."
Everyone always sounded so fond when they talked about it. As though every ache was a love letter. Like pain somehow became sweeter when it belonged to someone else.
Bonds manifested differently depending on the pair.
Some people shared emotions, some met each other in dreams. A small percentage could hear each other's thoughts during moments of intense stress. The most common bond, however, was physical resonance.
If your soulmate got hurt, so did you.
Not the injury itself, the consequences. A broken bone wouldn't suddenly appear in your arm, but the pain would. The ache, tenderness, and limitations.
If they twisted an ankle, you'd spend the next few weeks limping around on a perfectly healthy leg.
If they got a migraine, you got one too.
Most people only experienced minor inconveniences.
Nothing life-altering. Nothing that interfered with daily life. At least, not often.
You were not most people.
You stopped finding it romantic at twelve.
Because scraped knees and accidental burns were one thing. Waking up unable to feel your left arm was another.
The pain hit without warning. One second you were asleep, the next you were on your bedroom floor screaming.
Your parents rushed you to the hospital.
The doctors found nothing wrong.
No fracture. No dislocation. No nerve damage. Physically, your arm was perfectly healthy.
Unfortunately, your soulmate's wasn't. Apparently they'd shattered theirs.
Badly.
The pain lingered for nearly two months.
Everyone acted excited.
Your soulmate survived.
Isn't that wonderful?
You received congratulations.
Congratulations.
As though being unable to lift a backpack was somehow a milestone worth celebrating.
The years that followed only got worse.
Your soulmate got shot.
They got stabbed.
Sometimes they manage both within the same week.
You developed a concerning familiarity with painkillers. The nurses at your local urgent care knew you by name. One doctor suggested keeping a journal to track symptoms.
You filled three notebooks.
Looking back through them felt less like medical records and more like a crime scene timeline.
Gunshot wounds. Broken knuckles. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion. Concussion. Another concussion.
You had spent years trying to imagine what kind of person accumulated this many injuries.
At first you'd pictured an athlete.
Then a firefighter.
Maybe a soldier.
Eventually, you'd settled on a simpler explanation.
Your soulmate was an idiot.
At the time, it felt like the only reasonable explanation.
Years later, you would discover that the truth was significantly worse.
But for now, all you knew was that somewhere out there existed a complete stranger whose self-preservation instincts had apparently been beaten to death in an alley.
And for reasons you would never understand, the universe had decided that person belonged to you.
←↓→↑
The first time you missed a school excursion because your soulmate had managed to break something important, everyone treated it like an unfortunate coincidence.
The second time, they called it bad luck.
By the third, people had started joking that your soulmate had a personal grudge against your social life.
You laughed along because it was easier than admitting how much it bothered you.
Most people, hell, everyone romanticised soulmates.
Talked about fate and destiny and finding the missing piece of yourself.
Most soul pairs experienced a handful of major injuries throughout their lives.
Yours seemed determined to collect them.
You remembered when your soulmate somehow got stabbed before your final exams. The pain had hit so suddenly you nearly collapsed in the middle of class.
Your friends had thought you were having some kind of medical emergency.
In hindsight, they weren't entirely wrong.
You sat the exam anyway.
You failed it.
The examiner wasn't interested in hearing that somebody else's knife wound had ruined your concentration.
Life kept moving regardless.
Teachers didn't extend deadlines because your soulmate had been hospitalised.
Employers didn't care that you were limping because someone you'd never met had twisted their ankle chasing God-knows-what.
The world expected you to adapt,
So you did.
You learned how to function through headaches. How to smile through pain. How to swallow frustration before it became bitterness.
You learned exactly how many over-the-counter painkillers you could safely take.
You learned how to fake being fine.
But most importantly, you learned how to stop hoping.
Because every time you wondered if maybe things would get easier, your soulmate proved you wrong.
At first you'd worried about them.
What kind of life were they living? Were they sick? Were they trapped in dangerous circumstances? Did they need help?
That concern lasted until the fourth broken bone.
Then the sixth.
Then the first gunshot wound.
The shot had been a turning point. Because normal people did not get shot. Normal people definitely didn't get shot more than once.
You remembered lying awake in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling while pain radiated through your shoulder.
What the hell is wrong with this person?
The question never really went away.
As the years passed the injuries kept coming. Sometimes there would be weeks of peace.
Then suddenly your soulmate would decide to throw themselves off a building.
Or through a window.
Or into traffic.
At least that's what it felt like.
You didn't know who they were. Didn't know their name. Didn't know where they lived. But you knew they had absolutely no regard for their own safety. No fucking regard for your safety either.
And eventually, concern became irritation. Irritation became anger. Anger became resentment.
Not because of the pain. Not even because of the injuries. Because of what they stole from you.
Your freedom. Choices. The ability to plan a normal life. Every decision came with a silent question.
What if my soulmate gets hurt that day?
You missed birthdays. Missed opportunities. Cancelled plans. Skipped events.
Not because you wanted to.
Because experience had taught you that sooner or later another injury would arrive.
Meanwhile your soulmate remained a stranger. A ghost. A burden you carried without ever being asked if you wanted to.
It always did.
It made you angry.
Not the broken bones. Not the scars. Not even the countless nights spent curled around pain that didn't belong to you.
The fact that someone you'd never met had become one of the most important influences on your life.
Without your permission, your consent, and without ever even saying sorry.
Somewhere out there, your soulmate was choosing to live their life this way.
And every time they did, you paid the price.
You wondered if they ever thought about you. If they ever felt guilty.
If they even cared.
Or if, wherever they were, they simply got back up after every injury and ran headfirst into the next disaster.
Unaware that somewhere across the country, someone was beginning to hate them.
Dick found the post three weeks later.
If anyone asked, it had been an accident. A coincidence.
The sort of thing that happened when someone spent too much time scrolling through soulmate forums at two in the morning.
Nobody asked. That was probably for the best. Dick knew himself well enough to recognise a lie when he told one.
There had never been anything accidental about the way he searched for traces of his soulmate.
The post appeared halfway down a discussion thread titled:
What's the worst injury you've ever shared with your soulmate?
Most of the replies were harmless.
Broken wrists.
Appendectomies.
A woman whose soulmate had somehow fractured their nose trying to impress someone with a skateboard.
Dick smiled despite himself.
Then he kept scrolling.
The smile disappeared.
←↑→↓
I've had more concussions than some professional athletes.
At this point, I'm convinced my soulmate has a death wish.
If I ever meet them, my first question is going to be what the hell is wrong with them.
The post went into concerning details about their injuries dating from over ten years.
Dick stared at the screen.
Read the post again.
Then a third time.
The amusement slowly drained from his face.
Because the timeline matched. Not approximately. Not close enough to be concerning. Exactly.
The gun wounds, the stabbings, concussions, fractures. The endless collection of injuries that had become so commonplace to him he rarely thought about them anymore.
His stomach twisted.
For a long moment, he simply sat there. Laptop balanced on his knees. Apartment fading into the background.
The words blurred.
Not because he couldn't read them. Because he couldn't stop.
Every sentence felt heavier than the last. Not the complaints.
Those made sense.
God, they made sense.
What hurt was everything beneath them.
The frustration. The years of accumulated resentment packed into a handful of sentences.
Not anger born from a single bad day. The kind that settled in after years of disappointment.
His chest tightened.
He scrolled further.
The account wasn't anonymous. There was a username. Years of history.
Dick clicked on it before he could talk himself out of it.
The oldest post was five years old.
The next mentioned another concussion.
A missed birthday.
A cancelled trip.
A broken rib.
An emergency room visit.
Each entry felt like another weight settling onto his shoulders.
Dick had spent years accepting pain as part of his life.
Bruises, bones and cuts all healed.
It had never occurred to him that somebody else had been dragged through it alongside him.
A stranger.
Someone who had never agreed to any of it.
Someone who had spent years waking up with injuries they couldn't explain.
Dick closed the laptop.
Immediately opened it again.
His jaw tightened. He rubbed a hand over his face.
For twenty years, he'd wondered about his soulmate. Wondered who they were. What they were like. Whether they ever thought about him the way he’d always thought about them.
A quiet curiosity that surfaced in the spaces between missions and late-night patrols.
He'd imagined meeting them someday.
Not because soulmates guaranteed a happy ending. Life had taught him better than that.
But because they'd always been there.
Every broken bone. Every near miss. Every moment he'd walked away from something that should have killed him.
They'd felt it too.
Somewhere.
Somehow.
The idea of them had become a constant. A second shadow stretching alongside his own.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing things from the other side.
The reality of it. The cost.
His throat felt tight.
tBecausehey weren't waiting for him.
They weren't searching.
If anything, they sounded exhausted by the idea of him.
And for the first time, Dick found himself wondering whether meeting him would be the last thing they wanted.
The thought hurt far more than it should have.
Dick had managed to stay away from the profile for three days.
He told himself it was respect.
Privacy.
Common decency.
They had spent years dealing with consequences they never asked for, the least he could do was leave them alone.
Three days lasted longer than he expected.
Not nearly as long as he'd hoped.
On the fourth night, he opened the page again.
Just for a minute.
Just to look.
That was the excuse, anyway.
One minute became an hour. Then two. Then the rest of the night.
He read everything.
Posts. Comments. Replies buried in forgotten threads.
Tiny fragments of a life scattered across years of internet history.
Favorite movies, music recommendations, complaints about work.
A rant about a terrible landlord. An argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
Meaningless details.
Except they weren't meaningless. Not to him.
Every new discovery felt strangely precious. Like hearing a voice through a wall after years of silence.
For the first time, his soulmate wasn't an abstract possibility.
They were becoming real.
And Dick found himself wanting more.
What did their laugh sound like? What expression did they make when they were annoyed? Did they drink coffee in the morning? Did they still sleep curled up on the same side of the bed they'd mentioned three years ago?
The questions multiplied faster than he could answer them.
By sunrise, he knew more about them than he'd ever thought possible.
By sunrise, he also knew that it wasn't enough.
↑→↓←
The more Dick learned, the more impossible it became to ignore the distance between you.
You were real.
A real person living somewhere beyond his reach.
A real person carrying scars that belonged to both of them.
And once he knew that, how was he supposed to walk away? How was he supposed to forget? Keep waiting?
Dick spent years helping strangers.
Pulling people out of collapsing buildings. Talking frightened kids off ledges. Running toward people who needed help. Doing nothing had never been one of his strengths.
The realisation should have worried him.
Instead, it felt reasonable. Natural.
Almost inevitable.
By the end of the week, he found himself revisiting old comments. Looking closer.
A mention of weather. A complaint about public transit. A local restaurant.
Tiny details.
Nothing significant on their own, but what became patterns when placed together.
The detective in him noticed before the rest of him did.
A city narrowed to a suburb. A suburb narrowed to three possibilities. Three possibilities narrowed to one.
Dick stared at the screen. His pulse quickened.
A line had been crossed somewhere.
He wasn't entirely sure when.
Only that he should probably stop.
Instead, he opened another tab. Then another.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Long enough for hesitation to appear. Not long enough for it to matter.
Because you were out there, and you were hurting.
The first search took less than ten seconds.
The second took even less.
And when the first genuine piece of information appeared on his screen, Dick felt his heartbeat stumble.
For the first time in twenty years, his soulmate wasn't a dream.
You were becoming a person.
And Dick Grayson had never been very good at letting go of the people he loved.
The next morning began the same way most mornings did.
Pain.
You woke before your alarm, blinking groggily at the ceiling while a dull ache settled somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not terrible. Not even particularly surprising. Just another reminder that your soulmate was still out there making questionable decisions.
At least nothing felt broken.
That was practically a victory.
You lay there for another minute before forcing yourself upright. The soreness protested immediately, but years of experience had taught you how to judge the difference between annoying and hospital-worthy.
This fell firmly into the first category. Which meant work.
Lucky you.
By the time you arrived at the coffee shop, Gotham was already awake.
Rush hour traffic crawled through the streets outside. The sidewalks overflowed with exhausted office workers, students, tourists and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days.
Which, in this city, narrowed nothing down.
The familiar smell of coffee beans wrapped around you the moment you stepped behind the counter.
Honestly, it was one of the few things you genuinely liked about your job.
The customers were a different story.
By eleven o’clock, you’d already been yelled at twice.
Once because a man believed waiting three minutes for coffee constituted a personal attack.
The second because somebody thought you controlled the weather.
“Rough morning?”
You glanced up, the question knocking you out of your haze.
Your coworker was already grinning.
You sighed. “When isn’t it?”
“Fair.”
The lunch rush arrived shortly after.
Orders piled up. Names blurred together. Your feet hurt. Someone dropped their drink. Another person complained because their coffee was too hot.
You resisted the urge to suggest that coffee was generally known for that.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Normally, you wouldn't have looked up.
Lunch was a bloody nightmare. There were six drinks waiting to be made, three customers already staring holes into the back of your head, and somebody was arguing over oat milk. You had better things to do.
Yet somehow your eyes lifted anyway.
The man who stepped through the door looked like trouble. Not due to anything he was doing, but because nobody should have looked like that.
For a second, your brain simply failed to process him properly.
Dark hair. Blue eyes. Tall enough to stand out without seeming imposing. Broad shoulders hidden beneath an ordinary jacket that somehow wasn't ordinary anymore because he was wearing it.
The details registered one at a time.
Like your mind was struggling to decide where to look first.
It wasn't just that he was handsome. Handsome was too simple a word. Too ordinary.
Handsome was the guy on a billboard, the actor in a movie, the model in a magazine. This felt different. More annoying.
Like somebody had reached into your head, extracted every preference you'd ever had, and assembled a person around them.
You immediately disliked him for it.
Unfortunately, that didn't make him any less attractive.
His smile appeared as he spoke to the customer in front of him. It transformed his entire face. Softened it.
Made him look approachable in a way beautiful people rarely managed.
The kind of smile that made strangers smile back. The kind that suggested he remembered names. Held doors open. Helped old ladies carry groceries.
He looked like someone that got people into trouble because they assumed nobody that nice-looking could possibly be dangerous.
You tore your eyes away.
Absolutely not.
You were not doing this today.
He was just a customer. A stupidly attractive customer. Nothing more.
Several minutes later, he stepped up to the register.
Up close was a mistake. You realised that immediately.
Most attractive people benefited from distance.
A few feet between you and them gave reality time to point out imperfections.
The lighting changed. The angles shifted. Something human emerged.
Not him.
If anything, proximity made things worse.
His eyes were brighter than you'd thought. Not just blue, more like a deep ocean colour that caught light. The kind that made direct eye contact feel strangely unfair.
There was a faint scar near his eyebrow. Another disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Tiny imperfections that should have made him look less attractive.
Instead they only made him look real.
"Hi." His voice wrapped around the single syllable with effortless warmth.
He sounded so fucking pleased to be talking to you.
"What can I get for you?"
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Like he'd forgotten whatever he'd originally intended to say.
Then he smiled.
And suddenly it felt difficult to remember how to breathe.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Of course.
Of course the voice matched the face.
Why wouldn't it?
You entered the order before your brain could embarrass you.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
His fingers brushed yours for half a second.
It was nothing, really. Barely contact at all. Yet something strange tightened beneath your ribs.
Gone before you could identify it.
You frowned. Weird.
"Name?"
"Dick."
You blinked.
He looked entirely too pleased by your reaction.
"You serious?"
His eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. The bastard somehow became even prettier. "I get that a lot."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Hd let out a deep shaky breath, like he'd been hoping for it. Waiting for it.
As though making you laugh had accomplished something important. Like a strangers happiness mattered.
The look vanished so quickly you almost missed it.
For a brief, inexplicable moment, it felt less like meeting a stranger.
And more like being recognised.
The city belonged to him at night.
Not officially. Gotham belonged to no one. It clawed at anyone foolish enough to try and claim it.
But Dick knew its rhythms better than most.
He knew which rooftops held the best sightlines. Which alleyways concealed drug deals. Which fire escapes groaned beneath a person's weight. Which apartment windows stayed lit long after midnight because the people inside couldn't slep.
And he knew yours.
Perched on a neighboring rooftop, Dick lowered his binoculars slightly.
Your bedroom light had turned on twenty-three minutes before your alarm.
Again.
His jaw tightened.
The bond was never subtle.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the strain from yesterday's patrol still lingered. A bruised shoulder. A pulled muscle. Nothing serious.
Yet the thought of you waking up sore because of him left an uncomfortable weight in his chest.
You sat on the edge of your bed for several moments before standing. Slow and careful. Judging whether the pain was worth worrying about.
Dick recognised the routine.
You'd done it countless times.
The first time he'd seen it, he'd nearly broken a criminal's jaw.
It was then that he'd truly realised what years of sharing injuries with a vigilante must have been like.
You'd learned to evaluate pain before breakfast.
His fingers tightened around the binoculars.
You deserved answers.
You deserved him.
The thought arrived as naturally as breathing.
Dangerous. Wrong. Impossible to stop.
Dick watched you leave for work.
Then he followed.
He knew how surveillance worked. Knew exactly how easy it was to make someone feel watched.
So he stayed distant. A block behind, sometimes two.
Just another face in Gotham's endless crowd.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Nightwing could disappear from sight whenever he wanted. Dick Grayson found excuses to linger near coffee shops.
By eleven, he was seated across the street with a newspaper he hadn't read once.
His attention remained fixed elsewhere.
On the way you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear when concentrating. On the tiny crease that appeared between your eyebrows whenever customers irritated you. On the exhausted smile you gave coworkers despite clearly wanting to go home.
His chest ached.
He hated seeing you tired.
Hated seeing people take advantage of your kindness.
Hated that he couldn't simply walk inside and tell everyone to be careful with you.
Because you were important.
Because you mattered.
Because.. No.
Dick shut the thought down before it could finish.
This wasn't about ownership.
It couldn't be.
The soulmate bond wasn't ownership. It was connection.
Destiny.
A promise written into both of them before either had been born.
At least that was what he told himself whenever the possessive thoughts became harder to ignore.
By lunchtime, the crowd had thickened.
Good.
That made entering easier. Less noticeable.
The bell above the café door chimed as he stepped inside.
Immediately, he saw you.
The sight struck him with embarrassing force.
Every single time.
He'd spent months watching.
Months learning your routines.
Listening to your laugh from across rooms.
And somehow the impact never lessened.
You stood behind the register looking exhausted. A little annoyed. Ethereal.
Dick looked away before anyone could notice he'd been staring.
The line moved forward.
One customer. Two. Three. His pulse accelerated.
Ridiculous.
He'd fought assassins without flinching. Faced alien invasions. Stood against enemies capable of leveling cities. Yet somehow speaking to you felt more intimidating than any of them.
Because this mattered. Because you mattered.
The customer ahead of him finally left. And then it was his turn.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes lifted to meet his. Everything else disappeared. The noise. The conversations. The espresso machines. All of the buzzing was gone, just for a second.
Just long enough for Dick to feel the strange, impossible certainty he'd been carrying since the first moment he'd seen you.
There you are.
His soulmate.
His.
"Hi." The word came out softer than intended.
Your gaze remained fixed on him. Trying very hard not to stare.
Dick nearly smiled.
You had no idea.
No idea how many nights he'd spent imagining this conversation.
How many times he'd rehearsed introducing himself.
How often he'd wondered whether the bond would feel different when you finally met.
Instead, you asked professionally, "What can I get for you?"
For one disastrous second, Dick forgot the answer. Forgot he'd ordered the same thing repeatedly for weeks specifically because it was easy to remember. How human conversation worked.
You looked even better up close.
God, your eyes. Your voice. The tiny signs of exhaustion. The familiar shape of someone he'd spent months studying from a distance. Real.
You were finally real.
"I'll take a large flat white."
Smooth.
Very smooth.
Dick internally cringed.
You entered the order.
The register beeped.
He handed over his card.
Your fingers brushed his. The contact lasted less than a heartbeat. Lightning shot through him anyway.
The first touch.
The first real touch.
Dick forced himself not to react. Years of training saved him. Barely.
Then you asked the question he'd secretly been waiting for.
"Name?"
His mouth twitched. "Dick."
The blink you gave him was immediate.
Perfect.
Dick couldn't help smiling.
For the first time all day, genuine amusement broke through the tension knotting his chest.
"You serious?"
A laugh threatened to escape him.
God, he loved your voice already. Far too much.
"I get that a lot."
Then you laughed.
His breath caught.
Don't.
Don't do this.
Don't build a future out of a single laugh.
Yet he couldn't stop.
For a brief moment, your eyes met his again. Confusion flickered there. Recognition without understanding. A pull neither of you could explain.
And for the first time since entering the café, Dick wondered if you felt it too.
If you could physically feel that he was someone who looked at you and saw the center of his world.
You frowned slightly.
Dick’s smile was warm. Harmless.
The same smile that convinced criminals he was merciful and civilians he was safe.
"Thanks," he said.
Then he stepped aside to wait for his coffee.
And for the first time in months, waiting didn't feel difficult. Because now you knew he existed.
Dick returned three days later.
Then again the day after that.
Soon, the visits became a part of his routine so deeply ingrained that he no longer questioned it.
Patrol.
Sleep.
Reports.
Coffee.
You.
The order never changed.
He learned your schedule without meaning to. Or maybe he had meant to. Dick wasn't entirely sure where the line had disappeared.
At some point, knowing things about you had stopped feeling like gathering information and started feeling lke breathing.
He knew which coworker made you laugh.
Which customer always left you irritated.
Which days exhaustion sat heavier on your shoulders.
He knew the difference between your real smiles and the fake ones. The difference between a smile that reached your eyes and one offered out of politeness. The difference mattered.
Everything about you mattered.
Sometimes guilt still surfaced. Usually late at night. During the quiet moments after patrol, when Gotham finally stopped screaming for a few hours and left him alone with his thoughts.
That was when he remembered the forum posts.
The complaints.
The frustration.
The resentment.
Years of it.
You didn't want a soulmate. Not one who left you waking up sore after fights. Or one whose life seemed determined to get itself stabbed, shot, electrocuted, and thrown off rooftops.
The thought should have hurt.
Instead, Dick found himself staring at the ceiling and feeling strangely calm.
Because you didn't hate him.
You hated the idea of him.
The unknown. The stranger connected to your life.
You hated the inconvenience.
The pain. Uncertainty.
But him?
You didn't know him yet.
How could you hate someone you didn't know?
You didn't know about the nights he spent bleeding through cracked armor because civilians needed help. About the disasters he'd prevented. The people he'd saved. The promises he'd kept.
You didn't know how many times he'd nearly told you the truth.
How many times he'd stood outside your apartment building and wondered if tonight should be the night. How often he thought about you. How he worried.
You didn't know.
But you would.
Eventually.
Dick believed that with absolute certainty.
Because every day gave him something. A conversation. A smile. A joke.
Tiny, worthless things.
Things nobody else would notice.
By the second week, you knew his order.
By the third, you smiled when he walked through the door.
The first time it happened, the entire day felt brighter.
Ridiculously embarrassing of him, he knew that.
Yet the memory replayed in his head for hours.
The way your face lit up with recognition. How you'd greeted him before he even reached the counter.
Like you were happy to see him.
Like he'd become part of your day too.
A crack in the wall.
A tiny one. But cracks spread. Eventually walls collapse.
Dick was patient enough to wait. To let things unfold naturally.
Most of the time.
You still didn't know the truth.
Didn't know that he could identify your footsteps.
Could find your apartment window from almost anywhere in the neighborhood.
Didn't know he'd memorised the route you walked home.
The backup routes too.
The places where the streetlights didn't work. The alleys he disliked.
The intersections with the highest crime rates.
Important information. Necessary information.
Someone had to know those things. Someone had to keep you safe.
The city certainly wasn't going to.
Dick smiled to himself as he watched you lock the café doors one evening.
The sun had already disappeared. Streetlights painted gold across the pavement.
You looked tired. A little cold.
Still breathtaking.
Always so fucking ethereal.
His chest tightened with pure unfiltered need.
The overwhelming, consuming need to make sure nothing bad ever touched you again. To stand between you and every ugly thing Gotham could throw your way. To erase every danger before it reached you. To make the world safe enough that you'd never have to worry.
Hell, even the need to just push you down and capture your mouth in a kiss so intimate that you’d never want to let go.
The feeling had become stronger lately. Harder to ignore.
Before, you had been a concept. A hopeful possibility.
Now you were you.
You had a face. A laugh. A favorite drink. A life.
And every day made the thought of losing you more unbearable.
You disappeared around the corner.
Dick waited.
Five seconds. Ten. Then he rose from his seat. Following. Never too close. Never enough to be noticed. Just enough.
To intervene if something happened.
Making sure you got home safely.
Just enough to reassure the restless part of himself that always seemed to whisper what if?
What if someone followed you first?
What if someone hurt you?
What if someone took you away?
The thoughts were irrational. Dick knew they were.
Most people walked home every day without incident. But most people weren't you.
His jaw tightened.
That was the difference.
People talked about soulmates as though finding them was the end of the story. Like destiny did all the work.
As if fate guaranteed a happy ending.
Dick knew better.
Finding you wasn't the difficult part. Keeping you safe was. Protecting you was. Making sure the universe didn't decide to take back the greatest thing it had ever given him was.
His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure. Unwavering.
The possessiveness no longer startled him.
That battle had ended weeks ago.
Every justification had been exhausted. Every argument dismantled.
The truth remained.
You were woven through his life. Through his thoughts. Through every future he could imagine.
His soulmate.
His person.
The one thing in this city he couldn't lose.
And somewhere along the way, the distinction between wanting you and needing you had quietly disappeared.
Dick watched you disappear into your apartment building. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders.
Safe.
The word settled warmly inside his chest.
Safe for another night.
His eyes lingered on the illuminated window that he knew belonged to you.
Terrifyingly devoted.
The universe had tied your lives together years ago.
And Dick had no plans on fighting fate.
And if the day ever came when something, or someone, tried to take you away from him, Gotham would learn exactly how dangerous Nightwing could be when the only thing he loved was threatened.
The first time you noticed something was wrong, it didn't feel important. Just strange.
"Wait."
Your friend blinked across the table. "What?"
"You got offered a job in Blüdhaven?"
"Yeah?"
You frowned. "When?"
"A few months ago."
A few months ago.
That couldn't be right.
You'd applied for that same position. Gone through three interviews. Spent weeks waiting for a response.
And then nothing.
No rejection.
No acceptance.
Nothing.
"I never heard back."
"Really?" they said. "That's weird."
It was weird. You'd checked your emails obsessively at the time.
Nothing.
Not even spam.
Eventually you'd assumed they'd gone with another candidate.
The conversation moved on.
You didn't.
↓→←↑
Then another thing happened. And another.
"..You never told me your landlord sold the building."
Dick looked up from where he was cooking. "What?"
"The building."
You leaned against the counter. "The landlord was apparently trying to sell it last year."
Something flashed across his face.
"Huh."
"He said he couldn't find a buyer."
Dick hummed. "Guess it wasn't the right time."
You frowned.
That wasn't what the landlord had said. The exact words had been: "Every buyer that showed interest pulled out at the last minute."
←→↓↑
Then there was your ex.
Not an ex, technically. Just someone you'd gone on a few dates with before Dick.
Someone who suddenly moved overseas without warning.
You only found out because you bumped into one of their friends.
"Yeah, he was furious."
"What?"
"They withdrew the visa investigation thing eventually, but by then he'd already accepted another position."
You blinked. "The what?"
The friend frowned. "You didn't know?"
No.
No, you definitely hadn't known.
↓←→↑
The pieces don't fit together immediately.
Not until one late night, sitting on Dick's couch.
When his phone lit up.
You hadn’t even meant to look, the flash just caught your attention. The “image of the day” was a photograph.
Your photograph.
Not a recent one. Not one you’d sent him.
A candid picture.
Taken months before you met.
You were standing outside of your apartment.
"..Dick."
His entire body goes still at your tone.
Like prey hearing a gun click.
Slowly, he looks up.
You hold out the phone.
The photograph staring back at both of you.
Your pulse begins to hammer. "When did you take this?"
Nothing.
For a second, Dick just looks at you.
Then at the photo.
Then back.
“…Before we met."
Your stomach drops. "What?"
"I took it before we met." His voice is calm. Too gentle. The same voice he uses when you're upset.
Like he was expecting to tell you that everything was okay.
"I found you before the café."
The room suddenly feels too small. "How long?"
"A while."
"Dick."
"A few months."
The answer hits like a truck.
Months.
Your laugh comes out strained. Unsteady. "You're joking."
"No." He doesn't look ashamed.
If he looked guilty, maybe this would make sense. Instead, he looks concerned.
Concerned about you.
Like you're the one having a difficult time.
"Dick, that's stalking."
His jaw tightens immediately. Hurt.
Like you've accused him of something unfair.
"I was making sure you were safe."
"No." You stand. "Dick-"
Your heart is racing now. Too fast. "What the fuck do you mean you were watching me?"
And for the first time since you've known him, Dick looks frustrated.
Not because he got caught. Because you're not understanding.
"You lived alone."
"Dick-"
"You walked home after dark."
"Listen to me!"
"There were three muggings within four blocks of your apartment." His voice rises. Emotion breaking through.
"And I knew what Gotham was like."
You freeze. He sounds desperate. Terrified.
"I couldn't just leave you there." His eyes are shining now. Raw.
Honest.
The truth finally spilling out.
"You think I wanted to scare you?" His voice cracks.
"I spent twenty years looking for you."
You take a step backward.
Dick notices immediately. The devastation that crosses his face is instantaneous.
He actually believes that he's innocent. That every line he crossed was reasonable.
Because every choice was made for the same reason.
Love.
And suddenly all those little coincidences don't feel like coincidences anymore.
The failed job.
The vanished opportunities.
The relationships that somehow never worked out.
The people who drifted away.
The life that kept shrinking until Dick occupied most of it.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a second, neither of uni moved.
You stood frozen in the hallway outside Dick's apartment, one hand still wrapped around the doorknob, your pulse pounding so hard it made your ears ring. The argument replayed itself in fragments. Accusations, denials, half-finished explanations. None of it felt real.
Behind the door, you heard Dick's footsteps. Part of you expected the handle to turn. Expected him to come after you. To stop you before you left. To grab your wrist, block the doorway, force the conversation to continue.
Instead, the footsteps stopped. You could picture him standing there on the other side of the door. Not chasing you. Not arguing. Just... standing there. Devastated.
If he'd gotten angry, maybe this would have been easier. If he'd yelled, if he'd lied, if he'd given you a reason to hate him, maybe the hollow ache opening inside your chest wouldn't have felt so unbearable.
Instead, he'd looked heartbroken. Like he was the victim. Like you were the one tearing something precious apart.
The walk home passed in a blur. You barely remembered unlocking your apartment. The second the door shut behind you, instinct took over. Deadbolt. Chain. The secondary lock.
You checked the windows twice. Then a third time.
Only when every entrance was secured did you allow yourself to breathe.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. Dick.
You stared at the name. The call rang until it stopped. A second call appeared almost immediately. Then a third. The messages started after that.
Can we talk? Please answer. I just want to know you're okay.
For a dangerous second, your thumb hovered over the screen. Then you blocked him.
The number disappeared. You blocked his social media. His email. His Spotify. Every account you could think of. Anything connected to him. Anything that could give him a way back in.
When you finally finished, the apartment felt unnaturally quiet. You'd wanted silence.
Hadn't you?
So why did it feel like something was missing? Why did the absence feel so loud? Sleep never came. Every time you closed your eyes, another memory surfaced.
The internship opportunity that had vanished after months of promising interviews. The friendship that had somehow dissolved without explanation. The coworkers who'd grown distant. The photograph.
At four in the morning, you found yourself sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket, staring into the darkness. The city lights beyond your apartment window painted faint reflections across the floor.
You couldn't stop thinking. Every memory felt poisoned now. Every coincidence felt deliberate. How much of your life had actually been yours?
How many choices had been choices at all?
You didn't notice yourself drifting into a shallow sleep until your alarm exploded beside your head. You jolted awake.
Immediately regretted it. Pain tore through your leg so violently that for a split second you genuinely thought something had exploded. A scream ripped from your throat. White-hot agony shot from your shin to your hip.
The room tilted. Your knee gave out. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. The impact barely registered. All you could feel was the pain. It burned. Throbbed. Pulsed with every heartbeat.
You curled instinctively around your leg, gasping for air through clenched teeth. "What the fuck!" The words dissolved into another strangled cry.
Minutes passed. Or maybe longer.
Time became difficult to measure when every movement felt like driving a knife through bone.
Eventually you managed to drag yourself onto the couch. Sweat clung to your skin. Your stomach churned. The pain wasn't normal. It wasn't a cramp. Wasn't a pulled muscle. It felt broken. A fresh fracture.
Then a bitter laugh escaped your throat. Of fucking course.
You’d barely survived the worst night of your life and apparently your soulmate had decided now was the perfect time to break something. Again.
The bitter laugh that escaped you sounded almost hysterical. The empty apartment offered no response. Not that you expected one.
Your soulmate had never apologised before.
Several hours later, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. You froze.
The sound cut through the silence like a gunshot.
Another knock followed.
Then a familiar voice. Every muscle in your body locked. You remained motionless.
Maybe he'd leave.
Another knock sounded, softer this time. Almost hesitant. "…Please open the door." The concern in his voice made your stomach twist.
You hated that it still affected you. Hated that some part of you still wanted to believe him.
Then came the sentence that made your blood turn to ice. "You shouldn't be standing."
Everything stopped. Your breathing. Your thoughts. Your heartbeat. Slowly, very slowly, you turned toward the door. The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too quiet.
"Dick?" A pause.
Then: "I brought groceries." His voice sounded tired. Careful. Like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I also got pain medication."
You stared at the door. A sick feeling began unfurling in your stomach.
"Can you let me in?" No. No, no, no. Maybe coincidence. Maybe a lucky guess. Maybe-
"You need to stay off that leg." The world seemed to tilt. Your pulse thundered.
How? You hadn't told anyone. You hadn't gone to the hospital. You hadn't even texted anyone. There was no way he could know. Unless-
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. You forced yourself upright and limped toward the door. Each step sent another wave of pain through your leg.
By the time you reached it, your hands were shaking. You opened the door only a few inches.
Dick stood on the other side. One arm loaded with grocery bags. Takeout containers balanced in the other hand. A bottle of painkillers tucked beneath his elbow.
The second the door opened, his gaze dropped.Straight to your injured leg.
"There it is." The words slipped out before he could stop them. His expression tightened immediately. "You really shouldn't be putting weight on-"
"How do you know?"
Silence.The question landed between them like a blade. Dick froze.
You felt your heartbeat climbing higher and higher. "How do you know my leg is injured?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Dick looked caught off guard. Not angry. Not defensive. Caught.
Something that looked dangerously close to guilt crossed his face. And suddenly you understood enough to make your blood run cold.
The fracture hadn't happened to your soulmate. It had happened because of them.
Dick's expression changed immediately. Not much, most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you'd spent months learning the subtle shifts in his face. The slight tightening around his eyes. The way his shoulders stiffened.
"Angel-"
You took another step backward on instinct. Pain shot through your injured leg. A sharp hiss escaped you before you could swallow it.
Dick flinched. The reaction was instantaneous. His hand jerked forward as though he meant to catch you before he stopped himself. The concern that flashed across his face was so immediate, so visceral, that it made your stomach turn.
For a horrible second, you couldn't stop thinking about it. The way he'd known. The way he'd looked directly at your leg. The medication tucked under his arm. The certainty in his voice when he'd told you not to stand.
Maybe he really had felt it. Maybe every pulse of pain that had left you curled up on the floor this morning had reached him too.
"You knew." The accusation hung between you.
Dick's jaw tightened. You stared at him. Stared at the man standing in your doorway carrying groceries and painkillers like some devoted boyfriend stopping by to take care of you after a bad day.
"You knew you were my soulmate." For a second, one stupid, desperate second, you hoped he'd deny it.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this entire nightmare had gotten out of control.
Dick looked down. "...Yeah."
Every injury. Every unexplained ache. Every ruined plan because somebody you had never met couldn't stop getting themselves hurt.
You remembered sitting in emergency rooms as a teenager, trying to explain symptoms doctors couldn't understand. Missing school because you'd woken up unable to walk on an ankle you'd never injured. The migraines. The broken fingers. The bruises.
The soulmate bond had shaped your life whether you'd wanted it to or not. And all this time, it had been him.
Not a stranger. Not some faceless person halfway across the world. Dick. Your Dick.
The man who knew how you took your coffee. The man who remembered insignificant details about conversations you'd forgotten having.
The man you'd trusted enough to love.
Your hand found the wall beside you before you even realised you were reaching for support.
Dick took a step forward automatically.
You recoiled.
The look that crossed his face was immediate and devastating.
He stopped moving at once. "Angel..."
"How long?" Your voice sounded strange. Thin. Distant. "How long have you known?"
For the first time since arriving, Dick looked genuinely uncomfortable. Ashamed.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor. "Eight months."
"Eight months?"
"Angel, I know how bad that sounds-"
"You knew for eight months." Every word came out sharper than the last. "You knew and you didn't tell me."
"I wanted to." The answer came immediately. Too quickly. Like he'd rehearsed this argument a hundred times. "I did. God, I wanted to tell you from the beginning."
"Then why didn't you?"
Dick looked away. That was answer enough.
Because he'd been watching. Learning. Getting closer. Fitting himself into your life before you knew what he was.
"You let me hate them."
Something flickered across his face. A strange sadness. Not guilt exactly. Something closer to regret. "I never wanted that."
"You let me spend years hating my soulmate." His expression tightened. "I know."
"You let me blame them for everything."
"I know." The quiet sincerity of the response only made you angrier. He wasn't denying it. Wasn't making excuses. He understood exactly what he'd done. And somehow, he still thought he'd been right.
The apartment fell silent.
Dick stood near the door surrounded by grocery bags and takeout containers. The sight would have been almost domestic under different circumstances. Ordinary.
Something in his expression softened. "You don't have to do this anymore."
You frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Dick hesitated. For the first time since arriving, he seemed unsure of how to explain himself. "..You've spent your entire life paying for things that weren't your fault."
The words were quiet. Measured. His gaze dropped briefly to your injured leg before returning to your face. "I know every hospital visit."
A chill crawled down your spine.
His voice grew softer. "I know every surgery. Every cast. Every time you had to cancel plans because I did something reckless." The guilt in his expression looked genuine. "I know what it cost you."
"Dick."
"I do." His voice cracked slightly. The sound startled you.
"I know exactly what I've put you through."
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Dick slowly set the groceries on the floor. "You shouldn't have had to deal with any of it alone."
Something about the direction of the conversation suddenly felt wrong. Dangerous. "Dick..." "I mean it." His eyes never left yours.
"You shouldn't have had to worry about medical bills because I got shot. You shouldn't have had to miss work because I decided jumping off rooftops sounded like a good idea. You shouldn't have had to build your life around my mistakes."
A humorless laugh escaped him. "You definitely shouldn't have had to spend years wondering who was responsible." The guilt in his voice was so real it almost hurt to listen to.
And somehow that made what came next even worse. "But you don't have to do that anymore."
The knot in your stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
Dick looked genuinely confused by the question. As though the answer was obvious. "As long as I'm here, you're not dealing with any of it alone."
"You don't need to worry about rent." The words landed heavily.
You stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I'll take care of it." "No."
"You don't have to keep working two jobs." "No."
"You don't have to stress about groceries or bills or whether you can afford physical therapy."
"Dick!"
His voice remained calm. Patient. Like he was trying to explain something simple. Something reasonable. "I can handle all of that."
"You can't just decide that." "Why not?" The question came out so naturally that it stopped you cold.
Dick frowned slightly, confused. "As far as I'm concerned, taking care of you is my responsibility."
Your heart dropped. The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not possessive in the way you'd expected. Like he wasn't describing what he wanted. He was describing reality.
"You don't owe me anything," he continued quietly. "You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to forgive me. But I'm not going to stand there and keep watching you suffer because of things I've done."
His gaze held yours. Steady. Intense. Terrifyingly sincere. "You've carried this alone for long enough."
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too difficult to breathe in. Because you finally understood. Dick wasn't asking for a relationship. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He wasn't even asking for another chance.
He was asking you to hand him control.
The first escape attempt had been almost gentle. A mistake, in hindsight. You’d underestimated him. Underestimated his understanding of you.
By the time you reached the outer perimeter, your leg had already started to fail in ways that didn’t make sense at first. Pain bloomed without warning, sharp, targeted, precise, as if your body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
It was him. Dick Grayson had already noticed you leaving. Already made his choice.
He carried you back without comment when he found you kneeling in the rain like you’d simply run out of endurance. Like your body had just… stopped cooperating. Like he couldn’t even feel his own pain shooting through him.
For three days after that, he barely spoke. Not anger. Not even punishment. Adjustment. Because he was learning how far he could push the bond, and how far he could push himself.
The second attempt cost you more. Not because he was harsher, because he was faster. You barely remember leaving the room. You remember waking up in a different one. Reinforced, seamless, wrong in ways your instincts couldn’t map.
Dick sat beside the bed like he’d never moved. Like time had folded around him. “You dislocated your shoulder,” he said calmly, as though that explained everything.
You tried to sit up. Your body refused. His hand rested on your wrist before you could test it further. “You pushed too hard,” he added. “I had to stabilise it.” “I didn’t-”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still calm. “You did.” But what he didn’t say, what you only began to understand later, was that he had done the same thing to himself at the exact moment you tried to leave.
The third time you tried, there was no hallway. Just motion that died halfway through becoming action. Your body locking down in controlled, precise waves of agony. Like a switch had been thrown. And somewhere behind you, his voice. “I told you not to do that again.”
When you woke, your ankle was wrapped. Your phone was gone. The doors had changed again.
That was when you understood the rule. You could try. He would let you try. Not because he expected you to succeed, but because every attempt gave him data. Every spike of your pain told him what the bond could tolerate. And every time you pushed too far, he matched you. By breaking himself just enough that the connection snapped you both back into place.
Now, in what he liked to call the living room, too controlled to feel like a home, you listened to him in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Water running. A cup set down carefully. Like nothing was wrong.
You swallowed. Your voice weak from disuse. “..I want to leave.”
“You don’t want that,” he mumbled, not looking up from the pan.
“I do.”
“No,” he said gently. “You want the version of it that doesn’t hurt.” He walked patiently over to you. His hand lifted, hovered near your shoulder, then settled. Warm. Certain.
“.. I won’t let it get that far.”
Your throat tightened. “You’re hurting me.”
This time, he didn’t deny it immediately.
He just looked at you for a long moment. Then, “No,” he said quietly. “I’m stopping you from breaking past the point where there’s no coming back.”
“You don’t get to leave anymore,” he said at last. “Not like that.” Not a threat. A conclusion.
“And you won’t try again,” he added, softer.
“Because I won’t let either of us survive what happens when you do.”
Then he turned back toward the kitchen. As if the decision had already been made. As if your life together had always been structured this way.
And in a sense, it had.
10K+ Words, 61K+ Characters, 1K+ sentences, 36 min average reading time, 58 min average speaking time.
I have a request for you, could you please do it?🌷🥺
The reader died in the first season saving Alastor and even before dying declaring his love for him with a kissing scene, only for Alastor to still be hurt and now depressed because he lost the reader… Charlie said that the reader is fine and is in heaven, of course Alastor doesn't believe that… Only for him to see the reader next to Sepertius where they both became angels… Now Alastor won't touch or get close to the reader (nor punish the reader for being a lovesick idiot, of course he loves her), now Alastor will have to have some plan to bring the reader back since I doubt that heaven will let the reader or Sepertius return…
➺ Summary: Alastor loses that presence that was always by his side. He didn't expect your death to disrupt his routine, to miss your voice so much. He must learn to live with this absence. But does he really have to? It seems fate is granting him a second chance.
➺ Warning: Angst, Alastor is bad with feelings, mention of death.
➺ Author’s note : Of course sweetheart, I can totally do it! I really enjoyed writing this story! It's a bit more dramatic than I originally intended, but I like how it turned out, and I hope you will too! I always picture Alastor as someone who would never openly express his feelings, but if he ever lets someone get too close to him emotionally, he'd do anything to get them back. He finds someone he cares about, and they take them away from him? Hell nah. English isn't my native language, so I apologise for any mistakes. I'll do my best to make it enjoyable to read!
3,1k words || 18k
“Adam! First man, next to die.”
Everything seemed to be going well; the fight against an archangel would certainly be tough, but he hadn't expected anything less. However, Alastor certainly hadn't anticipated being so much weaker than him. When the cracking sound of his staff cut through the chaos of the battlefield, time seemed to slow down. Yet he struggled to alternate between his broken staff and the rapid attack of the golden guitar that sliced his flesh with sharp pain. He grimaced, a forced smile playing on his lips. The angelic power that burned his flesh where the wound gaped left a lingering pain, more intense than any injury he had ever suffered. A trickle of blood ran from his lips.
The angel raises his guitar-axe in the air, the gold gleaming beneath the dark glare of the infernal sky, as if to announce the end of a chapter in Hell… the day the mystery of Alastor the Radio Demon would end beneath the blade of the first human. He faces this fate with a perfectly controlled smile, refusing to offer Hell and Heaven the satisfaction of having erased his smile. His power wouldn't save him in time; he had only partially merged with the shadows. He expected a second, lightning-fast agony before fading away like switching off a radio with the push of a button.
But he didn't expect you to come between him and Adam. Nor did he expect your cry to resonate so clearly in his mind like a bell. Even less did he expect your body to collapse upon him, his arm instinctively wrapping around your silhouette, carrying you away with him into the darkness of shadows.
Your blood soaks his coat, the warmth of the scarlet liquid lingering on his hands as he supports you. The journey to his radio tower is difficult, particularly slow and grueling for both of you. Agony throbs in your veins like the blood draining from you both. But your injury seems far more serious; you are losing far too much blood, more than he is…more than you should to be able to survive. He lets your body rest against the floor of the radio tower, Alastor's shallow breathing breaking the heavy silence. His thoughts swirl in a jumbled, incoherent stream. He can't focus, torn between the rage of being chained to a pact for decades, the frustration of having been outwitted by Adam in a single blow, but above all, the raw emotion he felt at your reckless rescue. He never asked you to sacrifice yourself for him, and in your foolhardy attempt, you were grievously wounded. Blood surrounded your silhouette in a scarlet halo that grew larger with each passing second. He grimaced. He didn't have time to collect his thoughts. He would have to let you die so you would realize that pity was but a weakness in Hell.
He knelt beside you, his claws tearing your shirt from your chest, heedless of the bloody scraps that fell to the floor. A frown of palpable frustration crossed his face. It was deep, very deep, too deep. He couldn't heal it, and he doubted that stitches to hold the wound together would help. No one heals an angel's wound through ordinary means.
“Pff…” A pathetic, thin smirk slips from your lips, now slightly blue. Your complexion is pale, your eyes struggling to focus on him. Yet you find the strength to speak, to mock him. “Don’t make that face, it looks like you’re really going to miss me.”
And there’s nothing more foolish than thinking that one day he would miss someone. Not even someone like you. Yet something cracks inside him with a sound even more unbearable than the crackling of his microphone. He wouldn’t know how to explain it, and for the first time since arriving in Hell, he can’t control his own emotions. Alastor doesn’t respond, not yet, but his smile remains frozen, almost painful. But his eyes betray him. They no longer shine with that mischievous glint; they are dark, tense, fixed on your face as if looking away could seal something tragic and irreversible that he refuses to acknowledge.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” It was curt, quick, almost dismissive, as if to convince himself that he was indifferent to the situation. That the pain in his chest was merely the result of his injury. “You did something totally stupid.”
Your breath is short and uneven, punctuated by a second gasp that resembles laughter. The burst of laughter, that delicate melody that accompanied his walk down the hotel corridors whenever you came to see him, was now but a shadow of its former self. Each breath seems to require considerable effort. Your fingers tremble as they grip the lapel of his coat as if it were the last lifeline keeping you conscious.
His fingers close around the ripped edges of your shirt, trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from your wound, by reflex or perhaps by denial. The sticky heat seeps through his claws, and the sensation makes him want to gnash his teeth. He presses harder, too hard. For the first time, he hates seeing blood flow.
“I’m going to die…” Despite the weakness in your voice, you don’t ask a question; you state the cruel fate that awaits you. He hates the resignation in your voice, as if you won’t regret giving your life for his. “You know…before I go…”
His body tenses, his jaw clenches. He feels as if hearing you share your last words will make reality more tangible. He hated this display of weakness as much as your acceptance of your fate. But above all, he hated how inert he remained, listening to you and sharing your final moments, when he should be thinking first and foremost about his own injury. Your hand glides gently across his cheek; you expend your last strength. Guided like a butterfly toward the light, you rise with difficulty. A foreign warmth brushes against his lips as you place a kiss. So fragile, barely more than a tender, affectionate caress. He feels the curve of your smile against his. He doesn't have time to absorb your affection, the warmth of your lips and their intoxicating softness, or even your last words, before you fall limply against him like a broken doll.
"I love you." These words echo in his ears like a poisoned gift you give him for revenge. To force him to live with the weight of your death on his conscience.
No.
The word doesn't leave his lips, but it explodes in his mind like a strident interference, a silent scream that jams all the radio frequencies of Hell. Your inert weight against him etches reality into his flesh with unbearable cruelty. You are too light. Too still.
“…No.”
This time, he says it. In a low voice. Broken, like an old radio being revived after years in a dusty attic. His arm closes around you with an almost desperate firmness, as if it could stop you from slipping further—not just from his arms, but from life itself. Your blood is everywhere. On him. Inside him. A stain that no smile, no radio wave will ever be able to erase. He leans his forehead against yours. Your skin is cold. Far too cold.
“You didn’t have that right…” he growls, his voice trembling with an anger that finds no target. “No right to say that. No right to leave like this.”
I love you.
These words lacerate him far more deeply than Adam's blade. They burrow in, repeat, distort, loop endlessly like a cursed broadcast he can't turn off. He clenches his teeth. His smile trembles, finally cracking—a first in his lifetime, a heresy.
"You really think…" he breathes, a note of hysteria simmering beneath the laughter trying to erupt, "…that I'm going to accept this?"
The air around him shifts.
The shadows of the radio tower twist, crawl, press against the walls as if drawn by an inaudible distress signal. The tower's antenna creaks, the airwaves scream, distorted. His body contorts, his limbs twist into morbid angles, bones crack, muscles tear, reform, and lengthen.
"I've spent an eternity manipulating the rules." he murmurs, his voice now layered over others, deeper, older. As if all the voices of the Overlords he has vanished are manifesting in his pain. “To bend Hell to my will. You really think you…”
He breaks off. His throat tightens. Your head rolls limply against his shoulder. He presses your corpse against his chest, his hand so large it encloses you with its single grip.
“…that you’re capable of defying my rules? Oh no. This show isn’t over yet.”
Alastor remains locked in his room most of the time when he's not on duty. He can't bear to see Charlie trying to fill her emotional void by engaging in various ways to forget her grief. Because as much as he hates to admit it, she reminds him how he's coping with his own grief. He meticulously avoids the corridor that led to your room, yet he refuses to let Vaggie give the key to another resident. He continues to smile at the mention of your name as if indifferent to the fate you've willingly brought upon yourself, but he can't control the absence of the spiteful smile of his shadow.
His gaze lingers on the gaping wound on his chest, barely held together by neon green stitches. Crude, rushed work, beneath him. The archangel's wound isn't healing properly. Each stitch in his skin is a dissonant note, vibrating at a parasitic frequency. The alcohol burns, leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat. The glass clangs against the wooden counter with a ridiculously loud sound, amplified by the silence no longer filled by your usual interruptions. The shadows on the walls have ceased their mocking dance, frozen like statues as if refusing to continue a custom when you are no longer a spectator. The Radio Demon inhales slowly. The air scrapes his lungs, causing a biting pain in his chest that throbs in time with his beating heart. Dull, deep, a constant reminder of failure; not against Adam, but against you.
He takes another sip from the glass. The alcohol burns again but still offers no relief. He naively hoped that this familiar sensation would overwhelm the other, the one that has gripped his heart since your disappearance. Disappearance—what a childish term for your extermination. The word "death" leaves a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue before the sound even forms in his mind. He couldn't offer you even a semblance of a funeral. Your body evaporated against him. He can still feel the dust slipping through his fingers, like the cruel fragment of your ghost haunting every second of his life. He pretends, he ignores, but he still remembers.
He averts his eyes from the mirror, because his reflection still smiles, but his shadow remains frozen in the grief he denies himself. It hasn't smiled since his walks through the hotel corridors became silent. It's ridiculous; he's mocking himself. He has survived numerous exterminations, broken pacts, decades in Hell. Yet it is your smile—sincere, peaceful, genuine—that has left him in this permanent state of melancholy he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge.
Then one day, Charlie cried out with a misplaced joy in this context of mourning. She approached them, waxing lyrical about ridiculous topics like redemption being possible, that you're in Heaven with Sir Pentious. The very idea that you're still alive sounds like a static frequency he has to get rid of. It's absurd. Nothing is more cruel than the faint hope that he might one day see you again or hear you laugh again, and not just through the crackling of the radio that remembers your tune. His smile widens, but it freezes with a dry emotion, a precise, mechanical control. His expression is measured, insincere. He's mocking her, this madness that grief has driven her to utter. He's mocking this naiveté that offers the residents who were close to Sir Pentious and you a cruel hope. How dare she joke about your death, joke with him?
Before he knows it, the last vestiges of his patience melt away like snow in the sun. He sets off with a determined step. It takes all his self-control to manage the growth of his antlers. The fire in his chest continues to burn, fueled by what he refuses to acknowledge. He isn't grieving, he isn't sad, nor even angry about your death. But no matter how many times he repeats these words like a broken record, he never finds relief. He may blame your thoughtlessness, but he cannot find peace.
I love you.
Three little words whose weight rests heavier on his shoulders than the world itself.
“It was Camilla who killed the angel, wasn’t it?”
Your voice breaks the comfortable silence of the living room. It was just the two of you left, sharing a peaceful moment in front of a crackling fireplace, in an intimacy free of formalities. You don’t observe him, you don’t see the corner of his lips harden, nor even the amused mischief that clouds his gaze. His laughter, static, eternal, cuts through the gentle crackling of the flames licking the logs.
“Hahaha.” He tilts his face toward you, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “What makes you say that, my dear friend? One of your famous intuitions? Don’t forget that the last one led you into a rather comical situation.”
“It only happened once! You promised never to speak of it again!”
“What good are sweet words in Hell? You’re far too gullible.”
“Stop making fun of me.” You let an embarrassed sigh escape your lips, but you receive only a light, mocking laugh from him. A peaceful silence settles briefly. “It was the egg that said it…Frank, I think?”
“Maybe I should have eggs for breakfast tomorrow.”
Your laughter caresses his ears like an enchanting melody that used to punctuate his radio programs when he was still a radio host in New Orleans. He could deny things and play with words to deceive you. But for the past few years, something subtle has been robbing him of that selfishness, causing him to share a little more of his control with you. Never anything serious, always little bits here and there that you don’t even notice. A sharing so subtle that no one has noticed the favoritism he shows you, except himself. What's more, you're practically the only one who gives any credence to the Egg Bois' nonsense. No rational person would believe a word they say, given the drivel they spout all day long.
"It seems I'm not wrong," you add, cheerfully humming your satisfaction at having obtained the information you were looking for.
Yet, there's something in the mischievous glint in your eye that tells him it's not so much the confirmation of the information that interests you, but how he reacts.
Yet, he stood motionless before the giant screen displaying your radiant face. You shone with the colors of Heaven, but you were still yourself. Still that irritatingly sincere smile, still that crystalline voice that soothed him, still that genuine glimmer in your eyes.
Murmurs rose. Exclamations, cheers. Sometimes incredulous laughter, surprised, mocking for some. Ridiculed groundbreaking information is sometimes easier than questioning an entire cycle that caused the deaths of so many Sinners at the hands of Heaven. The giant screen broadcast the news like a spectacle. Two survivors, two souls saved. But for Alastor, it was proof that Heaven enjoyed reminding Hell of what it denied it.
The world around him froze in an icy silence. The sound still exists, he knows it, but it no longer reaches him, as if all the frequencies converge on a single point: you. Your face, radiant beneath the gold with which Paradise has adorned you.
His smile is still there, eternal, unchanging. The one he offers the world when he wants to show nothing. Yet something cracks in his chest. It's subtle, barely audible. A tension settles in the nape of his neck, in his shoulders, even in his fingers clenched around his staff. His shadow, however, doesn't smile. It freezes, almost reverent, leaning toward the giant screen as if it had just seen a ghost.
"Oh my. Interesting." he says, his voice controlled, almost amused.
Lie.
His gaze never leaves your face. He scrutinizes every feature, every expression that reminds him of fragments of your shared past by his side, when your presence still illuminated Hell. He frantically searches for what he feared finding, or rather, what he feared not finding. There was no change in you. You haven't changed. Heaven hasn't erased you, hasn't rewritten you, nor has it torn away what makes you who you are. And this realization grips his chest with a force that surprises even him. The wound beneath his tailored clothes suddenly throbs, as if the greenish seam were burning against his injured skin. As if his treacherous body fully acknowledges what his mind is still struggling to grasp.
You are alive.
A laugh escapes his lips. Light, clear, almost sincere. Of course, you survived. Of course you found your place up there. Of course, Heaven rushed to reclaim what Hell failed to protect, what he himself failed to protect. His claws glide imperceptibly along his staff, the knuckles of his fingers whitening under the pressure. Not enough to alert the crowd—not that they're paying him any attention. Around him, in the crowd, some sinners are commenting on the redemption.
On the giant screen, behind your radiant smile, Alastor detects a slight, stray vibration, a tiny dissonance that few, if any, sinners have noticed. You look for him. Unconsciously, subtly, your eyes scan the crowd, searching for a familiar red glow. And for the first time in weeks, the shadow of the Radio Demon smiles. In the crowd, Alastor's smile widens, not cruel, not mocking, but with something you never had time to define together because you both naively thought that Eternity was owed to you.
But you are still alive, breathing, your heart beating. Heaven has taken you, but your voice still echoes in this world. A dark glint lights up his pupils. Calculating, like a predator on the hunt. He has never been very good at accepting having what is his taken away…especially when he has already learned what it feels like to lose it.
He hates Vox, what he created and brought to Hell. He loathes the monotonous, predictable hum of modern media. On the other hand, perhaps he has created something useful. He has opened a breach, and Alastor would be willing to take that path to bring you back to his side, even if it means clipping the angels' wings to make you fall again.
A new isekai story from me? I know, bonkers! Actually inspired by the blurb I read on an actual isekai manga/manhwa/etc. BUT I liked the idea enough that I didn't read the story so I could write my own yandere version of it, hope you guys enjoy it ♥
Characters: Yandere!Emperor x Isekai!Fem!Reader
Warnings: Yandere, Forced Marriage Trope, Isekai Trope, Depiction of War, Violence, Attempted Murder (not from or on the reader)
»»———————— ♡ ————————««
Sighing, you put down the packaging of the game you just loaded up, having hoped it would give you any clue about what it was all about.
A dark, black box with only the game's title imprinted on it—Fated Encounters—was as helpful as a blindfold in the streets. Thus, you threw it over your shoulder, hearing it plop onto your bed as you stared back at the character creation screen you had worked on for a while.
You had to admit, your character was really damn cute, from the pretty eyes to the custom outfit you put together. But at the same time, not knowing what the game was all about, it was hard to decide what was needed now: stats.
"Weird game," you mumbled, feeling slightly irritated at the lack of direction you had received. The friend who told you about it had simply called it "the best game I have ever played" before leaving you behind at the game store after having pushed the box into your hand. They felt very off lately, but you didn't know why. So you thought maybe if you played their favorite game, you could get them out of their shell and to spend time with you again.
Naturally, you could play it safe and just put an equal amount of points in all the stats, but where was the fun in that? You didn't know what occupation your main character had and had no idea what alignment you wanted them to have throughout the run, so you were like a stranded whale when choosing the right stats—utterly helpless.
And out of frustration about it, you decided to say fuck it.
Pressing the button of your controller, you held it until all of the points you were given went into charisma. Who needed strength, magic, defense, and health when you could simply talk your way out of every dangerous situation? Make everyone believe you were innocent and sweet while dodging the possible bullets. With your lack of knowledge about the game, it was the best choice, and if you liked the game, you could still revisit it with better stats next time!
Clicking 'start' almost excited you as you waited for the screen to change from black to an intro cutscene, but instead, another confirmation popped up, asking you, "Are you sure you want to proceed with these choices? Note: All choices have consequences."
"Ominous," you chuckled before hitting the confirmation again. The game made a small sound of acceptance before it finally turned black and stayed this way. Seconds passed, and you started to press all buttons, up, down, left, and right, until finally, you gave up, accepting that all your hard work creating this character had just been in vain, as your system must have frozen.
Frustrated, you forced a manual shut-down of your game system, discarding the controller somewhere on the table before getting up and letting yourself fall head-first into the mattress. What a stupid idea this was, you thought to yourself as you felt the hard box of the game poke your stomach. Anger unleashed upon the poor box as you yanked it out and discarded it on the floor, instant regret overcoming you as you hoped it wasn't broken so you could return the game.
You would definitely not go through all this work again to play it.
No way!
»»———————— ♡ ————————««
You awoke to the sounds of screaming.
Bellowing voices were all around you, yelling at one another, grunting, despairing. The ground beneath you shook with ferocity as the bangs of explosions hit you from both sides, barely shielded by the ringing in your ears. Alerted, you pushed your hands into the surface beneath you and felt your fingers dig into what felt like loose earth or sand while you tried to focus. What had happened? You only just fell asleep after being so frustrated with the game you couldn't play. Why had the atmosphere changed so drastically?
Gripping your head, a surge of pain went through you, a nasty gash on your forehead wetting your palm. The red was striking even through your blurred vision as you gazed at your hand, and reality was still hard to grasp as your senses suddenly cleared, letting in the unmistakable sounds of war all around you.
Hastily, you looked around, trying to focus on one thing and all at the same time. This place didn't look like your home at all! There was neither a bed nor your gaming setup around that clearly marked it as your room. Instead, you saw dirt everywhere, flames rising from bushes and trees, and the worst part—bodies.
Countless humanoid bodies lay in the dirt, the ground stained with what could only be blood. Most were face down, arrows sticking from their backs, spears slammed through the armor some of them wore. Some of their heads were rolled to the side, staring at you lifelessly, and for some reason, you were overcome by guilt, as if it had been your fault they died. You grabbed yourself by the arms as you were overcome by the horror, finally realizing you were on some battlefield, wounded and terrified, with no idea how you got there.
Had your country been attacked while you slept? How could you have not noticed it? Where was your family, why did these bodies look so medieval? What the hell was going on?!
Next to you, another person stirred, clad in black armor and clearly in pain. You crawled over to the knight, helm covering his face while he clutched his side.
"Hey! Hey, stay calm!" you called out to him, and he jerked at your voice, probably just as scared as you were. "It's going to be alright," you assured him, looking his body over for wounds until you noticed the gaping opening his hand tried to press down on.
"It's okay," you kept assuring him, hoping he wouldn't notice the wavering in your voice. You had no idea if it would be okay or not. Honestly, it looked pretty bad for him. All you knew was that one should press down on wounds to stop the bleeding, and although you felt bad, you put more pressure on top of the knight's hand, hoping that would help.
"Why..." he grunted, and you gulped.
"We have to stop the bleeding so we can get you to someone who can help! A-A doctor... healer, something like that! I don't know, I'm sorry! This is all so strange, I have no idea what's going on! I'm doing my best! I just don't know what to do! I'm so so sorry!"
Your whole body was wracked with shivers as you tried to assist and help this person somehow when the sound of his voice suddenly cut through your panic in a way you didn't expect.
He chuckled.
"No, why would you help me?"
"You're hurt..." you whispered in response, saying it before thinking clearly.
"It's war. Would you not want your enemy to be hurt?" he asked, his voice lightening with curiosity. Even if the concept of war was so unfamiliar, only known through stories and history to someone like you, you understood that he meant that hurt and death were inevitable when two sides clashed. Still, it meant very little to you, who couldn't bear these thoughts even though you had to have them.
"War is awful! No one deserves to be in pain or die!" you sobbed, tears having collected in your eyes. This wasn't the right moment for your pity party; after all, this man was probably as good as dead. Yet here you were, making it about yourself and your stupid, conflicted feelings. But this guy was perhaps the same as you, lying in the dirt, scared and frightened. You didn't want the closest thing to an ally you had, to die miserably.
"I don't want this! I don't want you to die! I don't care if you're my enemy! You deserve to live and be happy! Enjoy your life, eat good food, and be in love with someone who loves you just the same! It's not fair! No one should have to die in vain!" you yelled, and it took him a moment before he laughed softly, rolling his head over the ground.
"Your Highness, get away!" someone yelled, the voice clear and strangely familiar as the black knight next to you suddenly rose from his early grave. Even though you both sat on the ground, he towered over you, the shining black of his armor looming like death incarnate. His hand reached up towards your face but instead caught your wrist from where it had touched him. You jolted in surprise, his grip crushing as it wrapped around you. Gasping out in pain, an arrow suddenly came swooshing through the air, cutting close enough to the knight's grip on you that you could feel the wind on your exposed skin around your hand, tearing you out of your fear and pain.
For a moment, his grip softened, and this time, your body responded perfectly, yanking yourself out of his hold and toppling back. It was neither elegant nor careful. It hurt as your elbows crashed onto the ground, your lower back taking most of the blow, but at least you were a few inches away from that strange knight.
Strong arms hooked underneath your body, the presence of many people surrounding you as you were lifted from the ground swiftly. You heard all sorts of armor clanking and clicking as people moved around, but even more so, you were forced to listen to the blood-curdling screams of soldiers being struck down right in front of you.
Was it the black knight or the ones now crowding around you? All of the people here wore silver plates, but you could only see hints of black through the gaps in their formation.
"Your Highness, you need to leave right now! It's too dangerous to remain here!" the soldier that held you from behind yelled over the screams, and without asking for permission, your hand was once again gripped by a bigger one, dragging you after him as he ran.
More knights closed in as you two stumbled in the opposite direction, shouting and attacking enemies behind you while you stumbled over your feet, trying to keep up. Hand lodged tightly in the iron grip of the knight, he didn't look back as he made his way through the soldiers, almost as if his mission wasn't fighting but rather fleeing.
Not so much you. Somehow, you couldn't shake off the need to look back, to assure yourself, to see something you weren't yet in the place to judge.
There he stood amongst the silver knights, flames reflecting in the brilliance of his black armor. You had been sure he had been severely wounded. Yet, he swung around his battle axe effortlessly, striking down the soldiers one after the other as if they were no match for him.
"Hurry, your Highness!" the soldier yelled, tugging you forward repeatedly as the black knight's head appeared to look up. He met your gaze in a bizarre look as it was covered in his helmet, yet you could feel his eyes drilling into you, fixating on yours while he was being attacked.
It was you who had to break the strange eye contact as you were suddenly gripped by your hips and unceremoniously lifted into the air, falling into a saddle on top of a nervously stomping horse. Reigns shoved into your hands, you yelled out in surprise as the animal took off, no regard to its rider's condition, and you could only cling to the reigns and saddle as it gallopped of to who-knows-where.
»»———————— ♡ ————————««
"He keeps advancing towards us, showing no signs of stopping."
"He won't stop no matter how much gold and resources we promised him! Open your eyes, Minister! It's not like he spared any of the cities he rode through during his conquest! They don't call him the "cruel tyrant" for nothing!"
Many men shouted angrily around the large table, making their panic and frustration known as they discussed how to stop the tyrannical approach of the new emperor who reigned over even his own vassal state. From small ministers to military captains, no one knew what to do, and the pressure threatened to overcome all of them. The crown on your head still felt as heavy as the first time they forced you to wear it—unfamiliar, not right. They called you their Queen, yet you didn't feel royal at all.
Because you weren't, you were an imposter.
For all you knew, you had taken over some noble's body while they were attacked by the emperor's forces. That noble turned out to be of quite a high standing, putting you into this awful position of ruling a queendom. No matter how much you asked for information from the people around you, they'd give you weird looks, expecting you to know the answers to your own questions. Still, you couldn't exactly tell them you weren't that person either, not knowing what they'd do with you if that were to happen.
And it was all that stupid game's fault.
You had no idea how this could have possibly happened. "Isekai" was only ever a concept you had seen in stories and games. But when you sat in front of a mirror for the first time, you immediately remembered the face that looked back at you—the character you had created. The disconnect to your body was severe and real; no matter how much you rubbed your face and grimaced at your reflection (the maid giving you apprehensive glances), you had to eventually accept that this body was who you were. Things still didn't make sense, but you tried your best in the new role, although it never felt right.
"If only someone had killed the emperor when they had the chance," one of the ministers noted with a dramatic sigh. All eyes fell on you for just a short moment, making you cower. You couldn't have known! That's what you kept telling yourself. He technically told you he was your enemy, but how would you have known that without playing the game? But you doubted you could have really killed the black knight—the emperor—even if someone had told you that he was your mortal enemy. Even if your body was that of the monarch under attack by the emperor, you didn't have a sword and much less the will to kill someone.
However, your hesitation made you look incapable in everyone else's eyes.
Now, you didn't just have to deal with the upcoming attack—your head still throbbing from the gash whenever you thought about the war—you were also scrutinized by everyone for failing to protect them from the emperor's advances. It was a lot to handle for someone so wholly underprepared as you were. This wasn't your life, but for them, it was all they had ever known.
The door being suddenly thrown open saved you from yet again explaining why you didn't kill the emperor when you had the chance. Why you let him live despite "knowing" who he was. All eyes fell on the butler standing in the doorway, panting heavily, holding up a letter and fanning it in the air with urgency.
"Your Highness!" he yelled through despite the lack of hair. "A letter arrived! A letter from... from... the emperor!"
Gasps went through the rows of people as the one closest to the door jumped up, ripping the letter from the butler and opening it. Some ministers gave each other worried looks, and some stretched their heads towards the one reading the letter as if to see better.
Suddenly, the minister rejoiced, laughing out loudly, and you were uncertain if that was a good or bad sign. He did sound indignant, but at the same time, he seemed to have just solved all the worries in the world.
"An alliance! The emperor wants a marriage alliance with us!"
People sprung from their seats as they cheered, although some of the older ones sent worried glances towards you. "The war is over!" someone yelled, and more of them fell into a chant as they danced around the table. But could it really be that easy?
"Uhm, I'm sorry?" you called out, gathering the attention of those still seated. "The emperor wants to marry who?"
Now, all the eyes were back on you as the cheers died down. The letter was passed towards you, the oldest, wisest minister at your right looking it over, adjusting his monocle to read it properly. Sputtering a little, he lowered the paper again, leaning forward and reaching for your hand, cupping it gently, encouragingly. Yet, you didn't feel comforted at all.
"That would be you, your Highness."
»»———————— ♡ ————————««
Still as the dead, you stood in the forest clearing, waiting. Everyone around you was tense as they waited for the emperor's delegation. But you were long past nervosity. Between the letter and the arranged date to hand you over to the emperor's delegation were months of tears and training.
You tried to revolt and make the people understand that you couldn't possibly marry him! But it all fell on deaf ears when you screamed and raged. Rumors had reached you of how he had killed potential spouses for less. How this was all a facade and how the emperor would still ruthlessly conquer the land that had made you its ruler and then kill you to mock them on top of it. And you had shed many, many tears pleading for your life. Almost everyone had cried with you, chastizing you while their own hearts broke, taking pity on you, and comforting you.
But to these people, you were the only hope they had.
Perhaps you would have conducted yourself more gracefully if you had been their real queen. Accepting your fate and enduring the strict training needed to ensure you were perfect for the emperor. When you asked them to stop pleadingly, they would. But after a brief rest, you were forced to train again, your muscle memory of very little help when all the etiquette wasn't good enough for the empire's standards. It was while you were training that you finally understood something.
Every choice had consequences.
The game had warned you before starting and freezing on you. If you acted up, threw tantrums, raged, and went against what the people wanted, you got nowhere. But instead, if you sympathized with them, asked nicely, and conducted yourself well, you got everything you wanted. Giving them what they desired always ended in you getting your will. All points in charm, right?
So, if you wanted to survive, then you had to find out what the emperor desired. Quickly.
All of your senses were in survival mode, making you seem graceful and dignified while you waited, going through countless scenarios in your head. If he wanted money, you'd tell him how to construct something lucrative from your world. If he wished to reign the world, you'd offer him to conduct peace treaties in his name, having to charm more people so they'd agree. You had devised a solution to almost every problem when birds flew out of the trees, alerted by the incoming caravan.
On your way to the empire, you'd listen intently to the delegate to be prepared. Everything would be fine. You could do it. All points in charm would help you! You had trained yourself for this and made sure you were more aware of people. Everything would be fine!
But you didn't expect to see the black armor that haunted your dreams to lead the delegation, the emperor himself arriving before you the moment his horse stepped out into the clearing.
You drew in your breath sharply before bowing deeply as his horse came to a halt in front of you while your heart raced. The clattering of armor took you back to the war, your body wincing with trauma. You weren't prepared for this, his heavy footsteps shaking your resolve as they approached. Some maids gasped in horror, the soldiers on your side readying their weapons to defend you.
How could they? Everyone knew what he was capable of!
But they loved you too much to not defend you with their life if they had to. So you remained low—for their sake, too. Until a hand reached beneath your chin, cold metal clinging to your skin as your head was lifted, forcing you to face your worst fear.
With you standing straight again, he still towered above you, much like when you met him on the battlefield. His touch lingered as he reached around his head with his free hand, pulling off his helmet. His looks hadn't been much of a surprise as the emperor had sent you his painting along with countless presents once the deal was made. But still. He was devilishly handsome for such a cruel man, with hair as black as his armor and eyes as red as only the fiend could have.
"There you are," he murmured, only meant for your ears. "I've been waiting for this."
"So have I," you replied quickly, not wanting to disgruntle him at the first meeting despite your voice wavering with fear. It wasn't the ideal situation—perhaps there never would be one—but your plan was still solid: find out what he desired and force him to keep you alive to get it.
His gaze shifted from one of your eyes to the other, searching for a lie. But it wasn't. Ever since you realized you couldn't change the fate that was to befall you, only sweeten it, you had waited for the day you'd meet him.
Pleased with his findings, or the lack thereof, his lips cracked into a wide grin, befitting of the cruel tyrant as it paired well with the glint in his eyes to reveal only madness. So far, it had gone well, but you couldn't count on his mood appearing to be favorable. He was as unpredictable as his strategies on the battlefield; that much you had learned already about him. To further fall into his good graces was all you could do.
"I was surprised about your proposal," you spoke calmly, putting some of those charms to work. Reaching up, you pulled the emperor's hand from your chin, instead cupping his palm over your cheek and holding it there. The emperor watched every one of your moves with curious interest, probably expecting you to try and kill him at any given time as well. Almost, you two were alike like this.
"I didn't expect you to want--"
"You."
You forced a grin, chuckling curtly, and his expression sank slightly. "Yes, me. Why me? Why not someone from the empire or the other states? What could you want with little ol' me?"
Lips curled back even more, showing off teeth that seemed almost predatorily sharp before the emperor suddenly burst into laughter, doubling over while still holding your face in his palm. The soldiers around you two were completely taken aback at the emperor's sudden outburst, inching closer while some backed away in fear. He regained his composure quickly, though, bringing his other hand up to cup your face fully now between them as he chuckled, inspecting your face thoroughly.
"You have such a refreshing way of speaking, my dear. Unlike any other noble I've ever met. And I could just eat you up for it." His thumb loosened from the side of his hand, rubbing over your cheeks gently. The metal left a cold smear on your skin, but you forced yourself not to react to it, holding his gaze firmly while you feared that looking away could be your death sentence.
"But that was not the reason," he clarified, and you gave him a small nod, indicating that it was fine with you. "It was what you said on the battlefield. That you didn't want me to die. Me. Do you know how many of our peers disagree on that? Do you know how many I have beheaded for less than wishing for my death?"
"I do not."
He stared at you with this maddening smile on his lips before the emperor's expression suddenly softened, his thumb returning to caress your cheek. "Good," he sighed, sounding almost relieved. "I don't want to scare you. Very well then."
Letting his hands fall from your face, you still didn't feel like grasping the situation completely, but you didn't hold on to him, watching instead as he hiked up his pants, adjusting the armor over his legs before taking a knee in front of you. Everyone—including his side of soldiers—gasped, but the emperor paid them no mind. The boon of the strongest must have been that no matter what he did, he couldn't care less about the opinions of others, and he made it very clear, asking silently for your hand by presenting his own.
There was no reason to refuse him, so you placed yours into his palm, letting it linger as he reached upwards, pushing back the sleeve on your arm. His grip tightened as the bruises you had suffered from your training were exposed, face falling as he looked at the damaged goods that you felt like. Panic rose as you feared his anger, and you quickly reached over to push down the fabric again when his eyes fell from the wounds to yours, overpowering you and pushing the sleeve out of the way.
"I promise to take you as my spouse," he announced solemnly, leaning down to kiss the back of your head.
"To love and honor you, as will you, me," his lips wandered upwards as he muttered the words, kissing the small specks of bruises littering your arm.
"Not to hurt or trouble you," he looked up, lips curling into a cheeky grin as he lightly bit your arm, making you gasp before adding much more quietly, "Unless you like it."
"And protect you until my dying breath."
Finalizing his oath, the emperor quickly got up again, smiling at you like a child on Christmas. You had no idea what kind of awkwardness lay in your own expression, but when he offered his arm, proceeding with the handover, you barely hesitated to link yours with his. As if this new life wasn't surreal enough, you didn't understand his character at all. Was he a terrible tyrant or a kind husband in the making? Mad or simply living up to what people expected of him? Searching for comfort in you or planning something devious and evil?
But before you could ponder these thoughts, you heard a sudden commotion behind your back, making you look back only to see one of your soldiers break out of the protective formation and charge toward your new husband with a dagger raised.
"Die, you monster!" he yelled, aiming for the emperor's back. However, your husband twisted around without letting your arm fall, catching the dagger in his free hand. "Careful," he grumbled. "You could hurt my wife with that."
With a strong yank that you only saw, not felt, the emperor discarded the dagger, his soldiers crowding in and grabbing your knight, kicking his knee until he was doubled over. With an appalled gasp, you detached from your husband's arm, but he caught your hand, pressing his palm to yours and linking your fingers forcefully, every one of his movements deliberate, yet no less oppressing, as if to make a point.
"Tell me what to do with the traitor, my Love," your husband asked, eerily asking for your opinion. You gulped, the life of the knight weighing heavy on your mind like the crown. Looking at the emperor, he was waiting patiently for your decision, but you knew he had no intentions of letting this knight live, and you gulped. You had to survive. You had to put yourself first, even if it hurt.
"I don't want any more bloodshed. It makes me feel terrible," you whispered, looking away in defeat. "But I understand if its what you have to do."
All you had was your charm. You could have pleaded for the knight's life, but if it wasn't what the emperor wanted, you wouldn't convince him and risk your own. The words left you with a heavy heart, but it was the best you could do for yourself. You had to save yourself if you wanted to make any change—and that was hard enough.
"Very well, then," the emperor announced suddenly, turning away from the knight that attacked him, instead wrapping your arm around his again. Confused, you looked back as your husband moved onwards towards the carriage, glimpsing the same confusion in the eyes of the other soldiers.
"You're not going to kill him?" you asked as the emperor signaled for a servant to open the door to the carriage, making sure you had a steady hold on him as he led you into the inside.
"No. You said it makes you unwell. I don't want that."
"But... why?" you asked, feeling a little stupid as you took a seat in the luxurious carriage, much better than the one your state had provided for you to travel to this spot. "Isn't that what you want?"
"Again, you ask about what I want. Is that all you care about?"
You gulped, feeling busted as you watched him climb inside right behind you, his armor making it hard to move, but he managed just fine. Still, his question felt genuine and less like he expected something, so you decided to play dumb.
"Is it not the most important thing for your wife to know?" you mumbled, the subservience in your own question almost making you gag. It was hard to throw away your values, even if, in the age of this game's setting, you had to play along unless you had the strength to rise above.
The moment he sat down, the carriage began to move, your body losing its strength at the unexpected movement. However, sturdy arms caught you, helping you to sit upright again and find the emperor's gaze on you, his expression briefly worried before it grew serious. It felt like you messed up big time, and that so shortly after meeting him, too.
But then the seriousness cracked away again as he smiled, shaking his head softly. "Ridiculous," he mumbled, his eyes flitting up to meet yours again after taking a deep breath. "I just can't be mad at you, no matter how stupid your questions are. Aren't you glad you are such a charmer?"
Yes. Very glad. Very, very glad. At least at that moment.
"Then I will say it once more," he announced. "Make sure to not forget it, as I won't repeat myself a third time."
With comical playfulness, he poked your forehead, making you scrunch up your face, and he laughed at your expression in return.
"When we were on the battlefield, and you told me you didn't want me to die, I realized I couldn't. You may have been simply pitying me or trying to be nice in my last moments, but my body was overcome with vigor as if you had commanded it not to die. That's how sincere your words felt."
He leaned back, but his eyes never left you, even as he took a break from talking to seize you up. You had an inkling that without knowing about your skills yet, all points in charms must have worked back then, too.
"Almost like you put a curse on me..." he added, eyes narrowing as he thought. Gripping your thighs, you realized that, technically, this wasn't good news. Technically, you had caused this mess. All choices had consequences, and you made one without realizing it by telling him not to die.
"You are the only one who wishes for me to live, so I knew you were the only one who could stand by me. And now look what you make of me, no more wars, no bloodshed, just as you demand. Do you know what that means now?"
"That you... want to settle down?" you mumbled, half joking, half unable to think of a better response.
"No." Again, he tapped you on the forehead, and you got a feeling it was his way of reprimanding you.
"I will do as I said, protect you, love you, honor you. As long as you are with me, I will be good. I can't promise to be peaceful all the time, but at least in front of you, I'll keep my vows, and I assume you, too, bear responsibility for taking everything I want from me and replacing it with what you want. Our encounter must have been fate, as nothing could shake me until you came along. So tell me, and I hope you took note, what do I want?"
Silence fell over you two as you tried to work through all the information you had acquired. He'd stop waging war? Would stop the bloodshed? Just because you wanted him to live and he wants to honor his vows in return? This could never undo the harm you knew he had already caused to so many, but it had the potential to better the future.
"You want..." you mumbled, thinking about what it could be. It felt as if it was on the tip of your tongue, but no matter what scenario you recalled playing through in your head, you couldn't find one that fit. No money, no territory, just something he claimed he already told you.
Your eyes widened as you realized it, and the cruel emperor's grin widened madly in response.
"Correct," he murmured, leaning forward until his lips were brushing against yours, his palm returning to cradle your cheek.
Crawling up the social ladder, working day-in day-out for a speck of the luxury the wealthy had—you were still nothing but an insect that could be crushed under a noble’s shoe.
You were slaving your life away as a measly servant—head hung low when someone of higher ranked passed by, always rushing, scurrying to another back-breaking task whether it was scrubbing the mansion's floors or something as emotionally taunting as having to rinse the young master’s soapy bundle of raven locks.
It was exhausting, to say the least. So it wasn't unsurprising that when the demands for you overtook the physical labour and turned into emotional terrorising, you couldn't uphold the quality of your work any longer.
The young master, you had known him all his life, was one of peculiar taste and character, to say the least.
You still vividly remembered when you both were eight, you were awed by the size of your mother's new workplace, duckling behind her, fighting the urge to clutch onto her skirt because of how the nobles regarded you with nothing but indifference or revulsion.
That's when you were first introduced to, or rather you met him in the garden on accident. He had sneaked out between his endless tutoring lessons, climbing down from his room to sit in the grass.
You blinked once then twice at the sight of him, feeling somewhat a flutter of your heart—which wasn't strange considered he was living the life your mother had always wished for you.
However as much as you felt intrigued and eager to approach him, the only other child in this whole mansion, you hesitated, opting to watch him from behind a tree as you discovered the ball of white fluff in his lap. You felt giddy, seeing the kitten rub all against him, as he regarded her with something akin to a gentle smile.
Your eight year old self was almost tempted to reveal itself, step closer and admire the little fangs of the creature from close-up, yet you didn't and you were glad so, because what you saw next was chilling to the bone.
With the same smile on his face, large pools of brown staring down at the fluff in his lap, he slowly crept his hands up and up the kittens body, gently rubbing and scratching behind its ears, before suddenly clasping his fingers around its neck and snapping.
It was an ugly, screeching sound that left the animal as it immediately fell limp, died without much protest.
And perhaps, if you had just being able to stay quiet, keep the startled squeal in, bite down onto your lip and hadn't stepped onto that twig that snatched beneath your foot—perhaps he wouldn't have seen you.
Perhaps he wouldn't have lifted his head, gaze snapping to your direction, focusing on you and smiled.
Sometimes you wonder if he smiled because he knew that the dead kitten in his lap would someday be you.
You shook your head, you never liked to dwell in the past, why start now? Enduring the torturous labour wasn't so hard when you just turned your brain off, really, it was quite simple actually.
If it wasn't for the young master's constant presence, breathing down your neck, that is. As if he was hoarding you, lingering glances causing chills to climb up your spine, and that awful unsettling little lift in the corners of his mouth everytime he saw you.
You couldn't bend over, get on your knees nor simply stretch to dust the headboards without feeling like having to protect your dignity—that’s how horribly bad his staring was, it was unrelenting and uncomfortable.
It had always been like that, it was as if he was taunting you for ever daring to have witnessed him commit such a brutality as a child and then many more—you found dead birds on the foot of your bed, their bellies ripped open to allow everything that should be kept inside to spill, mice and rats smashed into a puddle of blood on the floor of your room, yet the most vile trinket still remainded the mangled-up body of a dog placed onto you.
You knew who it was—and the culprit knew too, but no one else did, and even if the head of the house, the young Master's Grandpa, found out, he would rather act upon the same violence to keep the family secret sealed—that the handsome young man graced with equal intelligence as looks was sick in the head.
Your ability to endure it was strong, you were resilient, you were given a roof over your head and a job for life and sometimes once in a blue moon you were granted as something sacred as a hairpin albeit not out of jade, but it did it, the bribery worked and you kept scrubbing out all mistakes the young master did.
That was until that fateful day.
You were used to all his mistakes by then, but this was probably his most grave one out of them all.
“Young Master? Young Master!” you cried out, raw unfiltered fear in your shriek screams, trying to wriggle out of his grasp—moments prior you had just been scrubbing his back, working in the rich soaps and oils into his skin and now you laid on his bed pinned beneath his naked figure.
“What is it? What is it that I can't have? You're so far away—I can't reach you.” his voice was unusually erratic, that kind of tone that declared of the impending meltdown that followed.
“Young Master—” you squeaked trying to put on your bravest front, swallowing your fear, you just had to stay calm, just stay calm—
“Why can't you be mine?” he slapped you right across the face, causing tears to prick your eyes. “You're so shameless! You flirt with that foreign guard—you bat your eyelashes at him, but you never even thanked me for the gifts I left you! How could you be so cruel?” he screamed in your face, his own flush with anger, panting and heaving rapidly, his chest pressed into yours, with the thing between his thighs pressing into your abdomen stiffly.
“Please young Master—” he didn't allow any more protests, wrapping his hands around your neck, planning to wring it like he did to that innocent kitten, but you didn't let him.
Gasping for air, you struggled against his strength, hands kicking and punching, clawing at whatever you could as the panic put you in a frenzy. It was as if your brain split from your body and gained its own heartbeat that sent currents through your entire being, down to your fingertips.
It wasn't until you clutched onto one of his candle holders and dragged it over his head, did he release you with a hiss, stumbling back, touching the dent on his head only to feel blood while you rolled off already scrambling to run away.
However the sight of blood only turned him more into revealing his true face, an unruly monster.
So he lunged.
Tackling you to the ground like a wild beast, keeping your hands pinned above your head, having learned that much from the bleeding spot on his head, this time he didn't let go until he was satisfied that evening.
You weren't the same after that—and who would blame you for that?
The very next day you tried to quit and got refused. It didn't work, they didn't let you, because no one wanted to gain the wrath of the young Master and his elders especially cared for him, which is why they allowed his childish fixation with you.
That's why you escaped, you couldn't continue this, you refused to be a toy for some noble that had plagued you for most of your life already.
Your escape was the trigger.
Dragged back by your hair, fingers trying to hold onto the wet earth, you were promptly shoved inside the manor, thrown in front of the young Master standing amidst a bloodbath so gruesome you wished you he taken your eyes with the countless lives.
“There you are!” he exclaimed pulling you into a bone crushing hug, as his breathing finally fell into an even rhythm, relaxing with you in his arms. “Why—why—” you were choking out but he just hushed you, making you stare long and heavy at all the familiar faces—the servants that were your friends, the guards ordered to keep you inside the manor and lastly a white kitten that resembled the first one of his many kills, like some sort of anniversary present for you.
“Just don't go—this is all your fault—don’t leave me again.” he didn't allow you to breathe, crimson soaked fingers digging into your back almost bruising.
You remained an insect, now caged in gold, a toy to be played with, used and abused that could only dream about fleeing and regaining some resemblance of normality.
Summary: Sagau; Placing a device on your head, you lay down on your bed and entered a virtual world. Hanging out with npcs and teaming up with them to fight your missions or theirs. Well, maybe you were wrong about them being npcs?
Note: This is inspired by sword art online kinda? I thought of VR at first but I could not really make it interesting enough for myself to write then I thought the chars in sword art online got trapped in a virtual world...
Warnings/tags: Gn!reader, yandere themes, cultish, sagau, kidnapping (technically? you will be taken from your world), can be seen as platonic or romantic but the kids (Diona, Klee, Qiqi) are just platonic and nothing more.
Genshin is an interesting game, you thought to yourself yet whined when you remembered how much money you spend on this one game. It was expensive.
Placing the headset on your head, you lay down on your bed and logged into the game.
You felt like you were floating on air as you watched the world load in, first the terrain letting you stand on it, then the trees and buildings far and near that looked far too realistic sometimes when you watched all the small details load in.
The smell of glazelilies and delicious food and the sound of crowds, people talking to each other you can hear them as they talk about their day or how they try to haggle the price down in the shops.
"Ahh, you are back! How are you? Gouba missed you!" Xinagling smiled at you when you entered the restaurant, the smell of spice and the heat radiating of the stove... too real.
"Hey, Xiangling."
The game is simple enough more often than not you are just helping the traveler of your choosing either Lumine or Aether find their other sibling. (The sibling that you didn't choose.) You were like Paimon in a way, that you would be in their life when they need you.
How you would see a notification screen suddenly pop right in front of your face telling you to help the traveler and Paimon in their own missions. The archon quest and all but unlike Paimon you can leave the team whenever you want.
Able to roam free and do whatever you want. This was your own world and your world alone.
The game had co-op too, sending you to another world specific for that (always crowded with people) but when it came to your own world it was you and the npcs only.
You are just you here with the weapon and element you picked at the beginning of the game. Unable to change too much of your features except for the color of your hair or maybe a few tattoos.
Instead of the traveler who too focused on finding their other half, you have dailies and resin for yourself. Building your weapons, artifacts, talents and such. (gifts for the npcs is also another things that you often spent your mora on)
The daily missions are a mix, some designed so that you could do them by yourself while the other which usually involves a lot of fighting would involve asking certain characters to help you out.
It was fun really when you got Kaeya and Diluc who you met at the angel share to go with you to clear out the hilichurl camp.
"Oh, it seems that you have gotten a lot stronger than before Diluc. Could it be because of our lovely little traveler here?"
"Hmph."
Or maybe helping out Yoimiya and Thoma in protecting the hot air balloon goods from monsters.
"Thoma! Get that box that fell off from the ballon! Me and ____ will deal with the hilichurls!"
"On it, Yoimiya!"
Cleaning the anemo archon statues with Barbara or Venti is also fun.
But really the best is the Archon quests or World quests, this one is more specific when it comes to teaming with others. Sometimes would team up with one character only, sometimes with three but not over. The four of you work hard together to figure out puzzles, travel new terrain, steal or help others.
The more personal missions are usually nerve-racking more often than not seeing others' lives play out for a certain character and whatnot. And all you can do is be by their side.
You will morn with those characters their lost, you help them find what they are searching for, overjoyed when the other is happy. You are particularly close with the traveler seeing as they are the main characters in the story.
But in the end, this was just but a game, this isn't reality but a dream, virtual reality, and when you wake up from it you have to face reality.
It is hard at times when you have to log out when you were talking to one of the many characters. Telling them that you gotta turn in for the day, and that you need sleep. Them just smiling as the two of you say goodbye.
They never understood that this was a game you thought, after all you watched others play the game managing to get a video telling a character that they were nothing more than a game, codes and pixels.
Yet the characters never acknowledge that they were, looking at the player funnily as if they were just joking around or have gone crazy.
Walking around the game one time you wondered how the devs were able to make such a beautiful game. Again everything all looked so realistic the characters' emotions, thoughts, troubles and all that you just can't believe this was a dream or even a digital world!
When you got hit in-game you could feel the pain the hilichurl gave you, it was a little less painful than real life but the fact that you could feel surprised you the first time you got hit. What's more when you watched other characters get a heavy hit... you wondered if they too feel pain, when you watched Diona too panic to use her burst to heal Rosaria who was on the grass... hurt.
When you rested in the grass you could feel the pointy tips of it lightly tickling you and when you ate their food, everything tasted delicious, did they too also taste how delicious the food was? Sometimes you wished to believe so when they ate with you complimenting the food that you cook at camp that day.
The kind npcs who greeted you as a hero or sidekick with the traveler you knew why many in your world fall so far into the game wanting this world to be their reality far more than their own. Yet you could not help to also cherish this a little sometimes.
Sometimes.
You would be the same, but you understood that this was a dream and that this wasn't real but all just a game. Because in the end when you wake up the pain you felt in-game from getting hit by an arrow was suddenly gone, and the food that you ate with the characters did not fill your stomach. It is small things like that bring you back to reality and help you understand that all this was just a game.
Sometimes it is hard sometimes it is not but you learn how to separate reality vs game here.
How disappointing.
It was often when Yunjin and Xinyan would try to invite you to a show or two. Asking you to stay for a while longer when you have to leave soon.
"You must see this amazing show of ours! Yunjin helped me so much with this new song, you just gotta listen."
"Could you just stay for an hour, please?"
How the children would give you those pitiful eyes that made your heart pull when they ask you to play a little more.
"Klee wanted to play with you a little more... Are you sure you won't play with me anymore?"
"Qiqi wanted to watch the flinches with you..."
"I wanted to show you this new drink... not that I made it just for you... but it would be nice... hmph."
You thought that maybe it was because you are someone who played a hero that they adore you so much. Because of all the missions, they thought of you as a close friend.
It was nice when you, Diluc, Kaeya and Roasaria are together having a bit of banter whenever you got to the angel's share.
"You should drink a little more, it would only be a waste after coming all this way."
"They would like grape juice more, Kaeya. Too much drinking is also bad for you."
"Leave them alone you two."
Ninguang would tell you about her plans, never in full detail, but every so often she would slip a thing or two to you all the while Beidou and Kazuha would barge into the jade chamber (mostly Beidou) to play with you and Ninguang.
"So that is what I was planni-"
"Yo! I heard that you guys were together so I thought of dropping to the jade chamber to say hello!"
"Seriously Beidou, have a little sense."
Zhongli would often tell you stories of his own. Suspiciously stories that the internet never heard about when you look it up, made you wonder if there were hidden missions that you by mistake completed. Those stories are often the reason why you stay in-game a little longer, just to hear everything because you weren't sure you will be hearing them again.
"Have I told you about this?"
Childe would drag you together with him, telling you that you and he were comrades and that you and he must stick together!
"Since you are my comrade, you better watch my back alright."
Ayato and Ayaka would often invite you to the Kamisato home telling you that you stay for a while.
"You haven't been to the Kamisato home for a while, Ayaka misses you. Come and rest there for today."
"Ah! You are here, I am so glad to see you again."
Somehow just somehow Itto gets into more fights and trouble than necessary or even normal when you are around that you must stay a little longer to help Kuki Shinobu fix things up.
"Thanks without you I am not sure what to do with this guy and his group sometimes."
"Oh come on Shinobu! You love me, and so do you!"
When did this start?
There was always something that made you stay a little longer, there was always someone accompanying you where ever you go.
Sometimes you wondered if it was timed... you remembered that when you first started playing the game you were mostly alone if not with the traveler and Paimon searching and fighting monsters alone for their loot, finding beautiful sceneries as you traveled and marking them off your map.
Now you don't even have that moment of silence, as someone is always there with you. Don't get it wrong... you liked being with them, they are your friends in some form of way... complicated... and you would never say no when all they wish was a little bit of your time but also fight alongside you.
But you can't shake that feeling that when you look at their smiles there was a hint of desperation. That they were just clinging to you as if you are just going to disappear at a moment's notice.
When you promised Albedo, Ei and more characters that you will come back after taking a small break for yourself, some alone time. How they hold your hand or arm so tightly as if afraid only to reluctantly release them, smiling as they said goodbye.
You will come back...
What were you supposed to do when suddenly you aren't able to log out of the game.
That your body was stuck unable to wake up, as you tried and tried to leave. When you begged the system to let you out yet there was no answer, no notification just errors and errors which every button you picked to get out.
You didn't see them come close, surprising you when you suddenly heard their voice asking you if you were okay. Their words of worry you didn't trust when you saw the satisfaction in their eyes, the hesitance in them gone as they bring you into a hug clinging to you telling you that it was alright.
I'm Whispereons and I mainly write yandere Genshin Impact fics. The SAGAU is my long time obsession if it wasn't obvious.
For ease of convenience I will have this masterlist pinned with my works, taglist, and tags used on my blog.
Currently I don't have any rules to abide by. I enjoyed all the comments, reblogs, asks and submissions I received thus far!
Just a warning for anyone new, I advise you to make sure your blog has some form of personalization. Like a profile pic, a sentence saying hello in your bio or even just a single post saying you're human will do. It's to prevent you from getting the report and block combo when I do my spam/porn bot purges.
SAGAU works
Oracle!Reader - with my current editor @serpent-benediction (hopefully) fixing up the older chapters.
Followers Special: 1K
City - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5
Sea - Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
Extra: Scara's beginning
Inazuma:
Liyue:
City - Part 9, Part 10,
Wilderness - Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18
City V2 - Part 19, Part 20, Part 21, Part 22, Part 23, Part 24, Part 25
(Don't judge my old works too harshly, I really was new at writing!)
Self-aware Genshin Impact Series (incomplete): Warmth, Screen, Team Player, Over This Shit
Oneshots - Another Drink, It's tough to be a God
Normal Yandere Genshin Impact:
Venti/Barbatoes x EOS!Reader: Planned, Protection or Possession?, Control
General Yandere Posts:
Male yandere x fem reader: Insecurity
Tags to use to navigate my posts!
#whisp's amateur work - all of my writing
#sagau oracle au - everything related to my oracle!reader (was implemented late so the first tag is more reliable)
#a whispered response - me answering asks/submissions
#whisp's collection - my personal collection of my fav authors, artists, and anything else. My mindless reblogs aren't tagged with anything to avoid cluttering the tag system.
#peering into the whisp - if I get personal asks, this is the tag I would use
If you regularly sends asks with some way to identify you then I usually give you a tag too.
My taglist for my Oracle!Reader:
If you are in italics, that means I couldn't tag you! That could be due to you being shadow banned or having your settings set to hide you from being searched. I will keep this master list updated with each new user, I truly don't mind tagging you all. It's honestly a nice feeling.
First part here:https://www.tumblr.com/iloveyanderes/793544701419651072/authors-note-written-with-very-little-knowledge?source=share
Part 4.
You nearly fainted when you saw that giant robot with razer blades for hands. To others it must've looked like you ran away with your metaphorical tail in between your legs.
These must've been random bosses in nod krai that since you don't look at the leaks you don't know about.
In game they usually leave you alone once your out of there vicinity so you should be fine-
What the fuck!? Why are they following you!?
you feel like a sheep being herded by a bunch of border collies because every time you think you found an escape another robot would appear there.
Eventually you ended up cornered near a huge ocean? River? Lake? They all blur together but there did appear to be an island with a huge factory across it so make this was an ocean.
When you got there you found yourself with two options: one swim or two meet your end at these blades.
For someone with the swimming ability of a rock this really ment, Die or die slightly faster.
Then out of nowhere a boat appeared.
You were about to take it when something really amazing happened.
Someone struck the robots down.
—----------------------------------------
“Lumine!?” You shouted before regretting all of your life's choices. Instantly you covered your mouth but it was far to late.
Lumine paused having just finished the robots off, the time it took for her to turn around made your nerves shoot up.
“It's you..”
What?
‘WHAT!?’ she recognizes you!? Does this mean that lumines aware that you exist? Has she heard all the (inapropriate) indecent things you've said about other characters? And also, where tf is paimon-
“This is not the place you should be” suddenly lumine was beside you and helping you up, frowning at your various bruises.
“I'm sorry-” you stammered out, very much nervous about have skin to skin contact with the person you've pretty much body controlled for 5 years, “I was just trying to leave nod krai”
“Well your heading in the opposite direction, don't blame you though, with those things herding you” god damnit, they were herding you.
Eventually lumine got tired of helping you walk (even though you didn't need it and we're trying to get away) so she lifted you into a bridal carry.
“Woah-put me down, please” the last part was more quiet because it had taken you a moment to remember your manners.
“You are in no position to walk” that was a very far exaggeration but these people will freak out if you get as little as a papercut so your kind of used to it.
The silence was overwhelming as you were carried around, you wanted to know what lumines intentions are but didn't want to address the elephant in the room.
It wasn't until she sat you down on a rock and started to build a campfire did you get the courage to ask a miniscule question.
“Where are you taking me?” You'd asked
“Where do you want to go?” For some reason unknown to you lumine seemed very reluctant to take you anywhere.
“I…….I don't know, anywhere but here i guess?”
“I'll be honest, almost no other nation would be nice to you, you would find no safety elsewhere. Sumeru maybe but that would only be nahida” she mumbled something other stuff you couldn't quite hear.
“Why?” Okay that is pretty disturbing, teyvat is probably pretty terrifying due to the ruin guards and other monsters with too difficult names to spell but lumine had specified nation, that was odd.
“You deserve not to know”
What.
Wtf does that mean!?
Lumine didn't even give you the chance to question her because she'd already set to fight some hilichurls that had approached your camp.
She seemed to dodge almost every question that you gave her, only answering the ones that would distract you from the things you really want to know.
Surprisingly enough lumine did answer when you asked how did she know it was you.
“your the only one except my brother who calls me that”
—-------------------------------------------
In the middle of the night you find yourself awake, staring at the stars in contemplation.
Contemplation on what to do.
Lumine seems safe as she knows who you are but you still feel that weird obsessive attitude that everyone had about you. You were worried she'd kidnap you or worse-take you back to lauma.
But if you were to leave now that you have the chance and lumines fast asleep you'd face the possibility that you'd come across something dangerous but also the possibility where'd you would gain your freedom back.
So.
What should you do?
Stay with lumine?
Or run?
what should you do?
stay
run
Voting ended onNov 24, 2025
End part four and of the main story, Onto the endings.
I have decided there will be 5 different endings, an “good” ending, an alternate “good” ending, a bad ending, an alternate bad ending, and a true ending. These choices above you determine which endings I write first. The true ending will only be written when all other are.
Sorry if your on ao3 but the choices option is only for tumblr as I really like the poll system, if you reading this less than a week after it came out you may have time to vote still, check out my Tumblr @iloveyanderes to see if you can.
Author's note: thank you for the wait, I really want to be able to complete this and I thank you all for your patience.
my other take on scheming/manipulative!creator again
welp here it is, i wasn't able to finish my scheming!creator AU, i think the last chapter was chap 4 and i'm still adjusting when it comes to writing serious stuff again after 2 years---? so this one might be a practice,,,, more like my self indulgence of psychological manipulation
They stripped you of divinity, spat the word “impostor,” and dragged you through the mud.
And yet, you never hated them.
You never forgave them, either.
Instead, you let them destroy themselves—
with every guilty glance, every desperate prayer, every whispered plea for forgiveness that would never come.
YOUR GUILT, MY THRONE
You fall.
Not in the way mortals do— not bone breaking on stone, not flesh yielding to earth. No, you fall as though the heavens themselves can no longer hold you. The sky tears open, scattering faint shimmers across the firmament, trailing behind you like the remnants of a forgotten constellation.
When you strike the ground, dust surges upward in a choking cloud. The crater smolders, stones cracked and glowing faintly from the force. Shapes blur through the haze— soldiers, knights, hunters— their voices a chorus of suspicion.
“An impostor.”
“The Creator’s likeness.”
“Blasphemy.”
You try to rise, but rough hands seize you, forcing you down against the fractured earth. Shackles are clasped to your wrists, chains biting against raw skin. Iron presses into your ankles.
And you do not resist.
You bow your head instead, trembling but composed, and let their curses wash over you like waves against an unyielding shore.
The faint shimmer clinging to your wounds is dismissed— moonlight, dust, an illusion cast by the fire of your descent. None look closely enough. None dare.
They will not see it yet.
And you smile.
Soft. Gentle. Forgiving.
As if you understand.
As if you would never blame them for this cruelty.
The first seed is planted.
They expect defiance.
They expect you to thrash against your bonds, to spit, to rage— to prove yourself monstrous in desperation. Instead, you fold your hands neatly in your lap, posture straight despite the ache of chains. Your silence is more unnerving than any denial.
Dragged through the streets of Mondstadt, you do not curse them. You do not plead. You only incline your head to each who recoils, as if you accept their hatred as your due.
By the time you are hauled before the Acting Grand Master, the whispers swell.
Jean sits stiff-backed behind her desk, exhaustion etched into her every line. The Archons stand in shadowed corners— Venti slouched against a column, Zhongli observing with unreadable eyes, Ei rigid and cold, arms folded across her chest.
And the Traveler is there, standing at the center of it all, gaze sharp. Paimon hovers nervously at their shoulder.
You kneel when pushed forward, chains rattling softly against stone. You lower your head. Not in defeat. But in acceptance.
Venti speaks first, his voice slurred only slightly, like he had drunk himself steady enough to stand. “You wear the face of the Creator. Do you know the crime of that?”
You lift your gaze slowly, lashes heavy, and smile.
“It must be terrifying,” you murmur, voice quiet, steady. “To think your god has returned, only to find it may be a lie.”
No denial. No claim. Only understanding.
And that— that is what twists the knife.
If you were false, wouldn’t you rage? Wouldn’t you deny or curse? Instead, you look at them with sympathy. As though you pity them.
Jean stiffens. Zhongli’s hands tighten faintly where they rest behind his back.
The Traveler studies you in silence.
You bow your head again, voice soft. “Do with me what you must. If my presence troubles your peace, I will not resist. I would rather suffer chains than see Mondstadt divided by suspicion.”
Too kind. Too good. Too merciful.
It rattles them more than wrath ever could.
They confine you beneath the cathedral, in a cold stone cell meant for heretics and zealots. Bars keep the faithful out as much as they keep you in. The walls smell of damp and dust.
You kneel on the floor, hands folded, head bowed. You hum sometimes, soft and low, melodies long forgotten. No one taught you those songs— they are remnants of nights when you held the world in your hands, commanding silence or joy with a touch of your finger.
Now, those songs return to them like ghosts.
The guards falter outside your cell. They try to ignore the sound, but the words echo from memory— lullabies they muttered in prayer as children, never expecting an answer.
When Jean visits, you do not rise. You incline your head as though she were the one deserving reverence.
“I hope my presence has not caused unrest,” you murmur. “If it does, then I accept confinement. Better me alone than Mondstadt troubled.”
Her lips part, close, press into a line. She cannot look at you for long.
When Venti visits, half-drunk, you smile faintly.
“You must miss them,” you whisper, as though confiding in him. “The god you knew. If my face pains you, I am sorry. It is cruel, I think, to carry a likeness that wounds the faithful.”
His laugh cracks. He stumbles out before dawn, bottle shattering against the stones as he flees.
Zhongli visits in silence. He does not speak, only kneels near the bars, brushing a trembling hand across the dust where you sit. When you bow your head toward him, his amber eyes avert, his mask of calm nearly fractured.
Ei does not visit. Not yet.
But you know she will.
They all will.
Because silence and patience are sharper blades than wrath. Because martyrdom corrodes faith far more swiftly than proof.
It is the Traveler who lingers longest.
They crouch before your cell, Paimon hovering uneasily, tugging at their sleeve. Amber eyes cut into you, sharp and searching.
“Who are you really?” they ask.
You tilt your head. Your expression serene, your voice quiet.
“I am no one worth your fear,” you say. “Only… someone who loves this world too much to blame it for its cruelty.”
It is not an answer. It is worse.
Because it is not denial, not claim. Only martyrdom. Only silence.
The Traveler swallows hard, their throat dry. Something in your words echoes with memory— of prayers whispered into empty air, of a hand unseen guiding them across Teyvat, choices shaped not by chance but by presence.
And they falter.
It happens one evening, when a guard shoves you too roughly into the corner of your cell. Your temple strikes stone.
Blood beads, red and human. At least, to their eyes.
The Traveler is there to see it. Their jaw clenches at the sound of your skull meeting stone. They half-step forward, halted only by Paimon’s tug.
And you smile at them through the ache, voice steady: “Do not scold them. They did what they thought was right. How could I fault them for that?”
The Traveler still chokes on guilt.
Because it is not proof that binds them to doubt. Not yet.
It is your gentleness. Your refusal to hate.
Your silence damns them more than deceiving them ever could.
They expect you to protest your innocence. They wait for you to rage, to cry, to break. Days pass, weeks blur— and still you remain kneeling in the cell, folded neatly as though you are content to spend eternity chained.
That silence spreads.
Knights begin to whisper in the barracks, uneasy. Some swear you are false, some claim impostors would have cursed by now, would have demanded freedom. The uncertainty infects them more efficiently than a plague.
Even Jean, ever-steady, avoids your eyes when she delivers orders.
You watch it happen. Quiet, patient. The cracks forming.
Zhongli comes again. Always at night, always in silence. He kneels just outside the bars, amber gaze fixed on the stone at his feet, as though looking at you directly would shatter something fragile within him.
He speaks only once.
“It is… unsettling, to see one wear the visage of divinity.”
You tilt your head, expression soft, voice low.
“I can imagine. To see a shadow of your god, and yet… not know if it is truth or deceit.”
He stills, shoulders tightening.
You smile faintly. “I do not blame you for doubting me. To believe too easily would be dangerous.”
And it is there, in the subtle tremor of his hands, that you see it: guilt gnawing at the edges of his stone-hard mask. He remembers every prayer spoken into silence, every hymn unanswered, every sacrifice wasted to nothing.
And now, here you kneel— understanding him. Forgiving him.
Zhongli leaves with his jaw clenched and his hands shaking.
You hum a lullaby as his footsteps echo away.
When Venti returns, he reeks of wine. His gaze is unfocused, but the tremble in his hands betrays him.
“I don’t like this,” he says, voice higher than usual, too tight to be careless. “You sit there, smiling, saying nothing… It’s cruel.”
You tilt your head, expression tender.
“Cruel?”
“Yes!” he snaps, then falters, looking away. His fists clench at his sides. “You should be cursing us, should be— should be demanding, raging, something. Anything.”
You fold your hands neatly in your lap.
“If I were to rage,” you murmur, “would it comfort you?”
His eyes widen.
“Would it be easier if I hated you? If I accused you? If I claimed what you would not believe?”
Venti swallows hard, throat tight. His eyes sting, though he does not know why.
You smile— gentle, forgiving. “I do not blame you. None of you. You did what you thought was right. That is all anyone can do.”
And it breaks him more than curses ever could.
He stumbles out, leaving silence in his wake.
The Shogun comes at last.
Her presence fills the hall with sharp ozone, every step deliberate, every gaze cold. She looks at you as one looks at a blade— with suspicion, with calculation, with the instinct to strike first.
But you do not flinch.
You bow your head, posture still, voice steady.
“Archon of Eternity,” you murmur, reverent. “How heavy it must be to guard your nation against lies and shadows. If I am a burden to that vigilance, then I understand.”
Ei stiffens.
Your tone does not hold mockery, no bite, no demand. Only recognition. Understanding.
And that is what unsettles her.
Because her eternity has been forged on silence and steel. Yet here you are, mirroring her devotion, offering patience instead of battle.
She leaves without speaking another word.
But her hands do not loosen on her blade for hours afterward.
The Traveler comes more often than any of them.
At first, they say nothing. Only stand at the bars, gaze sharp, as though they could cut through you with suspicion alone. You greet them always with a smile, soft and steady.
One night, they finally speak.
“Why don’t you defend yourself?”
You tilt your head. “Would it matter if I did?”
Their brows furrow.
You continue, quiet. “Words are easily twisted. A liar can claim innocence as easily as truth. If my silence burdens you, I am sorry.”
They swallow hard, gaze breaking away.
You lean forward, hands folded delicately. “But know this. I do not hate you. Even if you doubt me. Even if you condemn me. I will not hate you for it.”
It cuts deeper than any accusation.
Because they remember your unseen presence— the way their path was guided, their victories shaped by choices that felt never wholly their own. A companion in silence. A hand beyond the screen.
And now you kneel before them, patient, unflinching, forgiving.
They leave without another word.
But Paimon glances back at you, wide-eyed, trembling.
It spreads.
The Knights whisper louder. The Qixing argue in Liyue halls. Even the Fatui, proud and vicious, hesitate. For every voice that condemns you, another falters— wondering why an impostor would remain so calm, so kind, so endlessly understanding.
Some begin to dream of you.
They wake at night to see your face, not accusing, not wrathful— but smiling. Forgiving. Silent.
And it haunts them more than fire or sword ever could.
Jean comes again. This time, she cannot hold your gaze.
“I… have failed you, if you are who you claim not to be,” she whispers. “If you are not, then I am still failing you by allowing such doubt to fester.”
You smile at her, weary, patient.
“You have done what you thought best for Mondstadt. I could never fault you for that.”
Her lips tremble. She turns away, shoulders stiff.
Outside, you hear her whisper to herself: Why does it feel worse, being forgiven?
And you lower your gaze, hiding your satisfaction.
Because guilt is a blade best driven inward.
And you have all the time in the world.
It begins quietly. A whisper here, a mutter there.
Mondstadt Knights argue in hushed tones at their posts:
“Impostors don’t sit quietly for weeks.”
“But it could be a trick.”
“Then why do I feel like we’re the ones in the wrong?”
In Liyue, the Qixing tear at one another behind locked doors:
“If this is false, we risk our nation’s faith.”
“If this is true, then every moment we delay is blasphemy.”
“Our hesitation alone may already condemn us.”
Even the Fatui falter. The Harbingers mutter in low voices, unnerved. Some claim to have dreamed of your voice, urging, forgiving, unshakably kind. Others snarl that such softness is a weapon. Yet still, they hesitate to strike.
The doubt is poison. And you feed it by doing nothing at all.
Zhongli returns again and again. Always silent, always kneeling just beyond the bars.
One night, he speaks.
“I have lived long enough to see false idols rise and fall,” he murmurs, amber gaze heavy. “To see men claim divinity in the shadow of despair. I thought I had become immune to doubt.”
He looks at you, and the mask cracks.
“But you… I do not understand why you do not hate us.”
You tilt your head, smile faintly.
“What good would hatred do?” you ask softly. “Would it undo your suffering? Would it unmake your fears? No. It would only add weight to your burdens. I would not wish to do that to you.”
Zhongli’s chest tightens. His hands curl into fists against the floor.
Because he remembers.
Every sacrifice laid upon Liyue’s altars. Every life offered in prayer to a silent sky. Every unanswered hymn.
And now, here you sit— chains at your wrists, bruises on your skin— telling him you would rather ease his suffering than condemn him.
When he leaves, his eyes are wet, though no tears fall.
Venti stops drinking.
Not for long, not entirely— but long enough that the change is noticed.
He comes to you sober one night, steps faltering, eyes hollow.
“You’re too kind,” he says, voice breaking. “It feels like mockery.”
You smile gently. “Would you prefer cruelty?”
“Yes!” His shout echoes down the stone walls, desperate, shaking. “I wish you’d scream, or curse, or— or do something! Because this—” He gestures to you, to your folded hands, to your patient smile. “This hurts worse than anything else could.”
You lower your gaze.
“I am sorry.”
No bite. No sarcasm. No edge. Only sincerity.
And Venti nearly collapses, clutching his head as though the silence itself is suffocating him.
The Shogun returns. This time, she stands longer.
Her eyes sweep over you— unyielding, sharp. Yet her fingers twitch faintly on the hilt of her blade.
“You are dangerous,” she says.
You incline your head. “Perhaps. But only because I unsettle what you wish unmoved.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I do not blame you for your caution,” you murmur. “Eternity demands vigilance. To mistake shadows for truth is a sin too costly for Inazuma. If I burden you, I accept it.”
Ei’s throat tightens, though she masks it well.
Because she hears the echo of her own eternity in your words. A reflection of her vigilance. A mirror she cannot destroy without shattering herself.
She leaves without another word, but her steps are uneven as she goes.
The Traveler visits every day now.
At first they only stood silently. Now they sit at the bars, sometimes hours at a time, eyes never leaving you.
You never initiate. You only smile when they arrive, bow your head gently, hum softly under your breath.
One evening, their voice cuts through the stillness.
“I… remember things.”
You tilt your head, patient.
“Voices. Guidance. When I was alone, when no one was there— something guided me. Choices I made, paths I walked. It was like… someone was with me.”
You say nothing.
They swallow hard, voice breaking. “Was that you?”
You smile, faint, weary, kind.
“I would never demand you believe me,” you say. “If thinking it was only chance brings you peace, then let it be so. I do not wish to burden you with certainty.”
The Traveler grips the bars tightly, knuckles white.
Because your refusal to claim, your refusal to demand faith— it makes the suspicion worse.
They leave restless, haunted, unable to sleep.
Arguments spill into the open.
The Knights divide: some rally to Jean’s orders, some whisper that holding you chained is a sin.
In Liyue, merchants whisper prayers under their breath as they pass, while the Qixing argue louder, more violently, fearing rebellion.
Even the Fatui cannot remain unified. Half claim you are a threat that must be erased. Half kneel in silence at makeshift altars, terrified of what they may have done.
And through it all, you remain silent.
Patient. Kind. Forgiving.
The perfect martyr.
It happens one night when two guards argue outside your cell.
“You’ve seen them. They’re too calm to be a fraud.”
“And you think that proves divinity?”
“I think it proves we’re wrong.”
The fight escalates. Voices rise.
You kneel quietly in the corner, watching them tear at each other, fists swinging, curses spilling.
When Jean arrives to stop them, she finds you sitting serenely in the middle of the chaos, expression soft, as though you mourn their pain more than your own chains.
Her voice falters as she orders the guards dragged away.
And you smile at her— weary, forgiving, endless.
She looks away, trembling.
By now, every Archon avoids each other’s eyes when your name is spoken. The Traveler walks with a haunted look, Paimon biting her lip in silence.
Nations are tense. Factions whisper rebellion.
And you?
You hum softly in your cell. You speak gently when spoken to. You forgive without being asked.
You do not raise your voice. You do not demand worship.
You only wait.
And guilt spreads like wildfire.
It doesn’t come during a grand trial, or a ceremony, or some scripted test.
It happens in silence.
Your body has been straining under the weight of starvation, sleeplessness, neglect. They do not harm you now, not physically— they wouldn’t dare. But they already have. The weeks of cold stone floors, the rations too sparse, the damp chains at your wrists.
And so one night, when the Traveler arrives again— restless, desperate, eyes bloodshot with obsession— your hand slips on the iron bars. The chain jerks cruelly.
Your skin splits.
And they see.
Not red. Not mortal.
The wound spills stars.
Moons, constellations, drifting fragments of galaxies unfurling in liquid light. The blood does not drip to the floor but ascends in glittering threads, fading into the air like a prayer answered.
The Traveler stares, breath caught, lips parted. Their hands tremble against the bars.
And then you look up at them.
Not angry. Not proud. Not vengeful.
Simply tired.
“Why… why didn’t you say—”
The Traveler’s voice cracks. Their throat closes, tears gathering in their eyes.
You smile faintly, the wound still glowing at your wrist, galaxies pulsing from your veins.
“Because if I were false,” you murmur, voice gentle, “no words of mine would make me true. And if I were true… I would not need to prove it.”
The words are a knife, and they crumble under the weight.
The Traveler calls them all.
Zhongli arrives first, gaze falling upon your wound— and for the first time in millennia, the Archon of Contracts falters. His knees hit the floor before he realizes it, breath sharp in his chest.
Venti stumbles in soon after, his composure already shattered. At the sight, his voice breaks into sobs he cannot swallow, his lyre slipping from his fingers to clatter uselessly on the ground.
Ei comes silent, stiff, unyielding. But her blade lowers, and her hands shake. For eternity itself trembles before the sight of stars spilling from your body.
And when Nahida arrives, her tiny form quivers, tears streaking her cheeks before she even reaches you.
They kneel. Not out of ritual, but out of collapse.
The news spreads like wildfire. The guards who once struck you fall on their swords in shame. The Knights of Favonius weep openly. The Qixing convene in chaos, many resigning outright, unable to bear the guilt of chaining divinity. Even the Fatui fracture further— Harbingers silenced, some fleeing, some swearing vengeance upon themselves.
And the people— the ordinary, the faithful— they gather outside, their cries carried through the wind. Pleas for forgiveness. Laments. Hymns turned into wails.
You hear them all.
You forgive none.
But you blame no one.
They beg.
“Please — punish us—”
“Strike us down—”
“Spare us nothing, only don’t— don’t stay silent—”
But you do.
You sit upon the cold stone, galaxies still shimmering faintly in your wound, and you look upon them with endless gentleness.
“I understand,” you say softly. “You were afraid. You protected yourselves, as you always have. It was… natural.”
Your voice breaks nothing and everything.
Because they realize— in your eyes, they are not guilty.
They are not forgiven.
They are understood.
And that is so much worse.
It happens when Venti crawls forward, hands bloody from stone, reaching, begging.
“Please— if you hate us, say it. Don’t— don’t be this kind—”
And you smile at him, weary.
Your eyes shimmer.
And then the tears fall.
Not mortal tears.
The first are white— brilliant, pristine, stars that fall to the floor and burn like snow. They are joy, pure and aching: joy that they came, that they knelt, that they saw.
But then the second fall red. Deep crimson, glowing with the color of Khaenri’ah’s wrath, searing the ground where they land. They are sorrow— a sorrow so deep it has no end, a sorrow that devours.
The Archons weep openly. The Traveler grips the bars until their hands bleed. Factions shatter under the weight of the sight.
Because the tears are proof.
The tears are a verdict.
Your voice grows faint.
“I am… tired.”
They all lurch forward, begging, pleading, voices breaking — “No, no, please—” —but you only smile, tender and infinite.
“It is not your fault,” you whisper. “And yet… it is not undone.”
Your eyes close.
The galaxies in your blood dim. The star-tears fade. Your body grows still.
Not dead.
Never dead.
But returned to sleep.
And the world collapses around your silence.
The Knights no longer sing your hymns. They whisper them.
The cell where you once sat has become a shrine— not built by decree, but by the trembling hands of the same guards who chained you. They kneel there every morning, laying down their swords, pressing their foreheads to the cold stone as though it can forgive them.
Jean has not smiled since that day. Her hands shake when she signs orders. The banners of Barbatos still fly, but she cannot bear to look at them. She hears your voice in every prayer at the cathedral, sees your eyes in every star over Mondstadt’s sky.
And Venti?
He does not drink anymore. His lyre lies broken in a corner of Angel’s Share, strings cut. He wanders the city barefoot, silent, as though his songs would be an insult now. When the wind blows, people say it feels heavier— not because of storms, but because his archon’s soul is thick with remorse.
Liyue does not sleep.
The harbor thrives as always, but there is an edge in every merchant’s eyes, an apology in every haggled deal. Offerings pile on your shrine at the edge of the docks: incense, talismans, jade cut to resemble stars.
Zhongli has not returned to his human guise since that night. He walks the streets in silence, bare-footed, robes dragging through puddles, amber eyes fixed on the ground. Children whisper that the old man who once told stories of contracts now kneels before the stars at dawn and dusk, lips moving without sound.
The Qixing are fractured. Many have resigned; the rest speak of nothing but atonement. They pass laws renaming districts, building monuments in your memory, but nothing feels like enough. They cannot undo the sound of chains on your wrists.
The Shogun has withdrawn to the Plane of Euthymia, leaving Ei to wander the empty halls of Tenshukaku alone. She carries no blade now.
At night, she stands at the shore and looks out at the horizon, watching the stars scatter across the waves. The constellations seem sharper these days, as though every point of light is a wound.
She whispers your name but receives no answer.
The eternity she once sought feels hollow now— an unending stretch of time without your presence. She understands, too late, that she built her eternity to protect a world that had already betrayed its own creator.
In Sumeru, Nahida tends a garden no one else may enter. She plants star-shaped flowers at the base of a tree, watering them with tears she cannot stop.
Scholars rewrite the Akademiya’s archives. Theories and treatises burn in the courtyards as they replace every “impostor” footnote with “the One Who Was.”
Nahida dreams of you every night. In her dreams you sit beneath the Irminsul and smile, and she always reaches for you— but before her fingers touch yours, you fade into motes of cosmic light.
She wakes with soil under her nails and cries without making a sound.
It has been months now.
Nations have shifted. Old laws fallen. Shrines to you sprout everywhere— star-shaped altars, quiet prayers. Not because you demanded them, but because your silence is unbearable.
Your absence has done what no war could: it has stilled Teyvat.
No one dares crown a false god again. No one dares speak lightly of divinity.
Somewhere beyond the reach of mortals, you rest.
A garden stretches endlessly around you, woven from constellations. Galaxies drift like flowers on a cosmic river. The moons of your veins float lazily upward, gathering at the edges of the sky.
You sleep curled upon a bed of starlight, your chains dissolved into nothing.
Your hands are folded, your expression soft. The cosmos hums around you, like a lullaby.
You are not angry.
You are not vengeful.
You are simply tired.
And the world of Teyvat waits below, trembling, praying, hoping— but knowing deep down that their prayers will echo back unanswered for a long, long time.
When the night is clear, and the stars are bright, the people of Teyvat look up and whisper:
“Please wake. Please forgive. Please return.”
And though the stars seem to flicker in answer, they know:
It is already too late.
It happens without omen.
No celestial rift, no quaking earth, no thunderous hymn.
One night, the stars pulse once— twice— like the echo of a heartbeat. Then silence. Then stillness.
And when dawn breaks, you are awake.
You rise from the bed of galaxies, your eyes heavy with ages of sleep. The stars shift around you, forming a veil that clings to your body like woven constellations.
The world feels different.
Not because it has changed. But because you have.
The Traveler is the first to find you. They stumble into the chamber, nearly falling to their knees in shock.
“...You’re awake—”
Their voice cracks. Tears bloom instantly, unbidden, as they rush closer.
But you raise your hand.
A simple gesture. Not sharp, not cruel— merely firm.
And they stop.
The smile you wear is faint, almost sorrowful.
“Yes,” you say. Your voice is calm, even. “I am awake.”
They wait for more— for the warmth that once guided them, the gentle hand on their back, the unseen voice that carried them across worlds.
But you do not give it.
Your kindness is no longer personal.
It is vast. Cold. Like the sun that shines on all things but touches nothing.
One by one, they come.
Zhongli bows his head so low his forehead touches the ground. Venti trembles with hope that breaks into sobs. Ei kneels in silence, hands folded as though in prayer. Nahida cannot speak at all, her lips quivering.
They wait for you to scold, to embrace, to forgive.
But you do none.
You only incline your head, expression unreadable.
“You need not kneel,” you murmur. “You have nations to lead. People to protect. Rise, and continue your duty.”
Zhongli’s throat tightens. Venti’s fingers clutch at the floor as though it can anchor him. Ei’s heart feels hollow. Nahida’s tears fall silently.
Because this is not the voice they remember.
This is not the gentle presence that laughed and sang through the skies and through your screen.
This is the Creator they have shaped with their own hands, distant and unreachable.
At first, they tell themselves it is temporary. That your coldness is a wound, and wounds heal.
But the days pass.
You walk the streets of Mondstadt, blessing the harvests with a brush of starlight— and ignore the desperate eyes that seek yours.
You stand upon the mountains of Liyue, raising fallen stone after earthquakes— and turn away from trembling merchants who whisper apologies.
You walk Inazuma’s shores, calming storms, guiding fleets— but when Ei approaches, you smile politely and step past her.
You tend Sumeru’s Irminsul, pruning corruption with a flick of your hand— and Nahida’s prayers hang unanswered in the air.
You save them. You protect them. You help.
But you do not stay.
Your kindness has become mechanical, impersonal. Like rain. Like sunlight. Like the stars that shine whether or not anyone prays for them.
And that hurts more than silence ever did.
Because they remember.
They remember the way your voice once guided them— through screens, through prayers, through laughter that echoed like hymns. They remember your joy, your warmth, the way you lingered like a friend at their side.
But that presence is gone.
You are here, but you are not here.
And it kills them.
The Traveler is the first to shatter.
They trail after you constantly, desperate. “Please— talk to me. The way you used to. Just once. Please—”
You only smile faintly, shake your head.
“I am not who I was.”
Their heart crumbles at the words.
Paimon sobs openly, clutching the Traveler’s sleeve, begging you for anything more than the chill in your eyes.
But you do not bend.
Venti sings again. But the songs are broken things, drunken slurs without wine, hymns that die in his throat.
He throws himself at your feet one night, hands clutching your robes, begging: “Please, mock me, curse me, hate me, anything but this— don’t be kind like this!”
You touch his hair gently.
And say nothing.
Zhongli speaks less and less. He follows at a distance, watching, but never approaches. Because every time your eyes pass over him without recognition, he feels the weight of five thousand years collapse onto his shoulders.
He was supposed to know.
He was supposed to protect.
He failed.
And now you are here— but you are gone.
Ei kneels on the shore again, blade plunged into the sand before her. She whispers her apologies into the tide, but the waves only carry your reflection back to her: distant, starlit, unreachable.
Years pass.
Teyvat thrives. Famine fades, wars still, storms calm. Everywhere you walk, life flourishes.
But the world feels hollow.
Because though the Creator is here, the Player is gone.
The one who laughed, who sang, who guided— lost to time, to betrayal, to exhaustion.
And what remains is divinity: kind, eternal, unreachable.
The sun in the sky. The stars at night. The rain that falls.
Helpful. Merciful.
But never again warm.
And when the people pray now, their voices tremble.
Because they know their god listens.
They know their god answers.
But they also know their god is gone.
And all that remains is the echo of what they destroyed with their own hands.
A little experiment in quiet cruelty--- no knives, no battles, just guilt, devotion, and a god who never needed to lift a hand. Think slow-burn psychological manipulation, a smiling Creator, and Teyvat crumbling under the weight of its own condemnation.
random ahh sagau au idea I had, srry if this has been done before, prolly expland later
Reader who gets plucked straight into teyvat while playing genshin impact by the real creator of Teyvat, becausewe'll, the true crearor had no desire to continue with this they made, theyve grown burnt out of making and plan to make another, they'reso tired of Teyvat, they don'teven feel like saving it! So who better to assign that task to than a random human who loves the game that was based off the world they (the god) made!
You aren't given much of choice, but the god promises that once you save Teyvat, they'll send you back and they'll even give a little gift for helping so much!
All you need to do is stop their creations from tearing the world and eachother apart!
To do that! You have to:
Stop the primordial abyss from causing all life on teyvat to go extinct
Destroy the heavenly principles and put in a new order that can EFFECTIVELY maintain teyvat without its creator holding things up
Oh yeah, also destroy forbidden knowledge so that the world doesn't suffer from that either!
(Preferably) Restore Khaenri'ah to its original glory make sure they don't dabble in anything they shouldn't, although if thats to tiring, simply destroy the abyss order
And reunite the the twin blondes! Or kill both of them, whatever gets the variable and its sibling out of the way out of the way.
And unite the people Teyvat
In short, bring peace to Teyvat, and make sure it can thrive for a long while!
If you do allllllll of that, you can go back home! It doesn't matter how you do it or how long it takes, if it gets done, you can go back home!
....
That was 300 years ago, you were given that list of things to do, and you've finally achieved it, you've brought peace to Teyvat, reunited the long lost siblings, gotten rid of forbidden knowledge, killed the heavenly principles, you even restored irminsul after it got destroyed and input a code into it to keep it running and functioning with reasonable laws of reality that it had to follow, you even sealed away the primordial abyss, aren't you deserving of a reward!
Well of course you are! And you reward for all your hard work, and trials and error, and hardships- is of course being found out of not being the true God of Teyvat, being confronted as so and the people who once sung your name in praises turning their swords on you for being a deep fake, no matter what you've done for the world,
You, yourself, are not their God.
You impersonated their creator, one of the highest sins by Teyvats people's standards, you had to go.
It didnt matter what you had did right for them, but what you had done wrong, a d so of course, for such wrongdoing, you must die.
Some people want to help you, but what can they so against the many people of teyvat who want your execution, and thus, their voices are drowned out.
You expected this to be honest, 300 years is far longer than any human mind comprehend, but in all your years of living, you've learned one thing, any being intelligent enough to hate, will.
But, you are tired, and you suppose death is a suffice reward, you doubt anyone you care about is still alive in your world, and eveb then, you've completely lost your mind, you're brain is running on fumes.
But before you could killed! A higher power (probably a witch from the hexrenzirkel(Alice maybe), comes with a communication given to them by their grace themselves,
Where they learn their own creator views them as nothing more than project they've grown burnt out and tired of, and that, by their creators standards, you, are Teyvat's God and Maker, you are the one who "saved" Teyvat in the first place, under the creators orders, regardless of why you did it, you did do it, and in such a short amount of time, you deserve to be recognized!
But, whats this?
You don't want to be the god of Teyvat?
Well of course you don't, this entire time you've been working towards going back home, why would you need to be considered a god? You want to go back to earth, where you were human, where you comfortable, even if you weren't happy all the time.
But, you learn there is no earth to return to, just 10 years after being in teyvat, Nuclear Armageddon happened, earth completely inhabitable, there is nothing left for you. Teyvat is the only place you can be...
Then what was all work for, why were you never told?
What?
[Mental breakdown insues]
Well, the creator is sure you'll find happiness in Teyvat, unfortunately, it's all the creator can do for you, sending you back to earth isn't an option, and their other simply aren't finished. This all they can give to you.
You're so, so, so tired....
.
.
.
.
.
but!
Atleast you have a bunch of regretful yanderes waiting to do whatever they can to get you to forgive them!
