WARNINGS: SAGAU Cult AU, Imposter God AU, Creator Reader, Female reader, Implied/Depicted Violence, Major Character Injury, Yandere Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touch, Dehumanisation, Imprisonment/Confinement, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Cult Mentality, Unhealthy Behaviour, Slowburn HARBINGERS MENTONED LATER. 30+ part series.
Word count: 7.5k
SYNOPSIS: You never asked to be anything more than human — but the frozen wilds of Snezhnaya had other plans.
When you are found collapsed in the snow, it isn’t a king or a god who finds you. It’s a battered Fatui grunt: a nameless recruit worked to the bone, with a warmth that refuses to go cold. Against orders, they hide you away. They feed you, tend to you, nurse you back from the edge, offering help and a loyalty that asks nothing in return. They don’t know what you are. They don’t care. To them, you are simply someone worth saving.
But not everyone is so blind.
Word of your strange presence spreads, drawing the gaze of a Harbinger — a force of awe, reverence, and ruthless devotion. They recognize something divine the moment they see you. To them, you are a long-lost miracle. A creator returned. A power meant to be claimed, protected, worshiped.
And they will not leave without you.
When the search closes in, the soldier helps you escape. Together, you flee toward Nod-Krai, where the Fatui’s reach will hopefully thin and the truth can stay buried a little longer.
You believe you’re only trying to survive.
The world is looking for its creator.
It was cold.
The air stung against your skin and seeped through your clothes, settling deep inside you.
After a while, warmth felt unreal, like something you used to know but couldn’t remember anymore.
You moved forward slowly, arms pulled tight around yourself, boots dragging through the snow. Everything blurred into white and grey sky thick with clouds, the horizon lost in the drifting snow.
Each breath you took seared your lungs, sharp and metallic.
It didn't even feel like you where breathing air anymore, it felt like glass.
You didn't know how long you had been walking.
Minutes?
Hours?
Days?
You where losing consciousness every few seconds.
There was a heavy, dragging emptiness in your mind where the memory should have been.
Where anything should have been.
Your name.
How you got here.
What happened.
Gone.
Every few steps, something slipped through the dark of your mind. Brief flashes of color, half-formed sounds. They vanished before you could hold onto them, leaving no meaning behind.
Your head felt heavy, your thoughts slow, and each time your vision dimmed, it took effort to pull yourself back. The fragments kept coming, unfamiliar and useless, it was as if they belonged to someone else. You grit your teeth and pressed on, trying to think logically.
Find shelter.
Find people.
Don't stop walking.
But the snow clung to you like hands pulling you down. Your muscles ached, stiff and slow, barely obeying the frantic commands firing off in your skull.
Your vision blurred at the edges - a slow, creeping tunnel vision that turned the landscape into an endless smear of white on white.
At some point, you realized your couldn't feel your fingers, That screamed something was very, very wrong.
You stared down at your hands, flexing them weakly and watched as clumsy, delayed movements answered you back.
You felt, absurdly, like you were watching yourself from far away.
Like a stranger wearing your body.
You definitely had hypothermia. Severe hypothermia
You couldn't even feel scared, you where too tired, just heavy acceptance that this was happening.
A gust of wind slammed into you, staggering your body sideways. You threw your arms out instinctively, tried to catch yourself - and slipped.
You hit the snow with a muffled thump, your limbs sprawling awkwardly.
For a moment you just laid there, the sky a swirling grey-white blur above you, the snow slowly soaking through your clothes.
Get up, your mind whispered, urgent and thin.
Get up, get up, get up-
You rolled onto your hands and knees, trembling with the effort.
Snow clung to your face, your sleeves, your legs.
Your body screamed at you to stop - to rest - to just let go.
But some stubborn, primal part of you - forced you upright again.
You staggered forward.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The storm rose around you like a living thing.
The wind howled between distant ice-cracked rocks, screaming high and shrill like mourning pipes.
Snow whipped across the ground in long, frantic streaks.
Somewhere above, the clouds twisted and churned - angry, low, bruised with strange colors you couldn't name.
You pressed onward, eyes half-lidded, mind slipping in and out of lucidity.
Were those lights in the distance?
A village?
A fire?
You squinted, heart lurching - but when you blinked, there was nothing there. Just more snow, more darkness.
The realization hit you with the force of a punch:
There was nothing.
Did you imagining it?
You were alone.
The exhaustion slammed into you then, sudden and overwhelming.
Your legs folded underneath you, a puppet with its strings cut.
You crumpled into the snow, your arms splaying out, your body sinking deep into the freezing drift.
The cold no longer hurt.
It was... gentle now.
Soft.
It whispered to you:
Rest. Sleep. It's easier this way.
You tried to lift your head, but it was too heavy.
Tried to call for help, but your mouth wouldn't form the words.
Only a soft, broken exhale escaped you - a ghost of a sound, eaten instantly by the storm.
Your cheek pressed against the snow.
Oddly, it felt warm now.
Not burning, not freezing - just... warm.
The last thing you saw was the sky -
not black, not blue, but a strange, swirling grey, as if the world itself had been smudged out by an uncaring hand.
You let your eyes drift shut.
The snow rose up and swallowed you whole.
(Pov change)
Alexei Morozov had been born in the cold.
Sometimes he wondered if that was why it didn't bother him as much as it should - why even now, trudging through a blizzard that could flay the skin off a man's bones, he only felt a dull, bitter resignation gnawing at him, instead of fear.
Snow whipped past his face in vicious gusts.
The scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose was soaked through, icy against his skin.
Each breath he drew rattled in his lungs, thin and burning.
His hands - wrapped in worn, half-frozen gloves - tightened around the shaft of his spear.
He hated this.
Not the cold, he'd lived with that his whole life - but the pointlessness of it.
Marching endless patrol routes around an empty wasteland.
Guarding nothing. Watching nothing.
Because that was what you got when you weren't one of the Chosen.
No Delusion.
No Vision.
No shining medals or proud family name.
Just Private Alexei Morozov, third son of a drunken blacksmith, slogging his guts out on the Tsaritsa's frozen frontiers.
He let out a slow breath through his teeth, watching it ghost into the air.
The blizzard roared louder around him, drowning out even the sound of his own boots crunching into the snow.
The world had shrunk to a little bubble of grey around him - a few feet in every direction - beyond which there was only screaming wind and shifting white.
He was supposed to complete his perimeter check.
Supposed to report back.
Supposed to do his duty.
He knew how it worked: complete the patrol, earn your ration tickets, earn your bed. Fail, and... well.
No one would miss him.
Morozov the Nobody, he'd heard one of the higher-ranked sergeants call him once, half-drunk and laughing.
Tch. What a bastard, he thought, letting out quiet sigh under his breath.
He adjusted the strap of his pack, grunting low in his throat, and pushed forward.
Half an hour more, maybe. Then he'd circle back to the outpost cabin. Maybe sneak an extra drink of the bad vodka stash they'd hidden under the floorboards. Maybe warm his half-frozen boots by the spluttering fire.
Maybe pretend, just for a few hours, that this life was worth something.
Something flickered out of the corner of his eye, not the usual color he was used to being out in these parts of the forest.
He almost missed it at first.
It was nothing - just a dark smear against the snow, small and unnatural - barely visible through the storm.
He blinked hard, rubbed at his eyes with the back of his glove.
Still there.
His pulse spiked without warning. Instinct took over, drilled lessons surfacing all at once-move carefully, expect danger.
He shifted his grip on the spear, every nerve in his body coiled tight.
Enemy scout?
Bandit?
Frozen refugee?
Slowly, carefully, Alexei made his way closer.
The figure didn't move.
Closer still.
It wasn't an enemy.
Wasn't a bandit, or a rebel.
It was... someone - curled half-under a drift, limbs awkward and stiff.
A civilian.
Or at least, what looked like one.
Alexei crouched low beside the figure, peering through the swirling snow.
Their clothes were wrong - too thin, strange fabric, no furs, no armor.
Not even boots made for Snezhnaya's winters.
Who ever it was they must have been borderline suicidal wearing something like that in the dead of Snezhnayan weather.
Their skin was alarmingly pale. A kind of pallor that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. They must have been our for for a hour or two.
He fumbled his gloves off with stiff fingers, pressed two against the side of their throat.
For one awful second, he felt nothing.
Then -
A flutter.
Weak. Thready. Barely there.
But alive.
Alexei swore under his breath, the words torn away by the wind.
What was he supposed to do?
Regulations said to detain unknown individuals.
Especially ones found this close to restricted patrol zones.
Which meant dragging this half-dead stranger back to the outpost...
Back when he’d been assigned under the Harbinger’s command—Scaramouche. A routine sweep, nothing special. The group of grunts he was working with found a lone figure wandering too close to a Fatui outpost, unarmed, confused, swearing they’d taken a wrong turn.
Lost, maybe. It hadn’t mattered.
Scaramouche hadn’t even asked them any questions. He hadn’t even raised his voice. Just a flick of his hand, a crack of electricity, and it was over.
No hesitation. No regret. The body was left where it fell, and the order was given to move on.
That was the rule. That was how things were handled.
Morozov swallowed, eyes flicking back to the stranger ahead of him.
Or worse, he thought—and this time, the words wouldn’t leave his head.
He swallowed hard.
He didn't know why he hesitated.
Maybe it was the way they looked - not desperate, not dangerous.
He should have been used to this.
The Fatui made sure of that, grinding the reaction out of you until faces blurred and orders were just orders.
And yet.
For some reason, he couldn’t move.
The thought of taking them back to camp turned his stomach. Something in his head kept pushing back, sharp and unformed, telling him not to do it.
He didn’t understand it. He didn’t try to. It was there anyway—instinctive, insistent.
He glanced around - reflexively - though there was no one to see him.
Then, with a muttered curse, he shoved his spear into the snow and hooked his arms under the limp body.
They were terrifyingly light.
Like carrying a child.
Their head lolled against his chest, breath shallow and rasping.
Alexei gritted his teeth against the ache in his muscles, adjusted his grip, and started back toward the outpost cabin - not the main base.
No one needed to know about this.
The storm screamed louder, battering against him with every step, but he bowed his head and kept walking.
He was curious about the situation that could have landed them laying half dead in a snowbank. Or why there where in the forest during a snowstorm.
One step.
Another.
Another.
The weight in his arms was too small, too fragile. How long have they been out here to archive this light?
He tightened his hold instinctively, as if trying to shield them from the storm itself.
In the distance, barely visible through the snow, the crooked outline of the patrol cabin rose up - salvation of a sort.
Alexei trudged toward it.
He didn't know who he had found.
All he knew was that he couldn't let them die.
Not out here.
Not tonight.
The cabin door shuddered against the wind as Alexei shoved it open with his shoulder, the wood groaning in protest.
Inside, the air was only marginally warmer than the blizzard outside.
A battered iron stove sulked in the corner, its belly empty and cold.
The narrow bunk against the far wall was stripped down to threadbare bedding.
The place smelled of old smoke, frozen leather, and sweat.
But it was shelter. It would be good enough.
Alexei kicked the door shut behind him, letting the latch fall into place, and stumbled further in, the precious burden in his arms weighing heavier by the second.
He cursed again under his breath exhausted.
What the hell am I doing?
What the hell are they doing here?
He knelt down beside the bunk, as gently as he could, and eased the stranger onto it.
They didn't stir.
No protest. No groan.
Just a slow, rattling breath leaking from between cracked, dry lips.
He stripped off his gloves with numb fingers, then hesitated.
The stranger's clothes were soaked through - already half-frozen stiff.
If he left them like this, they'd die of hypothermia within the hour.
Alexei scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath.
He shouldn't even be doing this, hed he killed if his commanding officer found out about this. But something deep in his gut - that same old stubborn instinct - told him if he left them like this, he'd be digging his and their's grave by morning.
With a grunt, he set to work
First, the feet.
Bare. No boots, no protection at all. The skin was pale, cold to the touch, but not ruined. That alone didn’t make sense.
Then the clothing.
Thin layers, soft and strange, clinging like silk. They shimmered faintly, catching the light where ice had settled along the folds. He’d never seen material like it—not in Snezhnaya, not in any of the other nations. No padding. No fur. No protection. Nothing meant for this world.
He worked quickly, keeping his focus narrow. He didn’t think about how cold they felt, or how faint their pulse was under his fingers. He just kept going.
Once he had them stripped to undergarments - not much better, but at least relatively (not really but he wouldn't strip them nude) - he pulled the thin blanket down from the bunk and wrapped it around them tightly, cocooning them against the cold.
The whole time, they didn't so much as twitch.
Alexei crouched back, sighing at this work.
Snow melted off his own uniform in slow, stinging drips. His fingers were stiff and clumsy. His legs ached. But he stayed kneeling there, watching them. Listening to the faint rise and fall of their breathing.
...
This was stupid. He knew it was.
He didn’t do things like this. Helping people. He couldn’t be bothered. Taking risks for people who weren’t his problem was a waste.
The Fatui didn’t reward that kind of behavior. Neither did Snezhnaya. You survived by keeping your head down and your hands clean. By walking past what didn’t concern you.
He pushed himself upright, moving to the stove.
He fed it tinder and kindling from the battered supply crate beside it, then struck the flint.
Sparks leapt.
Caught.
The fire guttered into life with a low, sullen growl, casting flickering gold light across the dim cabin.
Alexei sat back on his heels, watching it for a long moment.
The simple, stupid comfort of fire.
The stranger shivered on the bunk - a tiny, unconscious jerk - and Alexei moved without thinking, dragging the rickety thing closer to the stove.
The legs screeched against the floorboards, but he didn't care.
Anything to get them warmer.
Anything to get that too-pale face to show a little more life.
The stranger shuddered violently, a low, broken sound tearing from their throat.
Alexei was at their side in an instant, dropping to one knee, gripping their shoulder through the blanket.
"Hey," he said gruffly.
Not expecting an answer.
Their head rolled weakly toward him.
For a moment - just a moment - their eyes cracked open.
Barely a sliver.
Their lashes rimed with frost.
Eyes dazed, unfocused.
But still - they looked at him. Kinda?
A rush of something hot and sick slammed into his gut.
He swallowed against it, trying to find words - anything - but before he could speak, their eyelids fluttered shut again.
Breath rasped in their throat.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and eased them back down against the bunk, adjusting the blanket tighter around their shoulders.
Something about them tugged at him.
"Stay with me," he muttered, the words rough and useless.
A prayer disguised as an order.
Alexei sat back on the floor, leaning against the bunk.
The fire crackled low and steady.
The storm raged outside.
Inside the cabin, the world had shrunk to the two of them.
To the fragile form lying limp on the bed.
It had been hours since he had dragged them in from the snow.
Hours of watching them, listening to their breath rasping in and out like the sound of the wind itself.
The steady rhythm was both comforting and unnerving.
As if they were clinging to life only by sheer stubbornness.
But how long could they hold on like this?
A tightness curled in Alexei's chest, making it difficult to breathe.
He rubbed a hand against his face - rough, unshaven - and pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.
He couldn't sit here any longer.
Pacing the cabin felt like the only way to make the tension inside him bearable.
His boots scuffed against the floorboards as he moved from one end of the cabin to the other, his thoughts never still.
What kind of fool was he?
He was dead meat for sure by now, hours late, hours he had disappeared.
His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles scraping against the rough fabric of his uniform.
There had been something in their gaze - something fragile and haunting, and yet there was a strange sort of strength behind it. Something that had made him feel... protective. He hadn't wanted to leave them out there in the storm, to die alone, buried beneath the snow.
Was this a kindness?
Or some kind of idiocy?
Alexei scowled at the floor, kicking a stray boot out of his path, and walked back to the stove.
His hands fumbled for a moment.
Not really knowing what he was looking for - something, anything to break the silence that seemed to suffocate the air.
He found an old, dented tin of broth in the corner, shoved into a cracked shelf along with some other remnants of past meals.
It was frozen solid... But hey, he wasn't picky.
With a curse, he tossed it into the pot, watching it melt under the heat of the stove, the sound of ice cracking sharply as it thawed. The smell was faint but comforting - the familiar scent of salted meat, old vegetables.
The clink of metal on metal filled the cabin, the fire's crackling a steady backdrop.
His eyes flicked over to the bunk.
The blanket still clung loosely around their frame.
They should be completly awake by now.
Alexei bit the inside of his cheek, biting back a growl of frustration.
He scraped together a rough bowl of broth once it was warm enough.
The tin had melted into something drinkable, though it wasn't much.
Moving back to the bunk Alexei sat down beside them and pulled them upright, bracing their back against his chest so they wouldn't slump as he turned them slightly to the side.r side to make it easier to feed them.
The motion seemed to stir them just a little - their brow furrowed, lips parted in a faint grimace. But they didn't wake.
....
How could he force someone to eat who couldn't even hold themselves up?
He let out a soft sigh, rubbing his hand across his face.
They needed food.
Alexei scooped up a bit of the broth and reached out carefully.
The warmth of the soup contrasted against the cool air in the cabin, and he moved the spoon toward their mouth, praying they would respond to something.
Just a little.
And then, with a tiny flicker - their lips parted.
Barely enough to allow the spoon in. They swallowed, the faintest of sounds escaping their throat.
It took several more spoonfuls, slow and careful, for the stranger to even begin to settle into the warmth of the food. But Alexei didn't move from his place at their side.
Every spoonful, every small shift in their body, felt like a fragile victory to poor old Alexei.
Their lips parted, and a weak, dry cough rattled in their chest. The sound scraped against Alexei's nerves, and his breath caught in his throat as he leaned forward catching their chin between his fingers.
"Hey," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "Take it easy. Your safe" He frowned at himself for sounding so soft.
Their brow furrowed as they turned their head slightly, facing him more.
"Just... breathe," he murmured softly, his voice unsteady for reasons he couldn't quite place.
The stranger blinked, trying to focus. Their gaze flickered around the room, the same confusion in their eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable in the quiet.
"You should talk," Alexei said, his voice far too loud in the silence. "Tell me something. Anything."
There was no answer. Just the soft rasp of their breath. He cursed under his breath, frustration creeping in.
“Damn it,” he sighed.
He reached for the tin of broth again, the warmth still radiating from the stove. It would help, he knew. They needed more. He needed to make sure they didn't slip away while he was busy spinning in circles, second-guessing himself.
The stranger's mouth parted as they took the liquid, their lips dry and cracked.
A long time passed. The soup had finished, and the stranger was resting again, still too weak to do anything but let Alexei's care hold them together.
....
He didn't even realize he fell asleep waiting
Alexei was slouched nearby, half-sitting, half-slumped against the wall. He hadn’t intended to sleep—just to rest his eyes—but exhaustion had won out somewhere in the early hours. Now his breath came shallow through parted lips, fogging faintly in the air. One arm lay crooked over his stomach, the other hanging limp at his side. His coat had slipped off his shoulder.
The girl still lay where he had left her, curled beneath his spare cloak and the bundled hide he’d dragged from a storage crate. Her features were finally starting to lose the pinched tension of fever, and her breathing had evened out in the last few hours. He’d checked. Repeatedly.
He looked over and saw she was already awake, lying still and staring at the ceiling, clearly unaware of where she was.
Her gaze was unfocused, staring past the cracked ceiling beams at something only she could see. She blinked, slow and unsure, and when her eyes finally shifted—catching movement in the corner of her vision—her whole body tensed.
Alexei sat up straighter but didn’t approach.
He saw it, clear as day—the tension in her shoulders, the tremble in her hands. The confusion. The fear.
She looked around the room, tense and confused, clearly having no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there.
Poor girl, he thought. She has absolutely no idea where she is. I can imagine waking up like that is one hell of start.
“…You’re alright,” he said at last, his voice low, almost hoarse. “You're safe.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on him now, wide and uncertain. She looked like she wanted to speak, but couldn’t remember how. Maybe she didn’t even know what to ask.
Alexei stayed where he was.
He could have stood, could have moved to check on her—but some part of him knew better. She looked like a fawn cornered in a thicket. You didn’t rush creatures like that. You let them choose.
He nodded once toward the fire. “It’s morning. The storm passed.” A pause. “I found you outside.”
Her lips parted—he thought she might try to respond, but then she closed them again. She looked down at her hands instead. Pale fingers, raw from the cold. She moved them slowly, as if they weren’t quite hers.
Alexei’s throat tightened.
“…You were half-frozen,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t think you’d wake up.” His hand shifted to his coat—he hesitated, then reached to the floor beside him and picked up a metal cup. “Water?”
She blinked, eyes darting to it. Then—hesitantly—she nodded.
He crossed the room in measured steps, careful not to startle her. Kneeling beside her, he offered the cup with both hands, keeping his eyes lowered. She took it, barely grazing his fingers, and the contact sent something sharp and quiet down his spine. He didn’t know what it was.
She drank slowly. The water was lukewarm and faintly metallic, but she didn’t seem to mind. She drained half of it before her strength gave out, and her grip loosened.
He caught the cup before it could fall and set it aside.
Silence again.
She looked at him now—directly. Her eyes were… strange. Not in color or shape, but in depth. Like staring into a well that had no bottom.
Alexei held her gaze for a moment, then broke it.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, standing again. “You need rest. That’s all.”
He moved back toward the hearth, crouching beside the fire to prod it with a bit of broken wood. The crackling resumed, a soft, comforting noise.
He didn’t look back at her again until he heard fabric shift behind him. She was lying down, eyes half-lidded now, the warmth pulling her back under.
He hesitated, then grabbed his jacket and stepped back to her side. Gently, without speaking, he draped it over her again—tucking it beneath her chin to block the draft leaking through the cracked door.
The fire had begun to burn brighter again, spitting sparks into the stone hearth with every shift of the coals. Alexei sat crouched beside it, one knee bent, the other foot braced flat on the floor.
Behind him, She was still tucked beneath his jacket and the wool hide, her body curled small, like she was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible.
Outside, the world was pure white. The storm had moved on, but it left a silence so thick it pressed against the windows like a held breath. The snow had drifted high against the door; they'd be stuck here for a while. Not like they could possibly go anywhere else.
He would be dead meat if anyone from the fatui found him.
Alexei leaned back and exhaled.
He caught himself watching her again. He couldn't stop thinking about her.
It wasn't surprising, really. When you are snowed in and she was the only other person around, there wasn't much else to focus on.
Her skin was pale against the dark room. Her lashes stirred now and then, slow and unfocused, like she wasn’t fully awake yet. She looked out of place in a way he couldn’t explain, not matching the room or anything he’d known.
She looked fragile in the way something wasn’t meant to be touched at all.
For instance is she where to stand next to a rugged looking man like myself, the contrast would be impossible to miss. Like she’d been dropped into the wrong world entirely.
But he felt something more to her.
It wasn't his first time feeling something like this.
He’d felt something like this before, once, during training—crossing paths with a Harbinger
II Dottore. A scientist, obsessed with his work, experimenting on people while they were still alive.
The man carried a presence that cut straight through you, made it hard to think clearly. Standing near him felt like waiting for something terrible to happen, like disaster was already inevitable.rous, inevitable.
She carried a weight too—but different. It was subtle, insistent, drawing him closer instead of pushing him away, like something quietly asking for his attention.
It was impossible to define. Sharp and strange, like a signal from someplace he didn’t understand. Fragile, small, yet undeniably present. Every movement, every blink, the faint tremor in her hands—he noticed it all, even when he didn’t want to.
He tried to make sense of it, to pin it down, but nothing fit. Nothing he knew explained it. It just… existed, pressing on him in ways he couldn’t name, tugging at his attention and making him linger, watching, waiting.
He didn’t try to fight it. He simply let it be, letting the feeling hold him there.
Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.
Slowly, she sat up, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Apparently, as she tried to make sense of her own thoughts, he was doing the same
Alexei raised an eyebrow, taking her in. She may be feeling better to talk now.
She looked off, distressed, beads of sweat glinting on her pale skin.
You really shouldn't be moving yet. You're still too weak." he said.
She didn't answer.
“Why… why’d you help me?” Her voice was thin, trembling almost like a note of music.
The question was soft. Not accusatory. Just… curious. As if she couldn’t quite believe it herself.
Alexei drew a breath, slow and tired.
“I don’t know.”
Another log popped in the hearth.
“I don’t know why I helped you. I’m Fatui. I don’t usually help people—but I couldn’t leave you out there.”
Fatui?” she asked, her voice quiet, tentative. “You’re joking… are you serious?” She looked as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said.
“Yeah. I’m Fatui. Why would I be joking? Do you… have bad relations with the Fatui?”
Her eyes flicked to his outfit. He wasn’t wearing a full uniform, just the symbol stamped over his clothes, but that alone seemed enough to make her pause.
She shook her head slowly, still staring at nothing in particular. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, completely silent. The quiet stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Finally, she shook her head again. “No… I don’t have any relation to the Fatui.”
Alexei didn’t know what she was thinking. He could see the confusion and concern in her eyes, it was like she couldn't belive what you just said.
“So… where exactly am I?”
"..."
"We're in Snezhnaya," he said, keeping his voice even.
She still looked as if she didn’t believe him
“I’m not sure why you’re acting like I’m lying,” he said, voice flat. “I’m wearing a Fatui uniform, and look outside—we’re completely snowed in.”
"..."
“I have no reason to lie, you know,” he added. “Bold of you to question your savior. Would you prefer I leave you out there in the Snezhnaya snow?”
A sudden cough ripped through her throat, and she curled in on herself slightly. Still weak from the hypothermia, her body trembled.
“Sorry… thank you for saving me, but it’s hard to believe. That place… is fictional.” She looked at him, clearly struggling to make sense of everything.
…He didn’t reply. Just stared at her, like she’d lost her mind. He shook his head slightly. I mean… really?
He said in a calm tone, “Okay. I think you should go back to rest. You’re not thinking straight right now.”
He shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. How did she just say Snezhnaya is fictional?
Was this… some kind of memory loss? People forget things, sure, but calling a real place fake? That didn’t make sense. Maybe the cold scrambled her mind. Maybe she’d been through something worse than he realized. Or… maybe he’d just saved someone completely unhinged.
She flinched slightly under his hard gaze—part judgment, part concern. Embarrassed, she looked down and shook her head, still clearly confused and shaken.
She didn't answer, just shifted slightly, curling back under the blankets. Her hands trembled, and he resisted the urge to reach out and tuck her in.
Alexei exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to make of her
A quiet tension hung between them, filled only by the soft crackle of the fire. Alexei’s jaw tightened. He still had no answers—no way to make sense of her, of the pull he felt toward her, or why he’d saved her in the first place.
my husband suddenly became love"sick"?! ft. phainon
basically regressor au bc he lowkey fumbled in the past lifetime (and you died) so he pulled the uno reverse card and highkey turned back the time (pt2)
WARNING/S: yandere, obsessive behavior
EXTRA:
heh so uhh,,, i lowk rushed ts chapter because I was mad sleepy (i was planning on including more context like how the union is what's literally keeping yn alive: oops spoiler alert) but ehhhh,,, hope ya'll like it tehee, adios
By Her Majesty The Tsaritsa’s name, successor of The Belyi Tsar’s decree, a new order shall be bestowed upon you in a discrete envelope. This was no mission for the public’s eyes, yet it is supposed to be performed in utmost conviction so none could suspect otherwise – a pretend marriage, where you and your Harbinger are the grand performers. You thought this was a jest, a cruel farce by The Tsaritsa, yet her pick who plays the Innamorati of this stage was no coincidence; after all, the Archon of Love knows best.
✧ Pierro’s gaze did not falter as he received the orders. His steps were unwavering as the golden soles echoed closer towards you. He recognized your glances of tumult, yet you could not decipher any hint of disagreement on his face. Must his icy star-shaped pupils always be so indecipherable?
“I presume you have already read The Tsaritsa’s orders, my divine. We are to be wedded in a faux-union. Do not sulk so, for no mortal has the privilege of having the Cryo Archon personally officiate their vows.”
You pleaded silently in your mind, was this your prison? Or why was the Jester too calm with this conundrum? You tried to reason with him that such a pretend relationship will serve no purpose to either the Fatui or you two. Yet the Jester insisted, his figure standing tall behind you, already planning with a sharp gaze.
“If we are to perform these roles, it must be more than merely 'convincing'. Do not fret, shared residence will be arranged to the highest standard.”
A wedding ceremony was thrown, your arm linked elegantly around his. His suit is pristine white beside your matching lavish attire, snow-white petals of rose scattered above your heads. You argued that a simple civil marriage could’ve sufficed, with the signing of a certificate instead of this whole celebration. Yet standing now amongst all of Snezhnaya with a convincing smile felt like a blur of a fever dream. Your brain could barely conceive the voices of guests congratulating you, until Pierro's gloved hand lands by your waist as a foreboding reminder.
How much can one put into a pretend wedding, you pondered to yourself. Unless The Jester secretly had a masterclass in acting, why did he slide the wedding band so delicately with a reverent touch to your palms? Why would his hands slowly turn your head to place a tender kiss on your lips? Your overwhelming thoughts would be laughed off as a newlywed’s nervousness. Many awed in compassion as they saw you beside him.
“I still don't understand,” you huffed with exasperation later on, seeing how your personal clothes were placed in a shared closet with your now-husband. “If we needed to fool all of Teyvat into being wedded, wouldn't a soiree suffice? A marriage certificate, maybe? What purpose is there that we, uh, live under the same roof when no one is watching?”
“Hm? Are our private quarters not to your liking? I assumed the intricate mezzanine would've been to your fancy.”
“No, no. I'm talking about the shared bedchambers when it literally doesn't matter what we do in our privacy. This is all a pretense either way, right?”
But the Fatui Directory was busy in his own world, your reasonings echoing through his numerous plans of spoiling you as the perfect spouse; the Tsaritsa’s official approval to bless your relationship was merely a guarantee you'd carry his name in yours. After all, only he had the means to communicate with the Archon of Snezhnaya; she was merely fulfilling her part of a deal by ensuring you were promised to him.
‘I have led my Harbingers to your cause and sought out every gnosis. You know the price I seek.’
‘A deal is a deal; you have fulfilled your duty, Jester. Now go, you shall play a new role with your promised one.’
Either way, the Harbinger shook his head and smiled faintly. His arms naturally wrapped around your torso from behind:
“Ah, is my cherished already kicking me out to sleep on the couch tonight? I see you are so invested in this marriage, you are already playing a natural. Newlyweds first bickering…”
“Pierro, you're evading the subject!”
✧ Hearing hushed whispers that you are Il Capitano’s promised betrothed ushered in a newfound sense of dread. Not only to you, but to the tongue of gossipers who viewed the Captain as a mighty warrior yet an enigmatic being shrouded in shadows. How were you supposed to receive such news when the mere idea of pitch blackness behind that helmet eats at your heart like the void? You had every right to be anxious, fidgeting with the nails of your fingers. Yet when the Harbinger met you personally to talk, all fears dissipated when he spoke first:
“I… Do not wish to impose upon you. Not as an equal nor as a gentleman.” – the golden chains chimed as he bowed his head low before you, his armored hand on his chest. “I understand if this predicament is beyond our control, yet I wish no animosity or unease between us.”
His sudden words struck you silent, noticing the faintest tremor beneath his austere voice. That’s when it dawned upon you – The Captain was as nervous as you.
“No, no, I- I understand. I also wish for us to get along, even if we… if we are to play pretend.”
A tense silence ensued, as both hoped to veil the awkwardness each of you felt. Yet the two of you stood, like timid sweethearts anchored by their mutual apprehension, with glances that dared not meet and instead finding solace in the view of the ground.
“May I ask then,” – you ventured softly. “Have you ever wished to be in such a relationship? I do not wish to assume, but I thought a Captain of your renown is far too busy to concern himself with a marital status.”
A quiet sigh escaped the Harbinger, a subtle shift in his shoulders let him ease up, yet his voice still carried that solemn might:
“I may be a Captain first and foremost, yet I was once a man like any other. It's not that I seek to intimidate others, nor do I deem closeness a weakness. But rather, I fear imposing my duty and work into the personal life of someone dear…”
You nodded thoughtfully, “I see… this is indeed a relief. Then, perhaps if you will, we can call it off? Or perhaps find you someone more suitable?”
Your words of cordial clemency were met with an uncharacteristic silence before Il Capitano simply replied:
“... I don't regret the decision taken by the Tsaritsa.”
You blinked at him.
“Unless… you do not find me as a worthy choice, and wish for another?”
His apologetic comment does not oblige with your bafflement. How can you compete with the Captain's modesty when his words bore such unfeigned sincerity – he does not wish to foist, yet to have such an arrangement granted him by Her Majesty, The Cryo Archon, there is no man worthy enough to repay any dowry when you are the promised hand. And the countless battles he won? The numerous expeditions he carried out in the name of the Fatui, returning with tarnished armor and triumphs from foreign lands? His actions were not merely for glory; it was so that he might be the first to receive the blessing of courting you. Even if you weren't aware, he competed for the privilege.
And if he has to slay the Heavenly Principles themselves for the honor to be the first you may call husband, even for nothing more than a pretend political marriage, then he shall make the pretend stage built on meadows of Inteyvats flowers. Unfortunately for himself, he may be courageous when slaying beasts, yet timid as a school boy when talking to you, his future betrothed.
“N-no, no. Do not assume me wrong, Capi. If we play pretend, then let's make it as peaceful and easy-going for us in our future betrothal.”
“Indeed, we shall do our best.” – His hand clasped yours. “You have my word, you shall not be bothered in a forced engagement. Allow me to honor your name beside my own.”
Thus, bells tolled, and a small, modest ceremony was organized. His regal coat flowed behind his broad shoulders, while his hand securely held yours after the Captain vowed not only as a knight to protect you, but as a husband. The guests, however, were oblivious to the marriage façade forced by the Tsaritsa. Only a few Harbingers and close family were invited, and as expected, Childe shed tears of joy seeing his two favorite people being wedded, sniffing into a handkerchief.
How can anyone suspect the Captain was pretending when he saw you hurry by the steps, your crystal shoe accidentally slipping off your foot? He'd kneel without a word, tenderly slip the fallen footwear back onto you, before gathering you in his arms to carry you bridal style. A knight honored by the duty to be yours, and a newfound title he'd wear with pride whenever he is introduced as your “husband”.
“This is just an act, right, Capi?”
“Ah… apologies, I already forgot we're pretending.”
✧ You have not been the least bit troubled by the sudden demand to be in a pretend marriage with Il Dottore. Everyone knows he'll sneer and mock the Tsaritsa back if she requests such a ludicrous social theater from a Harbinger like him. A single glance at The Doctor would suffice to see that he would not indulge in such folly.
…Except he was grinning right now. Very eagerly.
“This is ideal. This is perfect. It's all coming to plan.”
You took your words back. For reasons beyond comprehension, your brilliant maniac was not calling off the marriage, and you were beyond perplexed. The mere idea sounded so obscure, you hoped that Dottore would be the one annuling this whole farce. Yet here was, with his sharp teeth grinning and hands clasped together as though a long-awaited experiment that had fallen neatly into place.
“Do you not see, my dear?” – Dottore leaned closer, his gloved hands landing on your shoulder. “We are going to play pretend, like the most stereotypical family. This is the perfect opportunity!”
“Opportunity for what?! What do we gain from this?”
“To blend in, to fool naive passerby that we are the most average couple. To study how such puny idiots settle with their fragile social constructs to find comfort in an illusory sense of belonging,” – his grin widened, “think about it, dear. The status of the Fatui will not linger upon you; from now on, you shall be wedded to a… simple, humble man. A feeble scholar, of modest means.”
Your brain blanked out. Not at the mental image of walking hand in hand with the 2nd Fatui Harbinger as two honeymooners, but at Dottore’s audacity to be excited about it. You argued and reasoned with him, claiming he could easily consult books on sociocultural relationships if he needed to collect data; this endeavor was below you two.
Yet the harbinger crossed his arms, tugging at your lack of enthusiasm. “I assumed you would be ecstatic. Or is my countenance not suitable enough to be considered “husband material” when seeing it first thing in the mornings in bed? We'll deal with the nuance later; for now, we have a new responsibility as a family.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. Before you could question his words, Dottore very casually lifted a child in his arms – the youngest segment, the perfect image of little Zandik from his days of youth, with his messy hair locks and defiant ruby eyes. He handed you the segment into your arms and unceremoniously announced:
“We now have a child. Congratulations.”
You stared at Dottore in horror.
The young kid looked less than pleased to be part of this experiment. How are you going to explain that you suddenly have a child, no older than seven, mind you, when neither of you has been seen with a child? You don't know. But you swore, should anyone dare to ask, you’d tell them that Dottore was the one pregnant.
One progress was made in this pretend marriage – the art of quarreling like a couple.
Eventually, the two of you reached an ultimatum within the newfound circumstances, treating it as a covert operation akin to a spy mission, one where a fake marital status was required. So you relented. Whenever you walked the secluded villages of Sumeru, with a child in hand and Dottore in tow, local grannies would awe at the sight of such a delightful family – ‘look at the little boy clinging to you, he's a spitting image of his father!’
Dottore huffed in uncharacteristic pridefulness. You, however, chuckled nervously, secretly planning to punch that grin off his face once night fell. But there was something else more important bugging your mind – the young segment. He was sulking and following worldlessly, forced by the Doctor into this role as a “biological child”. You kneeled by the boy and tried to drop the saccharine pretense of a parent:
“I'm sorry that Dottore has dragged you into this. I hope he wasn't a big meanie to you. I'll tell you what, let's not make this a chore for you. Let me buy you some Candied Ajilenakh Nut, hm?”
This routine persisted out of obligation, and while even the Harbinger felt out of place as your “loving husband”, he stared in curiosity as you got along with the kid. The child beamed whenever you listened to his rambling, the two of you making truce by branding Dottore “a big meanie”. One would argue you even spoiled that young segment with sweets, or often going shopping to buy beautiful stationery items for education. New notebooks, pens, and folders. He observed you helping the kid choose a lovely new backpack, adjusting the straps on his shoulders, and encouraging his earnest opinion.
Dottore didn't intervene. He didn't have it in him; instead, with a quiet hand on your waist, he paid for the shopping spree. The image of young little Zandik, perched in your arms while you let that boy have the best clothes and school items of his interest, was a contradiction to what a certain boy actually had 400 years ago. Or rather, never had. The segment may be a mirror image of him, except he never bore such a radiant smile, inspired by you.
✧ Upon receiving news of the sudden “pretend marriage” to Scaramouche, the Harbinger avoided you like the plague. He was nowhere to be seen, suddenly occupied with matters in Inazuma, never once writing to you in regards to the sudden decision. Naturally, you felt heartbroken. Not that you were surprised by his reaction. Human sentiment was not a language the Balladeer was known for.
But you hoped for his reassurance, and his silence gnawed at you. Maybe neither of you needs this imposed relationship? Why can't things stay the way you two previously were: close, untainted by false titles? You prayed he didn't despise you for the circumstances forced by the Archon.
Eventually, you were summoned to Inazuma to prepare for your own marriage. The Harbinger's best subordinates accompanied your travels as messengers and dutiful servants, bowing to the soon-to-be-wedded spouse of the 6th. Adorned in resplendent white Shiromuku, you were taken care of with utmost elegance, as the servants adjusted your sleeves. However, even they noticed the cloud of melancholy looking upon you.
“Huh? Lord Balladeer, detesting you?” – one servant gasped. “Perish the thought, the 6th has done nothing but toil to arrange the most grand ceremony for this occasion.”
“Indeed, he hurried to change even the flowers and decoration to be based on your preference, stern on each detail as always.”
You were baffled.
Yet when the day of the small ceremony dawned at last, Wisteria flowers were hung by an arch, carpeting the cobblestone floor with lilac petals to a shrine. Scaramouche awaited you by the steps, his black Hakama kimono creaseless as his porcelain skin. When his gaze finally met yours, he quietly beckoned you with his hand.
“You look exquisite, as expected,” – he murmured, his gaze not scrutinizing or distant. It was apologetic. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting, I needed some time to make prepa-”
“Scara!” – your voice echoed through the shrine courtyard, ignoring the clanking of your Geta sandals, you rushed towards him “Why didn't you tell me you were arranging all this?! Was it so hard to at least send a word, to tell me that everything is alright?”
“H-hey, hey, calm down…!”
The shrine mikos and a few Fatui subordinates exchanged awkward glances while you scolded the young groom. He was flustered, hands coming to clasp your own in a vain attempt to cease your complaining.
“I'm sorry, alright! Just do not blame me, I was as surprised at this foolish decision as you.” – he ushered you beside him with a hand holding yours, with the other wrapped around your shoulder. He could not deny, you looked beyond elegant in such a traditional wedding kimono. “I didn't wish you to think I took this occasion as a joke.”
“You mean… you're not against it?”
The young puppet held in his pride. He guided you gently by the shrine, his gaze averted in modest timidness.
“I hoped… that even if we were to feign such naive, domestic bliss, I would not be enough to give you a memorable ceremony because you were forced into this. So instead, for just this once, let me pretend to be yours like a normal human marrying his second half. Even if it's a selfish dream.”
✧ You? Married? To Pantalone, of all people? Hilarious, you thought, except it was not the first of April to spread such bizarre tricks. Yet when a close acquaintance approached you to sincerely congratulate you on the sudden announcement, you realized you were absolutely in trouble.
Was Pantalone informed by the Tsaritsa? Was he in on this? Because you prayed to the stars above, he will refrain from overdramatic reactions and-
“Ah! My sweetheart,” – he busted in, approaching you with renowned zest. “My fiancée. My darling. My beloved, adorable spouse.”
He definitely didn't overreact. His arms shamelessly wrapped around you, one hand cupping your cheek to pull you in a very much smothering kiss on your face.
“Apologies, ladies and gentlemen, I see you have heard the news,” – he casually waved a hand off to the circle of well-wishers. “Yes, indeed, we decided to make it official at last. Now, if you'll excuse yourself, my darling and I have much to discuss. Isn't that right, dear?”
That forever polished smile of his tightened the same as the hand that anchored on your shoulder. You were, without a doubt, in big trouble.
“As you can see, Her merciful Majesty The Tsaritsa expects much of us, darling.” – he explained, his hand on your back as the sight of his familiar office greeted you, welcoming one to sit on the leather armchair; free at last from prying eyes. “And a contract is a contract, as you know. We will be assigned as a married couple, an act that would surely fool those Snezhnayan elites when they see we are planning lavish celebrations. Lots of occasions for making connections.”
You crossed your arms – “I'm not playing the role of a trophy spouse for you, Pantalone.”
“Oh, so crude. You don't wish to boast your status as the fiancée of the richest man alive? You'll have everything at the tip of your fingertips, you know. I could be the trophy husband, if that pleases you more.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. Indeed, for one so young, yet so perilously business-minded, many questioned the Harbinger’s relationship status. Luckily for the Regrator’s wit, a fake but carefully picked wedding band gleamed on his right ring finger where, in Snezhnaya, such symbols of union customarily rest, accompanied by his usual profusion of tasteful ornaments. People would kill for your position today, but you refuse to let some hollow decree compel you into the charade of devotion for mere spectacle. But it appears even the Cryo Archon decided to take matters into her own hands and settle Pantalone’s status.
“And what's the catch? We can stage a wedding, smile to the crowd, then we don't have to reside or share any further space if it's just for the public eye.”
A document was slapped flat onto the table with a loud thud, Pantalone's smile never once wavering as he slid the paper closer to you.
“A contract, dear, is a contract,” – he reiterated. “The stipulations have been settled plainly for us. Or did you miss the fine print in the footnotes? This is not just upholding a public image; not for a moment can we allow suspicion to take root.”
You winced, your gaze tracing the endless jargon of the contract he presented. His words punctuate each rule: shared accommodations, shared chambers, shared life. It doesn't help that the deadline for this pretense of a marital status is “until further notice”.
Alas, this was your cruel fate. Tethered to the 9th and dragged into his orbit as if the two of you were latched by the hip. At every soirée, he introduced you proudly as his betrothed, his public affection a deliberate signal that both of you are off limits. You forced a smile. It's thankless labor to endure these social gatherings when his hands remain caressing your waist. Therefore, to catch him off guard, you resolved to reclaim the stage in your own fashion.
Amidst idle chatter with his fellow investors and guests, you decided to lean in and tenderly kiss his cheek.
Silence uncharacteristically robbed his poise. You didn't know Pantalone could make the tip of his ears redden on command. Is that even a skill one trains for?
“Dearest, don't make me a melting mess in front of our guests,” – he murmured, his frayed voice not going unnoticed before the guests that chuckled. Your simple gesture won over everyone.
“It's alright, honey, I'll show you more when we're back at home.”
Now you must see who the regrator truly was in private, when he shed his pretenses to disarm his businesslike smile. Behind his mask was another. A face mask, to be precise. He was dressed in towel robes, having just emerged from a thorough bath, his face covered in some opulent moisturizing facemask and hair wrapped in a towel.
You blinked and stifled a scoff.
“Don’t you dare laugh. Where is my kiss? You promised.”
“Wait, are you serious? I was clearly joking in front of people, Pantalone. Or is the contract now mandating obligatory kisses even in the privacy of our own home?”
“... It will be soon!”
(this is 10 pages long... Why did I do this to myself? Also, titled part I in case I get inspired for more silly scenarios.
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