There are two writers operating here. We mostly write for Genshin Impact (原神). We're both born in 2002, and since Leo might deal with darker themes such as yanderes, we'd recommend that no one below 18 interact.
Im eveeee im a proFESSIONAL at writing angst and sadness also pls commission me i am broke.
I'm Leo. I mostly write yanderes.
Tbh this isnt meant for audiences don't expect consistent uploads or high-quality stuff lol
platonic yandere father x fem reader
A/n: this is a prequel drabble
“I said don’t touch her.”
While uttering those words the first prince smiled amicably, corners of his lips quirking up into a good-natured expression. Concurrently his little girl wiggled out of the stranger’s arms, tugging at her father’s silken robes and gesturing into the courtyard. Ye Heqing turned his gaze down to you, looking as tender as always. “Yes, you may play in the garden. Be careful.”
Only when you had scurried off does his gaze turn piercing, honey-brown eyes squinting crudely at the offending man. The faux kindness peeled away to reveal a scathing detestation for the man who had dared carry his daughter, pet her hair and pick her up in a nauseating show of affection. The imperial scholar quickly realised his mistake, scrambling to apologise and make a show of his regret.
“Please, I beg diànxià for his forgiveness-! This foolish subject was out of line-”
“I gave you a warning.”
“!”
“I already said once before the cohort, that she is not to be approached by anyone other than me, or her handmaidens.”
The scholar daren’t raise his head, nails digging into his already sweaty palms but he could taste the bloodlust regardless, emanating like dense fog around him. Before he could react or notice, Ye Heqing was stood immediately before him, eyes widened manically.
“I was going to stop at simply removing a few fingers, perhaps an eye. But this is not your first offense, is it?” The father continued speaking, forefinger brushing over the scholar’s neck and digging into his pulse point. “Slinking around the palace, strutting about like you have a right to be in her presence… You must know that once I am emperor, she will succeed as our nation’s first empress. Are you trying to endear yourself to my daughter?”
The fingers around his neck began to curl, eliciting a sputter and gurgle from the other man.
“Or worse,” Ye Heqing appeared wholly enraged, face twisted into a caricature of insanity. In this moment, the scholar understood a statement he had never taken seriously before.
The first prince was a complete, utter madman.
“Or worse,” he said again, “trying to harm her? Use her as leverage against me? Did my brother set you up to this?” That word in particular was spat out, bitter and crammed with malice.
The scholar was barely able to choke out a negative, his pathetic denial. Just as quickly as the aggression had come it faded, and he fell to the floor, desperately wheezing air in and out of his trachea. Instantly the reason for the kindness became clear.
“Papa!” you demanded, voice ringing loud and unmistakeable from a distance.
“Yes, princess?” Ye Heqing called back. “Papa will be right there.” Your father kneeled before the victim.
“If I have the misfortune of laying my eyes on you again, just your limbs are not enough. Everywhere you’ve touched her I will slash and cut. The skin that has touched her, I will slice off your chest.” And he stood back up, waving to the one he treasures the most in the world. The sole important thing in his life that was worth cherishing and loving.
platonic yandere! father x fem! reader
Warnings: incest (not between yandere and reader)
Fùqīn: Father
“Fùqīn.”
Though his eyes remained shut, legs crossed lazily off the veranda (ruffling his kù), an imperceptible upward quirk of the lips spoke of his acknowledgement. One sleeve hastened to conceal the bowl beside him, but you caught it just before it disappeared behind the garment.
“Intoxicating yourself?” Your tone turned icier, if possible, and your father scrambled to redeem himself.
“Of course not, [Name]-er, just indulging lightly in the morning-” You interrupt him with a whack upside on the head, with a fan someone had gifted you, unsympathetic to his pitiful wail. He had developed a rather bothersome drinking habit as of late, though by all means far from dangerous for your father was an elegiac drunk, often accompanying a teary sort of clinginess. It was evident even for the rare visitor to surmise that he was particularly attached to you, his only daughter and child. Since your birth, after overcoming his initial reluctance to hold you, you were rarely let out of his sight, often seen trailing behind the first prince or wrapped up in his arms, a little bundle of childhood. When he had left the palace you were carried close to his chest, none the wiser.
Even then you found yourself somehow coaxed onto his lap, tugged forward by the arm until your head could rest atop his chest. He raised the wine to your lips, to which you halt him.
“Fùqīn.”
“Alright, alright,” he sighed and set it aside. “Won’t you call me ā-diē like other children do? Am I not enough of a beloved father to you?” The complaint came across as more puerile than heart-wrenching. After failing to garner a response, he tousled your hair, raking long fingers through the strands that would take you two kè to put up. He had insisted before that he could braid your hair just as well as any servant, into a style befitting of the noblest of ladies (he cannot) (he has tried).
“You… must relearn royal etiquette,” you said, shifting out of his grasp to maintain a preferred detachment. “You cannot be sitting so crassly, or running your mouth when we return to the Imperial Palace. Fùqīn, we must demonstrate impeccable manners and grace show that our time here has not diminished our values as royals.”
“My brother deserves none of my effort.” He only pulled you back into the embrace, with the excuse of keeping you warm amidst the third snow of the season. “Was he not the one who saw my exile?”
“It is not just the Emperor. What of the Queen Mother, the princess, the concubines and their children? They will seize any opportunity or weakness to scorn us for lack of refinery. We would never shake of the brand of criminals.” For the first time this morning a draft made you shiver despite not feeling any effect from the cold just now, allowing him to lean in to monopolise more of your body heat. He was sensitive to low temperatures, but would still dwell outdoors frequently in winter months, dressed in scant layers of clothing. As much as he laughed it off as an odd quirk and impulse, you recognised it as a form of punishment, self-imposed suffering he inflicted upon his skin. You dare think that it is due to the guilt he carries for being the reason both you and he were here now, abandoned in an old residence someplace near the northern border.
He had remained silent this while, as if contemplative. An unusual occurrence. The wind tore through the house with greater ardour, brushing across frosted branch and soil to deposit a perilous chill within the stone walls. Finally, he placed a palm over your cheek, a gentle warmth soft as snowflakes adorning his smile, and spoke. “You wish to become a royal again?”
The lump of saliva in your throat felt much harder to swallow. “Yes.”
“Then I shall see it through.”
“…”
“…what’s wrong, [Name]-er?”
You dismissed it as a wandering mind, but you would never admit to him that for perhaps the second time in your whole life, he had frightened you. Though his arms were gentle and eyes soft, you could not find reprieve from the sudden chill you experienced earlier.
While your father the first prince savoured the tranquillity of an early grey noon, you begin to muse on the letter that had arrived so unceremoniously the month before. A horseman handed it to you, you unfurled the scroll, he left.
It carried the official stamp and seal of the Imperial Palace, a message direct from the emperor. The Emperor! Casting his gaze on disgraced royals such as you? The contents merely spoke of a potential reinstatement of both your titles by the next Lunar New Year, in time to celebrate the spring festival. The next announcement would be of the emperor’s visit to your humble residence. What could prompt him to make an in-person trip, much less to a land so far from the capital?
You had relayed this enthusiastically to your father, who nearly gave you heart palpitations when he downright refused to accommodate his brother the emperor.
“Fùqīn! You cannot reject a decree!”
“[Name]-er.” The autumn leaves had littered the courtyard, the task of clearing them he conveniently ignored. “I know you are eager for our period of exile to end-”
“I am! I don’t want to have you live like this anymore, not when you were supposed to be the Crown Prince, not when they slammed you with baseless accusations of treason!”
“Guāi, don’t be angry. Come here…”
But you snatch your hand out of his grip, seething at the injustice of your circumstances. “Even if we have to be civil to him, it doesn’t matter. As long as we can…”
‘As long as my father won’t have to bear the burden of his punishment anymore. As long as I can have a chance to provide for him better in the future, find a proper job in the capital… for both our sakes.’ You left that unsaid.
He laughed. He laughed and it was so incongruous that you were frozen in place. “My sweet daughter. Are you worried about me?”
“No. It’s so I can have a better life. You can rot here for all I care.”
“I know you would never do that.” He tugged you down effortlessly into his arms, wooden tea table shoved aside, and like a snake constricted you so tight you had to hit him twice on the head for him to loosen up. “My daughter… tell me this. Have I ever seemed displeased with my life here?” You can feel the weight of his chin on your head.
“[Name]-er, I am content here. As long as we are together, and I have you.”
Come to think about it, that’s when his excessive drinking problem worsened.
______________________________________________________________
Meeting the Emperor
The emperor’s arrival mirrored opposite of that of the letter. A silken-draped carriage, held aloft by muscled workers from further up north, the procession led by finely-maned horses and their carts. Only the wine vessels caught your father’s interest. You clutched your fan close, the same one that had arrived enclosed within the letter. That item, you did not disclose its origins to your father. As far as he is aware you had picked it up while visiting the town market.
The emperor, with all his grandeur, still did not hesitate stepping into the estate with only two accompanying soldiers, his retainers instructed to linger just outside the courtyard, and conveniently out of earshot.
“Ye Heqing.” He addressed your father, a courteous smile gracing his attractive features. “It has been a while, gē.” Upon receiving no response, his smile only widened, and he directed the next greeting to you. “[Name]-er.”
“Who gave you the right to call her that?” You had to placate your father, and kneel in his place. The emperor’s eyes lay on the fan he gifted you with, fixed securely to your side with a wooden chain.
“Huángshàng, please forgive him, he has not been feeling very well-” Blind panic swims in your vision, from the corner of your field of view you could witness your father scoff dismissively, obviously enraged at the familiarity in which his brother addressed you.
“I was fine until you came. Leave my family alone.” Ye Heqing takes a step closer to the emperor, his younger brother, the plain thin hanfu a distinguishing contrast to the latter’s dark red robes and golden-rimmed cap, while their faces parallel an eerie similarity.
“I assure you, gē, I wish no harm. I have but one request, that is the chance to speak with your daughter, my niece, in private.”
“LIKE HELL I WOULD LET-”
Your father was dragged away by the soldiers out of his own house, thrashing and yelling profanities so blasphemous it would have a commoner executed should they attempt the same. “[NAME]!” he howls out as a final desperate parting, or perhaps for help.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Now that that has been settled, shall we converse?” The emperor signals for you to stand, and you lead him to the tearoom, suddenly conscious of the sole shaky desk that had served you loyally for fifteen years. With trembling fingers and a chipped pot, you poured him a tea of the finest variant of leaves you owned, freshly ground.
“Thank you.” If he did not enjoy it, your uncle did not make it obvious. On the contrary his attention seemed to be fixated on something else. If not the fan you kept by your waist, then your eyes, forehead, hands, as if scrutinising.
He lifts the chains that attach the fan to the fabric. “I shall have to replace these with jade beads instead.” You still. Since when had he come so close?
“Have you considered my offer?” Another hand brushes past your hip, subtly at first, then snaking around it to grip.
In truth there was another part to the letter you had hidden from your father. A separate note handwritten by the emperor, to convey a personal request.
“So?” He inquired, savouring the hitch of your breath when his chest presses into your spine. “I have waited long for your correspondence, leaving me no choice but to advance my visitation earlier.”
“No.” Pulling away, you recall your father’s words.
‘I am content here. As long as we are together…’
“No,” you repeated. “Please forgive this niece, Huángshàng, for I am unable to accept that condition. I cannot, and will not, marry you.”
For a minute, it seemed as though the emperor were about to protest. The sharpness in his eyes began to brandish its piercing tip. He would have appealed somehow, with the title of Empress, or the solid security of your status and lifestyle, reverence of the kingdom, maybe even temptations of the flesh from a man as desirable as he (for who else would liaise with a banished royal?).
He chose to express none of those. Instead, he listened intently for another sound from outside. Surely enough, if you strained your ears, Ye Heqing could be heard through muffled shrieks. The emperor shook his head.
“I have desired you for a number of months now. Your resilience in the face of tribulation and commendable feats to keep yourself and my brother alive for this long have reached my ears. Consider me impressed. Though banished and left to die, you have established good rapport with the local townsfolk, enough to secure yourself a source of income.
“It hardly ends there. Utilising your father’s royal education and knowing he could not apply for the imperial scholar examinations; you advertised him as a tutor instead. Though lazy and idle my brother may be, he has the heart to spend his days teaching and nights studying. Two silver taels… a bargain of a price, for such a reputable teacher.” He flashes that signature charming smile, but nothing like the warmth of your father’s grin. “But,” the teacup is set down, “is that the fate you wish to burden him with forever? An unstable income with barely enough to wear additional layers of clothes in winter?”
He is referring to your father’s self-inflicted pain. You are about to raise your voice, defend him and explain the reason for such, but you understand what he is getting at. Do you want Ye Heqing to continue making himself suffer?
Sensing your hesitance, your uncle continues, taking your right hand in his. “He is not getting any younger, nor am I. I wish to settle down, with a wife competent enough to rule beside me for the maintenance and expansion of the kingdom. A wife who is, simply speaking, as gorgeous and spirited as you.” He placed a kiss on the top of each knuckle, gaze lidded and implicit.
“My father… is happy here. And he would never agree to be with the family that scorned, framed him for-”
“Framed?” The emperor’s eyebrows knitted in a perplexed scowl, though anyone could tell that it was insincere. The twitch of his eyes and repressed grin told that he had been anticipating the opportunity to bring up the topic of your father’s crimes. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”
“He… he was innocent. He had never betrayed the former Emperor, or the kingdom! You had no evidence and only sought to exile him for the throne! Yes, he is greedy, indolent, obstinate, eats too much, drinks too much, deceptive, blur, foul-mouthed and everything in between, but he would never…”
“Never what, [Name]-er?”
“Never…” You don’t know why you faltered. “Never steal from the Emperor.”
Your uncle laughed. He laughed and it sounded just like your father, so incongruous that you have an odd sense of deja-vu. “Is that what he told you? Hahahahahaa… I,” he manages between fits of giggles, “Ye Moyao, Emperor of the XX kingdom, have never heard such a blatant falsehood in my life.”
“Wh- But he said that you accused him of stealing fifty-thousand taels, from palace reserves, to…”
He rubbed his chin. “True, we never did find out where the half a wàn silver taels had went, but he was convicted for a very different reason. Poor thing, did he not tell you?” He leaned in closer, lips to your ear. “Has he lied about it all these years?”
Seeing how dumbstruck you are, he resumes, voice somber. “Ye Heqing was found guilty of the attempted murder of the former Emperor, our father. He had kept a vial of poison in his sleeve pocket, to serve to him when he had the chance. Fortunately, it merely made him severely ill, and my father recovered within the year, by which time we had already identified Ye Heqing as the culprit and had both of you exiled.”
“You’re lying.” You would never have dared address the emperor rudely, but the news was absurd. Your father- No, that was impossible. “It’s not true-”
“I could have him executed; you know.”
The threat silences you. He chuckles. “Marry me. You --- nor he --- would have to suffer here any longer.”
You saw the emperor’s entourage off as far as the edge of the town. Following your acceptance he had tried to lay a hand on you but was refused.
“Didn’t you notice, [Name]-er? The way he looked at you?! I’ll pluck out his eyes and scatter his remains! I’ll kill him! How dare he lay such a repulsive gaze on MY daughter? I’ll murder him, I really will-!”
“Fùqīn, you are not sober. Take the herbal tea.”
This tirade had gone on for the better half of the evening after the emperor’s departure. While you held the wine bowl high out of reach from his kneeling form, you began to consider the implications of a marriage with Ye Moyao. Surely it would be scorned and opposed, seeing as he was your uncle, but public opinion had never stopped him for acquiring what he wanted. The punishment of beatings for marrying within family or clan was a threat null and void in the face of the Emperor. You doubted he would have selected a very auspicious date for the ceremony, given how eager he seemed for the marriage to commence early.
Of course, your father was not informed of this decision.
“[Name]-errrr…”
“Tch. Do not display such disgraceful behaviour once we return to the palace.”
A sniffle from him.
Then, about eight nights before the Spring Festival, you two had ridden a modest carriage to the capital after collectively refusing the transport arranged by the Imperial Palace. Nearly immediately upon entrance you and your father had been separated much to his obvious chagrin. A band of handmaidens had ushered you off to an ornate room of dark wood and stone, and tutors were assigned to subject you to a strict series of lessons, educating you on national matters, the Lunyu, royal customs etc. Your diet had been no stranger to close scrutiny, and however majestic and grand the palace and its surrounding gardens may be, you were often confined to the spaces between the classroom and your chambers. Not that you minded that much, you still managed to interact with a great host of persons, and some childhood friends you could hardly recall.
You had not seen your father since. Word from the servants were that he had been called to meet the Emperor, by which time he would have learnt of his only child’s engagement with his own brother. Much to your astonishment there had been no news of a large fuss somewhere in the grounds; Ye Heqing was reputed for his rashness when it involved his daughter in particular. Speaking of your father, he became the favourite topic for gossip amongst the royal family and their associates. That much you could glean even with your limited interactions outside. About his attempted murder, his time in exile. It made you seethe. How could they assume so much of his character, his person when barely understood him?
In the days that followed it would be amiss to neglect the mention of the various gifts your soon-to-be husband was delivering to your quarters each morning. Whether it be your favourite mooncake flavours (how did he know??), vibrant and colourful jewellery, or intricate gadgets from the West, Ye Moyao seemed to acutely pinpoint your tastes, only selecting items that would catch your intrigue or fancy. It was mildly unsettling, as if he could pry you open and browse through your soul at will. It was lucky that your father was forbidden to meet with you for now, or else you think he would have eaten all the gifted snacks in your stead.
Until now it seemed that the emperor had no interest in meeting you until the wedding date. Your wedding was set conveniently on Lunar New Year’s Eve (appalling choice of date), and you only got to see your father on the day itself.
Your hair was done up by no other than the Queen Mother herself, who had wordlessly visited your abode and with elegant wrinkled fingers finished the job with an elaborate golden hair stick, another present from Ye Moyao. When you finally locked eyes with him at the ceremony banquet, there was an unidentifiable gleam within his gaze. The crimson red of your dress under the dark vest matched the colour of the sash over his flowing garments. From the second you were led down the red carpet you could feel the scrutiny of others creeping up your spine, nestling between the ossicles of your ears and piercing like clouds through your ribs. The traitor’s child. The emperor’s new obsession.
Strangely enough, your father was not here. Though your eyes ran many a lap over the whole courtyard you could not catch the familiar mop of brown hair floating in the crowd. Maybe it was not such a bad thing. He would have wasted no time in objecting to the marriage disrupting the progression of the wedding. You had no time to be disappointed, for the kowtowing ritual and tea-serving ceremony had begun. Even as you ate at the table, responding quite mechanically to the inquiries of the former emperor and the Queen Mother you had little rest, for Ye Moyao was gripping tightly to your hand for the most part, occasionally sliding up your knee and thigh. Expression still unreadable, you decided it tedious to do anything but entertain his whims.
Even as he carried you to the bridal chambers, you had not protested much.
After the whole ordeal of the ceremony you were spent, having little time to relish in the reinstatement of your official title alongside your new title as empress. Regardless you still made your way to sit beside him on the lavish bed.
Your uncle hums in satisfaction, pulling you close by the waist to bury his nose into your neck and inhale deeply. “It has been a while since I cared so much to indulge in a woman, much less choose to marry her.”
“Where is my father?”
He shook his head. “You needn’t concern yourself with the whereabouts of a traitor. I am all that you need t-”
“He is not.”
“…what makes you so sure? He had hidden the truth behind his banishment for a little less than two decades. Why are you so adamant on his innocence?”
It was as though the blood flow to your heart had halted. Every nerve and capillary burned with an overwhelming distaste, wanting to tear our flakes of skin where he had touched you, yet you remain pliant and silent. His hand moves to the knots on your vest, undoing them slowly, sensually. When he had reached for the hem of your dress your eyes were tightly shut, fists clenched at the side.
Expecting to feel cool air against your skin, you did not anticipate the warmth of a palm over your eyelids, and hot splatters of oozing liquid onto your skin. A gurgling and choke from Ye Moyao.
Once you cared enough to open them, you are instantly wrapped in the embrace of a familiar set of arms, carrying with them a homely, earthly scent. When you tried to pry him away to see just what he had done, Ye Heqing’s grip on you only became firmer, sword grasped in the other hand, intent on shielding you from the grotesque sight of his brother’s slit neck.
“Sweet girl, are you alright?” Your father uttered over the gasps and ruffling from his brother’s writhing. “Fùqīn is here.” He examines the ‘man’ that was the emperor, perhaps hoping to have prolonged his torment a little longer, but you came first. Once his beloved daughter was safe and secure he would go for the rest of the royal family, and then he could have his fun.
You think your father had entered through the window, or had hidden here for a while already. It did not matter; you would ask him of it later. “Your Royal Highness,” you addressed the emperor, back still turned to his although Ye Heqing had let you out of his arms to approach the dying man, “my father had not attempted to murder you and the former emperor.”
You could imagine his gaze, pupils blown wide and fixed manically on you. You only exhale and retreat. “If that was truly the case, he would have succeeded.”
A final slash of the bloodied blade, and Ye Moyao was no more.
Synopsis: You get lost in level 10 of the backrooms, and something doesn't want you to leave.
AO3 Link
The first time you glimpsed the faint outline of the run-down shack on the horizon of otherwise endless grass, you thought you had finally lost it. You blinked, almost certain you were losing it. Even as the shack grew larger and drew into focus, you couldn’t be sure your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you until you were physically touching the splintering wood.
It had probably once been a vibrant blue but faded in the sun to a weak, flaky slate, perforated sporadically by bare wood and mold. The shack leaned slightly, but it seemed structurally sound enough, so you ducked through the doorway, letting your eyes adjust to the low light level.
The inside was slightly larger than you had expected, and the back wall was much deeper than it should be given the width of the building. Inside, there wasn’t much: a bucket, a few cans of paint, a rake coated in rust, and an old boxspring mattress in the back. Strange, but it wasn't the weirdest thing you had seen that day.
You made your way over to the mattress, acutely aware of your aching joints and muscles. When was the last time you had even sat down, let alone slept, since you fell through the corner of your dentist’s office? You inspected it for damage while wracking your brain for the last time you had had a tetanus shot.
Gingerly, you sat down on the edge, bracing yourself for one of the springs to slice through the fabric and impale you in the leg, but it never came. To your surprise, the mattress was just as comfortable as the one on your bed back home, albeit slightly mustier.
As soon as you laid back fully, the wave of fatigue you were just barely holding back crashed over you, and you were out like a light.
A new level? No, the subtle hum of the cicadas in the grass was still ringing in your ears. The smell of pollen was just as omnipresent. You blinked repeatedly, but the unfinished drywall surrounding you refused to yield. You were still on the mattress, but the shack was gone, replaced by four bare plaster walls with a single white door.
Quickly, you scrambled up from the mattress and escaped through the door back out into the endless field. Nothing stopped you, or even tried, to your surprise.
From what you figured was a safe distance, you circled the house, if you could even call it that. It was a roughly square frame of drywall, two by fours, and fluffy blue fiberglass insulation. By the time you made it around once, you noticed a single window next to the door, which you were certain was not there before.
The window was covered in a semi-opaque plastic film, but you could sort of make out the mattress you had spent the last however many hours on. The room seemed devoid of entities, but with the way it seemed to shift and morph, you weren’t sure.
The one thing you couldn’t wrap your head around, however, was the fact that you were still alive. If something wanted you dead, wouldn’t it have gotten you earlier? While you were out cold? You cursed yourself for being so careless.
Or maybe that was part of its plan? Did it like the chase? No, that’s stupid. Houses don’t think. But, then again, houses don’t change while you aren’t looking.
Your head ached, and you brushed it off. Whatever, it's great that you got a good night’s sleep, but you had to keep moving. Who knows what lurked out in the knee-high grass, and you hadn’t seen any way to refill the nearly-empty almond water bottle in your pocket.
Something compelled you to turn back around and check the house one more time. If the house was under construction, maybe some tools were lying around. A weapon, maybe?
While nothing had come for you yet, the suffocating atmosphere and movement in your peripheral vision triggered something in the deepest part of your lizard brain, trapping you in a never-ending cycle of fight, flight, and freeze.
One more look couldn’t hurt, could it? You knew it most certainly could, but curiosity was gnawing at you.
Reluctantly, you pivoted and walked back up to the front door, which was now a deep navy with a brass doorknob and matching knocker. Beneath your feet, you noticed a mat with what looked like writing on it:
cOM e IN! W eɭ
Oh, hell no. You had seen enough horror movies to know a trap when you saw one. You turned and hightailed it back to the path you had been following. You had made it here from somewhere else, so if you kept walking, you could probably get out.
With what was probably the last of your energy mixed with a spike of adrenaline, you sprinted until the house was no longer visible in the distance, slowing to a walk only when your legs threatened to give out on you.
You took a swig from your bottle of almond water, cringing as you realized that would be your last drink for the foreseeable future. You thought about digging for water, but the ground beneath your feet was as dry as bone.
If there was grass here, there had to be some sort of water source. You pushed on, ignoring the ache in your dry throat and the rumbling in your stomach.
Finally, you saw something in the distance. A way out? Bleary-eyed, you pushed forward until you realized you were approaching a now-finished, light blue house.
The door was propped mostly open, and a single bottle of almond water rested just inside. Screw this. If you were going to die, you might as well die hydrated.
You glared at the house, convinced it was laughing at you somehow, reveling in your misery.
The welcome mat now read:
w El cO ɱ
ɘ i Nn : )
Breathing deeply, you steadied yourself and reached in for the bottle. As soon as you had wrapped your fingers around it, you bolted in the opposite direction, nearly tripping over your own feet as you ran for safety.
When you were at least a hundred yards away, you paused to inspect your prize. The bottle looked fairly normal, albeit slightly cleaner and newer than the one you were carrying.
You unscrewed the top, breaking the plastic seal, and sniffed it. It smelled just as sweet and slightly nutty as the last bottle. You took a tentative sip before caving and drinking most of the bottle in one gulp.
You sat awhile in the grass, scanning your body for any sign of distress or sickness. In fact, you felt better than you had in a long time.
Free of dehydration and delirium, you wandered back over to the house, only to see it had grown a little dirt path leading up to it off the main one. At the corner of the intersection, a little metal mailbox with a bright red flag had sprung up out of the grass.
You opened it to find another bottle of almond water, which you stashed in your other pocket. As you snatched the bottle, the unfinished metal caught your hand, ripping a small gash on the side of your palm. You yelped, clutching your hand to your chest.
Inspecting the cut, you realized it wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought. A few drops of bright red blood beaded around the cut, but you’d had similar outcomes from paper cuts. Oh well, at least you have your water.
You shut the door to the mailbox and flipped down the flag before collapsing to the ground in a heap. God, you really had to get some food in you. You pushed off the hunger pangs a little longer with a hearty glug from the new bottle.
The grass felt softer here, free of barbs and stickers that coated your boots and socks anytime you ventured off the path. It was still knee-high, at least, and blocked off everything from view except a small piece of overcast sky. You felt boxed in, surrounded by an impending storm, but the clouds never broke and the rain never fell.
You spent that night, or what felt like a night's worth of time, drifting in and out of a hazy unconsciousness. You almost missed the musty shed mattress. Almost.
You stood and turned back to the house, which had spawned another window while you were out.
The mailbox next to you had an address when you turned your head:
1 Z 7 42 b
And the flag was back up in the air. You checked the mailbox and found a single brightly colored bandage with some sort of cartoon character on it that you didn’t recognize.
You shrugged and stuck it to your (mostly healed) hand wound. You guessed the house wasn’t trying to kill you, at least for now, if it cared enough to leave you a band-aid.
Sighing, you made your way over to the front door. The door was the same, but the message on the doormat had changed once again:
W Elo cm
t o e
ɟ Ri e n dddddddd dddd
Yeah, it really wasn’t getting any better with the spelling.
It wasn’t that you did think it was going to kill you; it was that you just didn’t particularly care anymore. And death by house monster was probably faster than dying of thirst.
You gripped the brass handle, only to realize the door didn’t latch, and you could just push it open.
The house had one large room, darkened by heavy curtains. You stepped inside and pushed them aside, letting the dim sunlight flood the room. Illuminated specks of dust floated aimlessly through the air.
The room itself seemed mostly fine, with bare walls, except for the two windows in front. The light couldn’t reach the back wall, leaving it draped in shadow. No lights, and barely any furniture. The mattress, now slightly newer-looking and patterned with a vintage-looking floral print, was positioned in the back right corner. A single dining room chair was sitting facing the left wall, and one more almond water bottle was standing in the center of the room.
The floor was still unfinished, but the room seemed clean enough, so you reluctantly agreed to rest for a while. You weren’t sure, but you were beginning to think you could hear something else besides the cicadas in the grass.
The chair screeched awfully as you dragged it over to the window. The windowsill was big enough that you could use it as a little table, and you began emptying your pockets. Four bottles—two empty, one halfway there. A hotel pen with barely any ink left. Your wallet, with a few bucks left, and your ID. House keys. Hard candy you snagged from the receptionist’s desk.
Jackpot.
You slumped back in the chair, savoring the artificial blue raspberry flavor until long after the sugar had melted completely. It was the best thing you’d ever had. You finished off your third bottle of almond water and collapsed onto the mattress, blacking out before your head even hit the pillow.
When you woke up again, the house had morphed into some facsimile of a living room. The mattress was now a periwinkle couch covered in a gaudy floral pattern with matching pillows. A mahogany coffee table, too low to be used for anything, sat beside it. A tall bookshelf was turned over and shoved into a corner. A window, this time with no curtains, took up most of one wall.
You noticed a wall separating the “living room” from the rest of the house. You stepped through the empty doorway into what looked like it was supposed to be a kitchen.
The decor consisted of a single saucepan sitting on white tile, a table pushed up against the windowsill you sat at yesterday, and a white fridge with a dozen or so multi-colored alphabet magnets stuck to the door.
W P
S T
Q F
A D Z O
E P X L
You, embarrassingly, tried for several minutes to decipher some sort of message before acknowledging the shape of the letters. The house did seem to love smiley faces.
You pulled open the fridge, which was unnervingly warm, to find a pile of hard candies roughly the size of a basketball. You filled up the saucepan and carried it over to your table by the window.
One by one, you unwrapped each piece of candy and devoured it systematically. God, your dentist would hate you. Although rotting teeth seem to be the least of your worries right now.
Overnight, your empty almond water bottles were replaced with full ones. You paused halfway through your candy pile to weigh your options.
Stay, maybe be alright, maybe get murdered by a magic house. Leave and maybe die; maybe find your way out of this hellhole. Something deep in your gut was telling you to keep moving, to stay on the run. Running had kept you alive this long, and with food and water, you were more prepared than ever.
After much deliberation, you stuffed the rest of the candy into your pocket and stuck the almond waters in the saucepan, which you planned on using as a basket. And potentially for hitting.
You set off, not like it would make much of a difference when you left, considering there wasn’t a day-night cycle. But you were feeling better than you had in the last however long, so out the door you went.
You barely made it twenty yards away before the sky opened up and heavy droplets of sulfur-smelling rain came pouring down. Almost immediately, the dusty field flooded, trapping you up to your ankles in black muck. You pulled with all you might, extracting each boot from the mud, and booked it back to the house, running up the steps to the white wooden porch.
Soaked but safe for the time being, you kicked off your boots and slunk down into the newly formed porch swing, silently thanking the house. You peeled off your muddy socks and wandered back into the house. The latch worked this time, opening with an audible click.
The house had divided itself into four rooms while you were out. A cozy living room, a small kitchen, correctly furnished with appliances this time, and what was probably a bedroom and a bathroom.
You stood in the kitchen for a while, afraid to track mud onto the carpet. Finally, you stripped off your soaked clothes and leaned over the sink, staring at your distorted reflection in the shiny chrome of the basin.
You weren’t dead. You were just wet.
And tired.
You sighed and headed for the bathroom, praying the house would give you somewhere to wash up.
Luckily, a white clawfoot tub sat in the middle of the bathroom, and you ran yourself a lukewarm bath. Even as you waited for the water to run, the temperature never got warmer, and you plugged the drain and let the tub fill.
As you ran your bath, you realized the water smelled just like the bottled water, and you scooped up some with your hand for a taste test. At least you knew it was safe. People paid money for fancy bath bombs and salts, right? You thought you had seen some sort of almond bath bomb at the mall, so it couldn’t be that bad.
To your surprise, the room-temperature water wasn’t as bad as you expected. You were more excited to scrub off the layer of perma-dirt. Time held no meaning since you had fallen out of reality. The grime that covered you gave you a pretty good idea of how long you had been here—far too long.
The water was stained an ugly, brackish brown by the time you stepped out of the tub. You cringed as you stuck your hand down into the muck to pull the plug.
You could almost forget you weren’t in some regular house as you toweled yourself off and stepped into the bedroom. The closet was even fully stocked, albeit with some weird items. They all seemed to be about your size, but the items all seemed several decades out of date.
You settled on a pair of silk pajamas that reminded you of something you saw your grandparents wear. You collapsed into bed and wrapped the quilted comforter around you before drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
You took a better look around the room when you woke up. The room had filled with more stuff overnight and lost the window. The bed was centered in the room, surrounded by a dresser, a lamp with a dangling brass chain, and a little ottoman with a cream-colored blanket placed awkwardly on top of it. The layout almost felt natural, as if someone might have actually lived here but then had their house ransacked.
Your old clothes were neatly folded up in the top drawer of the dresser, free of mud, but your boots were nowhere to be found. Regardless, you got yourself dressed and headed into the living room to check the weather.
The rain still fell in heavy sheets, flooding the grass field and turning the path into a river of black mud. Despite the rain, the cicadas’ low hum was still present, leading you to believe that it was as intrinsic to the landscape as the endless grass.
The living room and kitchen had merged into one joint room, forming a strange gradient from tile to carpet. Other than the strange intersection between the two rooms, the living room looked okay enough. A couch, a little dining table, and a framed picture of the grass outside. The kitchen was furnished with an oven, as well as a sink, an old coffee pot, and an unplugged blender. The fridge was still the same, but the magnets had moved.
H I
F R I Ǝ N D
H A P
P Y ! !
Every nerve in your body screamed at you to go, to get out of there, that this was the most obvious trap you had ever seen, but you didn’t. Your feet stood firmly planted on the floor. You pulled open the (still room temperature) fridge door and found a single watermelon twice as big as your head. At least you weren’t going to get scurvy out here.
You dug around in the drawers until you found a knife—a little paring one with a plastic sheath. It went through the rind just fine, but barely penetrated a quarter of the flesh. You cut most of the way around the circumference before you gave up and smacked the melon on the counter a few times, cracking it open.
The force of the melon hitting the granite countertop dislodged the knife, sending it flying onto the floor. Just barely, you dodged the blade, letting it clatter onto the tile, before reaching to pick it back up, hands trembling.
You shook it off and started rooting around the drawers again until you found a spoon, then plopped down at the dining table by the window with one-half of the watermelon and one of your bottles of almond water.
Although you were starting to get sick of almond water by this point, the rainwater had smelled pretty rotten yesterday, and you figured it would be best not to get any of it in your mouth, even if just to taste.
The melon was good, but not nearly filling enough, so you returned to the fridge to see if anything else had appeared. There was an entire glazed ham, complete with pineapple and maraschino cherries, skewered with frilly toothpicks. Sure. Food is food.
Finally satiated, you wandered over to the single couch and collapsed in a heap. You couldn’t remember the last time you had eaten anything besides wallpaper and that one weird mushroom. You cringed. Never again.
As welcoming as the house seemed, you couldn’t help the nagging feeling eating away at you. What did your parents say about these kinds of things? God, you couldn’t recall a single thing your parents said if you tried.
What did they look like again? Did you even have parents? The harder you thought, the more your head hurt. Each question that came to mind poked more and more holes in the fragile tapestry that was your mind. The harder you pulled, the more the whole thing unraveled.
The only thing you could do was scream. So you did. You screamed at the top of your lungs until your breath ran out and your throat was ragged. You weren’t sure, but you thought you felt the house shudder.
Was this what losing your mind was like? You weren’t sure, but you thought you had heard someone say that if you knew you were going crazy, you weren’t. Or was it the other way around? Your thoughts continued to spiral for what could have been hours or weeks until you passed out, surrounded by sagging couch cushions.
When you awoke, you were back in the bed, tucked in, and dressed in a different pair of matching silk pajamas. Your brain felt fuzzy, and your brain failed several times at retrieving memories from the previous day. Something about a ham? And then you just went to sleep? No, something else had to have happened; that couldn’t be it. You had the sneaking suspicious parts of your memory were gone, but you couldn’t be sure.
The thought spooked you so much that you threw off the cover and bolted for the door. The front door was jammed, but a few kicks to the area below the knob sent it swinging open. Shoeless and empty-handed, you sprinted back to the main path, your feet sinking deeper with every step.
The pace was impossible to maintain, so you slowed to as fast of a walk as you could manage, given that you had to pull your feet from the mud with every step.
You trudged on for what felt like hours, your muscles straining with every step. Howling winds whipped past you, sending rain and mud flying directly into your eyes. The more you struggled, the more you sank into the mud before eventually your knees buckled and you fell, flailing, face first into the mud.
By the time you came around, the rain had stopped completely. You were surprised to find that you hadn’t asphyxiated face down in the muck, but you must have landed sideways because you were still breathing.
You sat up, doing your best to wipe the dried mud off your face and failing badly. At least you were able to see, though, and you looked up. The grass waved lazily in the breeze.
You turned your head from side to side, stretching out the crick in your neck, only to catch the blurry outline in your peripheral vision. You turned to face it, only to see the blue house come into focus.
You had barely made it ten feet before collapsing in the mud. Defeated, you picked yourself up and stumbled up the stairs. Pausing with your hand on the knob, you glanced down to see the doormat had changed messages again:
W E LC O M E
B A C K
:)
You turned the handle and stepped into the house. The living room was finally decorated, albeit several decades out of date, with a fluffy couch piled high with throw pillows. A modest fire crackled in a brick fireplace, gently illuminating the room.
At the dining table. A full spread of your favorite foods was laid out, but the thought of eating made your stomach turn. The only thing you could think about was getting clean.
You headed back to the bedroom to get yourself ready to take a bath. As you pulled a set of pajamas out of the dresser, you spotted a framed photo of a person on the far wall. As you approached it, you realized the person in the photo was you, a radiant smile plastered across your face. You were standing in front of the house, leaning against the porch railing. Under the photo, engraved on a gold plaque, were the words:
Lantern Rite was fast approaching. From the glass windows that extended from the ledge at the bottom to the expanse of the ceiling, you could see that every corner and alley was alight with crimson silk and flowers, couplets and ribbons, lights flashing incessantly even in the mind’s eye. Your own office building had some, sporting of the festivities despite the heavy workload the staff have been burdened with recently.
A hand on your shoulder, a whisper of your name, by your ear.
“You have worked hard. Would you care to chat over dinner?”
“...I’m busy, tonight.”
Zhongli pulled back, gently, as if he had taken the rejection well. When has he ever, in this one-sided… situationship… thing?
“Then let me drive you home.”
“No, I’m fine.” You feel like throwing up, even though you had not eaten in many hours. The last time that occured…
No words. He is displeased, and it strikes a hot bolt of guilt through your veins. He did only mean the best for you, your trusted secretary.
“I mean, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“I can assure you, my dear, it is no hassle at all. Do you not trust me to keep you safe, after all these years?”
You sigh. He speaks much like a doting grandfather. Your eyes trail to the two long red strips on the office door.
“ ‘Longevity like the highest West mountains, blossoming relationships akin to the depth of the Eastern sea.’ Isn’t the second part a bit out of place, Zhongli?”
The man in question leaned in, lowering his glasses and scrutinising the words on the couplet. “So it is.”
“Nothing more to say?” That was uncharacteristic of your secretary.
Zhongli coughed, as if to distract that. “I find the emphasis on interpersonal relations between persons agreeable. Is that not something you wish to have in your life, [Name]?”
“I… suppose?”
You knew he wrote it, and dare not remove it from the front doors of the company. You had to settle with unmatching couplets for the next month.
“Speaking of which, [Name]...” he said, tailing behind you at such a leisurely pace that you always had to stop several times for him to catch up. “The, ah, schedule for the company celebration on the second day of Lantern Rite has been updated. I have assigned your seating arrangement near-”
“Oh, right. I forgot to tell you. I won’t be around next month. I’m going back with my family to celebrate.”
…
“Zhongli?”
Why is he…disappointed? It is perfectly fine and common, for the overworked CEO to take time off to visit their loved ones for the holidays. Zhongli still feels an ache in his rustic heart as you said that.
You wouldn’t be spending Lantern Rite with him.
Last year, and the year before that, and the year before as well, you had; too busy slaving for the survival and growth of the company to take the journey home. He doesn’t know what to do with the chip at his feelings knowing you will not be around this year, even if it only consists of the two of you working late nights at the office, and him replacing your lukewarm cup of tea from time to time. By the time he replies you have arrived at your private office.
“... I see.”
After all he’s done for you, as well. Do you view him as nothing but a subordinate?
Zhongli chided himself, shelving these thoughts for later. His younger self would succumb to petty, childish musings like these, and he would imagine he has matured.
He sees you falter, perhaps noticing the shift in mood. “Are you going anywhere for Lantern Rite?” you asked.
He smiles, not too broadly, making sure to keep his eyes still.
“Where has an old man like me to go, except for work?”
To the untrained eye, you seem unphased, but your secretary knows better. With a little observance, he can detect your uncomfortable twitches, fidgeting, wandering eyes. And, contrary to public belief, Zhongli can be very observant. How do you think he picks out the gem amongst stones? To him, you are that very diamond he so desires.
“Please, you are hardly half the age you act. You could… take a trip somewhere south, escape the cold…”
How intriguing. Before you can blink he towered over you, arm brushing against your shoulder. Zhongli looked you directly in the eyes, without a hint of warmth or the usual wise whimsy he conducts himself with.
“A most interesting suggestion. However I do not intend to go holidaying off by myself.”
You had no response to that, still recovering from the apparent change in attitude of your secretary.
“Not to mention, I would… how do I phrase this… find myself missing you terribly.”
For a moment, you think you see the amber in his eyes morph into a disgusting, bloody red. It could easily be passed off as reflection from the hanging lanterns.
He continues, when you don’t speak. “So, when you return to your, ah, loved ones, partake in the wonders of tradition and communal gathering… please think of me as well.”
A sweet statement turned sinister. Was this how he had gotten you to stay for the past year, and all the Lantern Rite’s before that?
Come to think of it, you don’t know why you were so busy back then either.
“After all, [Name]...”
He would do anything to keep you here, under his watchful eye and within his clutches.
“What is a poor old man to do, without you?”
He tried to play it off as a joke, a light-hearted statement made meant for mild amusement. You seemed to take it well, offering a hesitant chuckle. If you find this off-putting, he would hate for you to discover what he did to earn his position as your secretary. When he was young it would have been much more… how to put it? Physically forceful.
The bloodlust from them has since faded. How would you feel seeing him slathered in crimson? Cringe in fear and revulsion, or praise him for his devotion?
He finds violence by his own hands unnecessary, now. He can do just as much and more with the influence he currently wields.
The manager who tried to seduce you, the owner of a rival company’s snark comments, all the scathing words of Internet users who think it so clever to be cruel to you behind a screen… one way or another, he has taken care of them as a good secretary would.
All that has paid off. Now he is your most trusted staff, the one who understood every quirk and minute action. No one had been through every high and low, seen you inside and out like he has.
He caresses you so gently, as if you were the most delicate petal or the most fragile diamond. As if all this was right and normal, for a secretary to do.
Who would suspect Zhongli the gentleman, collected, distinguished and composed of such depravity?
“Good morning, dear. Happy Lantern Rite.”
You trusted him, wholeheartedly.
But when you eventually wake up in his arms, in his bed, to the sound of firecrackers and joyful festive cheers, even after he promised the last time that it was a one-time mistake and would not happen again, you’re not quite sure you do, anymore.
Flurries of white swirl behind the window panes, and you inhale sharply.
‘Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen…’
A bout of paranoia had befallen you recently, like thick bunches of willow leaves hovering above the water, so much so that the thought of sleep, unguarded and vulnerable as you are, sickens you. You have taken measures --- keeping the heater switched off, increasing caffeine intake, counting the second hand --- all serve to ward off sleep as long as you dared.
‘Twenty. Twenty-one, twenty-two-’
“Damnit!”
The coffee spill scalds your fingers, the mug shattering into perilous fragments across the floor. You suck the burnt area, hissing in pain. It burns. You’re so cold. It’s so cold. It’s so-
Warm?
A wrangled cry tears through your throat as the familiar sensation of a not-so human touch ghosts over your nape and shoulder. Knees almost buckling, you fall to your feet, paralysed by the terror inflicted upon you by this being. The reason behind your fear, restless sleep, perpetual feeling of being observed as something akin to specimen, all that paranoia that seems so trivial in the daytime.
To your reaction, it makes no noise, but you know it can. Whispers, like a voice traversing the wind but infinitely more sinister. They can flit across as a breeze, or flood your mind like a howling gale. It was those whispers that you heard being the ghost of your nightmares when the first evidences of its existence surfaced. You could only brush it off as a recurring dream for so long, until they increased in frequency and intensity.
You continue to shiver, its presence having permeated into every crack in the floorboard and corner of the wall, not knowing where it stands but feeling it advance towards you. Ou would not panic, but this is the first time. The first time it has approached you while you are fully conscious and you are caught off-guard. The earliest sightings, or rather sensings of it were in the dead of night, when you’d begun to awake from slumber for no apparent reason. It was midsummer, and it was there. Invisible but no less potent but its presence. You remember experiencing a deep primal fear, closing in from all four corners.
By far the most horrific aspect of it would be the paralysis. Without knowing whether you are asleep or awake, out of the corner of your eye, you swear you see your neighbours come to fruition. A large mass of shadow dispersing into darkness and the relentless cacophony of voices. Sounds and noises and those damned voices that drown out everything including your own thoughts mixing them up into a frenzy of indistinguishable ruckus that blend time and consciousness into an unrecognisable mesh of chaos and madness, until you lose yourself in the insanity of it all.
From then it only started to get bolder. More vivid nightmares where hands roam your body, whispering those accursed indecipherable chants in a long-dead language. Dreams of being hunted down in an endless wintry forest with blurring vision and legs heavy as stone. Peaceful ones as well, where you are held tight by an unknown figure in warm snow, protected and secure in its arms.
Every time you wake up from these cryptic phenomena, you feel your mental fortitude chip away a little. The mind break was immensely heavy, consistent, and you were unsure how much longer you could hold out before reaching the breaking point. Of course, you had tried leaving, packing your things and leaving by the first bus. Even then it provided you no relief, the raging in your mind growing louder, less easy to ignore. The next day you found yourself back in your room, belongings arranged exactly as they were as if you’d never left at all. You tried again. Unsuccessful. Another attempt, to no avail. Countless desperate endeavours, none are fruitful. To rub salt into the wound, the voices only became clearer, more demanding and monstrous as punishment.
This is an entity as old as the ancient forests that surround you. Every thought, every emotion you possessed would not escape its knowledge. Humans are like frail branches, prone to snapping under an excessive buildup of ice. A person can only take so much torment before they crumble under the weight.
It continued to invade the most hidden crevasses of your mind, whispering persistently, unceasingly, day in day out, just a small breathy noise echoing perpetually in your consciousness, until one day you couldn’t take it anymore.
On a stormy August night you waded out into the lake, letting freezing water soak your clothes as you went further and further out, until the water level rose from knees to waist to chest. The whispers grew louder, more resounding, dangerous, akin to a warning. When your feet did not touch the ground you swam. The voices began to scream in unison, morphing into a sound you can recognise. It was much easier to ignore them, at that moment. You swam, eyes blazoning with resolve before finally, under the thunderous sky and thunderous whispers, letting yourself sink below the surface, for a moment glimpsing the dark silhouette of a distant figure.
…
The following morning you awoke in your bed, clothes dry and senses dull. After the incident you almost never heard the whispers again. The thing did not appear in your dreams for a week, perhaps fearful of another attempt on your part.
All that culminates to this moment of uncertainty, The burn on your fingers still throb, and it appears to be in no hurry to corner you. You’re yelling, screaming at it to leave you alone, to return to where it came, to end your misery.
Its presence turns suffocating as it closes the distance. Having learnt from last time, you know its weakness. You pull out a switchblade from your pocket. It incites no reaction from the entity until you hold it to your own neck.
Immediately the knife is sent scattering across the room. The density of the air skyrockets, and you know it is above you. The whispers begin again, but this time it is just one sentence, raspy, deep and terrifying, originating from the very depths of your soul.
You know her. She’s expecting an offer as a prerequisite, something worth her time and effort. Anything she gives, she takes in equal or more amounts. Not only will your transaction have to be balanced, the sacrifice you make on your end must exceed her expectations withal. Naturally, the higher regard she holds a person in the more she will anticipate of them. It had been Elio, then the Trailblazer, and perhaps the most intriguing one yet, you. (You dare not presume that you hold any major significance to her. Maybe just a little more than that Stellaron vessel.)
The cityscape below reflects off her sunglasses, in flashing lines of neon. You lean over the railings, savouring the coolness of night. This planet has not been a kind one, but at least, its sky is beautiful.
“I’ll spend the night with you.”
“…”
“I’ll let you use Spirit Whisper on me.”
“Is that the best you can do, [Name]?”
This request of her was not made on a whim. You come prepared. “We play truth and lie. In return …ask me any one question, and I will answer truthfully.”
“That sounds almost trivial, compared to the other two.”
“Is that not the thrill of the game? To not know whether I am cheating, a challenge for you all-knowing, scheming, manipulating mind? I should like to think that I am an enigma on my own,” you go on, an unmistakeable signature flair to your tone.
“Hm,” she chuckles. “Interesting offer, but I think we can go a little higher.”
“Then…” You had a feeling you’d need to resort to this. You lean closer to her, unable to suppress the roguish smile adorning your features. This is not a statement to be made lightly. “I can make you feel real fear for the first time.”
…
Perhaps you’ve made her angry. Whatever the case, the atmosphere is teetering on the precipice of something rather daunting. You find it incredulous that almost half a minute had passed in absolute silence.
“Can you keep your end of the bargain?”
Relieved that you aren’t going to die just yet, you respond with the affirmative. “I will try. Though… I cannot guarantee that results yielded will be satisfactory. You can back out if you want.”
You know her. Once something has caught her attention, she does not let if off easily. You are a prime example.
“…heh. Very well.”
Kafka places a finger on your chin, tilting it until your eyes meet hers. “Fire away.”
You grin. One game, two questions. You have to make this count.
“If I were to run away, abandon you and the Stellaron hunters, what weaknesses of yours could I exploit?”
Her smile fades, clearly unamused, disappointed at the question, but you have grander plans.
“Enlist the help of the Xianzhou Luofu, or the Astral Express crew. They would be able to help you in your plight.”
Exactly what you needed to hear.
“Was it worth it to ask such a question to guarantee that my next answer would be the truth? Now, little one…” Kafka continues, “my turn.”
“Wait, my offer was-”
“Shh. A game has to involve both persons equally, don’t you agree? Time for my question. Don’t worry, I’ll ask only one.” She swipes a thumb across your cheek. “What am I to you?”
Your fists start to hurt from all the pounding. She’s locked her door again. “Time for dinner!” She can definitely hear you. Whether she responds or not is her choice.
“Boss fight!” She yells back.
“Come downstairs quickly!” Scurrying down the flight of stairs, you stop at Blade’s room. An ominous reddish glow is emitting from under the door, reeking of death… or is it your imagination? You raise your hand to knock, before a voice from behind sends chills down your spine.
“What are you doing?”
Turning to meet his scowling visage, ever-unchanging (SW likened him to an NPC), you see Blade glaring down at you, and neither of you speak.
“…dinnertime.”
He slinks off.
You groan irritably. You do everything in this house. Thankfully, Kafka is already at the table.
After a quick scan of the seating, you heave a sigh of relief. There is a seat at the table between Kafka and Blade. Thank the aeons. As you head for the spot, Silver Wolf plops herself down onto the chair in all her glory, eyes not leaving the handheld console. You stare dumbfounded for a minute, partly at the audacity, the rest a growing conflict arising from within you.
The most vexing decision of the night: sitting next to Kafka, or Blade. Only one party can be sated, and the other will then shower you with the fruits of their displeasure for the rest of the night. Tread lightly in this delicate situation.
Choose Kafka, who lets her fingers glide up your thighs, particularly when you are drinking; who whispers vile things in your ear as you try to focus instead on the noises from Silver Wolf’s console; who sometimes holds a spoon to your mouth and expects you to say ahh...
Or choose Blade, who barely tries to hide his growing fascination with you at this point; whose fiery eyes bore into you carrying a heavy sort of intensity that cannot be described; who you know has no qualms about cornering Kafka’s favourite pet and finding out just what makes you so special to her.
The purple-haired woman notices your hesitance, chuckling breathily. She takes the initiative to beckon you over, with a single curl of her fingers. You trot towards her, deeming her, just for tonight, the lesser of two evils. Then you catch sight of his gaze. It’s a warning and a threat, all expressed within a single flash of the eyes.
“What’s wrong, little one?”
“I- I….” You feel yourself starting to sweat at this minor conundrum. How can you defy a direct order from Kafka?
She sighs, evidently disappointed at your lack of decisiveness. “Oh, go on. I’m sure Bladie deserves you for just one night, with how long he has been eyeing up what’s mine.”
The tension builds, and you bite your tongue. That sentence was biting, indirectly instigating another cold war between both hunters. So, gathering up stray remnants of courage you take a seat next to him.
The atmosphere is even more strained.
“Ah…how is your hand?” You direct the question to the man sitting beside you, glare turning less pointed. “Has it healed?”
“Yeah,” SW says suddenly, accusatory. “How is your hand?”
He sighs, irked. “Still healing. Isn’t it obvious?” For it was still wrapped in bandages.
“Blade, our supply of bandages is depleting. The others need them too. Is it really necessary to cover your torso?” He can very well heal himself should the need arise, and any pretense on his part is to avoid having to game with Silver Wolf. Blade ignores you, as if you’d committed a crime against him personally.
Kafka is unusually quiet.
You chide Silver Wolf to finish off her broccoli.
“Oh dear. Little one?”
Her sudden shift of attention to you makes you jump. “Yes, Kafka?”
“Will you be a dear and run off to fetch a cloth for me? I seem to have spilt some soup onto my lap.”
Blade watches intently as you fuss over her, asking whether there are burns, if she is alright, and run off to pour another bowl for her.
His fists clench, tightening around the bowl. “That was intentional.”
“What an astute observation, Bladie. And do you keep your uninjured hand bandaged so my little one may continue clouding their pretty little head with concern for you?”
“They do not enjoy being toyed with, treated like the fragile doll you make them to be.”
“And they don’t seem to like treading on eggshells whenever you are in the vicinity either, or stared down in the way a rabid beast would reserve for its prey.”
“You think you are almighty, Kafka-”
“Oh, but I am. Everything I orchestrate, as I predict, shall come to fruition.”
“Just because you claim control over me, you will not be the most powerful, nor the most infallible. You know just as well as I do, Kafka, and even you cannot deny it. [Name] would be better off anywhere but with you.”
“And if Elio were to say otherwise? Will you continue deluding yourself in such pitiful manner?”
A sharp noise of a crack emanates as the bowl chips under his grip. “…very well.” Blade says, after a second of contemplation. He looks up at the woman opposite of him, the intensity of his gaze like piercing wind, “Let us ask Elio.”
Kafka does not answer, but the slight stiffen of her lower lip speaks volumes. She crosses her arms.
“Listen, Bladie-”
“Enough! Kafka, what did I say about commanding Blade? And Blade, that’s the third one you’ve broken this month. Please be more careful.” The two tear their gazes away from each other.
“My mistake, little one,” Kafka responds breathily, as though this matter were of minimal importance to her.
“I think I cut my finger from the shard,” says Blade.
You turn towards him, raising an eyebrow. He clears his throat, trying to appear innocuous. “…it hurts.”
“Do you need a bandage? You seem to have an abundance of it.” A petty remark by that woman, intent on having your attention solely focused on her.
He meets your eyes. “It still hurts.” On the surface, what with his deadpan expression, it sounds like a command, an order to tend to me. You hear it for what it really is, a plea for attention.
“Aw, fine. Give me your hand. Where does it hurt?”
Kafka’s turn to watch on as you examine his (supposedly) injured finger. You feel an odd sensation of impending doom…
“May I be excused?” Without giving you time to respond, the young gamer stands, tossing her plate into the sink and scampering upstairs once again. You look down and see that your own bowl has been piled suspiciously high with vegetables.
This girl… You sigh, but do not protest this time.
His phone buzzes. Fumbling a bit with the home screen, he swipes. It’s a message from Kafka.
That Woman: Kys
She receives a reply in return.
Bladie: One day I will.
‘I can only eagerly await that day’
‘As will I.’
‘You’re lying, Bladie~’
‘What.’
‘You no longer want to die, do you?’
‘Good night.’
‘Ah, don’t chicken out. They make you, for the first time in a long time, want to live. I can tell. You’re intrigued.’
‘…’
‘Hello?!’
‘Leaving me on read again?’
He sets the phone down, sighing deeply.
The window shutters are half closed, swaying gently in the breeze. There is a dim starlight scattering the night sky. It reminds him of a home he had lost a long time ago. The wind picks up, blowing away a stray strand of hair off his shoulder.
He does not know how he got there, but his shadow looms over your room door. After some hesitation, he knocks.
When the lights dim, creatures of the night melt into formless caricatures of fear. Regressing into inhuman states, they prowl the hallways, seeping through cracks under the doors and curtains, melding into one, then dispersing like fog.
Funny how they scatter upon her presence. Just like those ghostly apparitions, she comes and goes like mist atop mountaintops, never staying too long for you to sincerely miss.
And, just like the fog, pieces of her linger, as dreamlike as those encounters seem. Disheveled collars, ruffled sheets, a smear of crimson lipstick where it definitely should not be, the searing warmth left behind on the empty side of the bed… You wake up in the morning half aware of something happening the previous night. Something you are always half conscious for. Inducing insomnia into your person has never worked, no matter how long the midnight candle burns, wax wearing down like your sanity and resistance, you always find yourself lying with the covers over you the next day, curtains drawn and a sore ache in your legs. And a faint impression of an embrace long gone cold.
Is it truly worth it? To take preventive measures against those locks on the door that always come undone in the morning, against the accessories on the nightstand that you do not own, against the bare arms that curl around your body in the dead of night?
Against the woman who loves you so?
You know she loves you. You think so, because you heard her say it. Once, twice, however many times it takes for you to not be able to use ten fingers to count. Perhaps it was a hallucination borne from a midsummernight fantasy, that you heard her tell you. It was almost always whispered, in the most vulnerable of times.
You would never confess it out loud. Not to anyone.
You would never admit that you've come to anticipate these nights.
Well, anticipate is a strong word. You are no longer as opposed to it as before, would be more accurate. To say that you actively look forward to it is incorrect. What an egregious accusation.
I harbour not resentment nor benevolence towards her. The fact that she has infiltrated my being beyond intimate boundaries is scandalous, you once penned down, in a thin ink quill. Yet, she has become a part of my life that is both regular and permanent. A fixture that is as routinely as brushing one's teeth.
It could almost be considered a content lifestyle, with this addition being one that you have fully come to terms with.
Until you wake up on an unfamiliar bed, in thick linen sheets, in a room that is certainly not yours.
With her above you, arm slung around your torso, face tucked into your hair, slumbering so peacefully, so openly. You recognise those white strands from a distant dream, a telling streak of black through them. Even in sleep her grip is tight, as if afraid that you would slip out of her grasp.
OOOMMGGGGG !!!! I absolutely LOVED the yan! Zhongli x reader fic !!!! Can I please request a part 2 !!???? It was just sooooo good 😭😭😭 I really want to read mmoorree about them!!!! <3
In the meantime take care ~ 💓
Thank you so much for reading it, and thank you for your kind comments!!! I hope you take care as well.
Regarding a potential part 2... That was originally intended as a New Year's special, a festive fic if you will. It will be difficult to write a continuation without taking away from the initial message it tried to convey, but I will try to write something similar. In the same universe, with similar dynamics, but perhaps following a different narrative, if that's alright with you.
One rule to abide when conversing with Makima is to never look into her eyes. Never trust the fake security they hold, for if you do, then you are nothing more than her mouse. Her helpless, obedient Country Mouse.
She pauses her caresses of your hair, and she says your name ever so softly. "Look at me."
From all those years of being with her, you know to avoid eye contact.
"Why do you doubt me?" She's redirecting. Best to humour it.
"When you obtain the Chainsaw Devil," one of her dogs shift, "and when you have it eat War, Death and Famine..."
"Once I have created the perfect world, I will rule over mortals and devils alike. I will become their God."
Death. War. Famine. Control. Out of the four horsemen, you do not doubt as to who should remain. Yet once her sisters are gone, what will become of you? If her plans are to become the singular omniscient, omnipotent entity of the world, there will be no one to stand as her equal.
"What about Chainsaw?" Just thinking of him made you unhappy. The humans might call it jealousy, but you recognise it as an acknowledgement of unworthiness. What has he done to enrapture her so, when you have been the one to trail after her like a collared dog for countless millennia?
"Ah. He will be directly under my command, my most loyal subordinate."
You are hurt, more than you would like to admit. Makima does not care for her dogs, but you could at least hope she loved you only a fraction of what you feel for her. In the end, it will be her, and Chainsaw Devil, and the world. No place for you.
You take great care to show no outward reaction. She will pick up on the smallest of details, a trait that could potentially greatly complicate your life.
Makima resumes her actions of running her fingers through your hair, coaxing you into her lap. Exhaustion prompts you to close your eyes. In the split second between semi-consciousness and sleep, you remember that she hadn't answered you initial question.
"Dear [Name]," she laughs to you who cannot hear. "Please do not worry, for even a god requires someone to rule by His side."
Entry 1. Weather: Clear
Albedo gave me a journal log, to record the nuances of everyday life. I am to pen down in words my emotions and thoughts throughout the day. I am told that expressing complicated feelings onto paper will help process them. Right now, I feel hesitant. I am unaccustomed in having such a responsibility. Albedo says that this is a trivial matter, so I will not ponder on it.
Entry 7. Weather: Clear
Albedo encouraged me to write more sentences, and showed me a book. It was astounding to see how many words had been written in it. This particular type of writing is called a ‘novel’, unlike lab reports or observation logs. I asked if I could read it, but was refused. I will refrain from bringing it up in the future, but he did say that I enjoy reading. I must remember that. I enjoy reading.
Entry 9. Weather: Heavy snow
Right now, I feel cold. The wind is blowing. I cannot feel pain from it, but it is uncomfortable. I don’t think I like wind and cold, but Albedo says I do, so I like the wind and cold. Tomorrow there will be another person visiting, and I will meet that person. I am apprehensive.
Entry 10. Weather: Snowy
I accidentally referred to myself in third person in front of the visitor. They had golden hair that shone unlike anything I’d seen before. I made a grave mistake, and the visitor looked shocked. I did something wrong, so that warranted the punishment of cold. Standing out there in the snow, I thought of animals who are caught in the cold for extended periods of time. Slowly, they do not move. They fall and never get back up again. I asked Albedo is that would ever happen to me. Immediately I sensed my transgression, for he was angry and hurt. No, he said. No, I would not, because Albedo cares for me very much and would never let that happen, ever. Right now, I feel sorry for disobeying Albedo, and making him disappointed.
Entry 39. Weather: Snowy
My name is [Name]. My favourite food is sticky honey roast. I like to read, and I like to smile. My favourite person is Albedo. I must memorise them well, lest I forget and get them wrong again. My name is [Name]. My favourite food is…
Entry 70. Weather: Sunny
Today is warm and comfortable. It is my day of birth. Albedo took me out for a walk. It was beautiful, the way the snow-covered paths look in the glow of sunset. I voiced this out loud, to which he nodded in approval. I like scenery. He held out a flower, but seemed slightly aggravated by my lacklustre reaction. You like flowers, he said. But I much prefer the little animals that hop and scamper in the snow. You like this flower, he insists, and sighs. Okay, I said. I like this flower. Sometimes I wonder if I really do.
*
The weather is perfect today, a convenient coincidence.
“Good morning, [Name],” he says, alone.
“Morning, Albedo!”
The alchemist spares you a glance. To see you this early in the morning is surely a blessing. “Hello, [Name].” He’s almost done.
“I hereby proclaim this unique occasion a nationwide public holiday, so you should get off work for once,’ you pester. Anything to pull this man away from work.
“Is that so? What prompts this ‘unique occasion’?” Just a little more detail. He can’t seem to get your eyes right.
“Hey…” your voice trails off. “You didn’t forget my birthday, did you?” Your shoulders droop a fraction, and Albedo hastily offers his reassurance.
“Of course not. I have cleared my schedule for the day, should you wish to spend it with me.” He blinks. Tentatively, he speaks up again. “You do want to celebrate with me, right?” Careful. He wouldn’t want to lose composure in front of you.
“That’s a given. In honour of that, here you go.” You shove a bouquet of your favourite flowers into his arms. “What’s my gift?” you say, leaning over his shoulder to peek at the sketch in his hand. “Is that me? Can I look?”
“No. It has yet to be completed. I’ll give it to you once it’s done.”
How pathetic. In the end he never did finish that drawing. It was left in the drawer that hadn’t been opened for years. He is afraid to look at it again.
Everything had been kept the way you left it. Sometimes he leaves your shoes by the door, if only to give himself the impression that you’d only gone out temporarily, and that you’d arrived safely home.
His own lab is dark, the ashes have long gone cold. Today is your birthday. Happy birthday, [Name]. He clutches his chest with trembling fingers. Sometime he wished Rhinnedottir had never given him a heart, then this emptiness wouldn’t weigh on him like heavy fog. Why? Was it fate? Did everything have to culminate into it? Why did it have to leave such an impact behind? Wouldn’t it be so much easier if-
“Albedo?”
If he closes his eyes long enough, maybe he’ll wake up and see you. If he tries and believes hard enough, it will become real.
“Albedo.”
Don’t listen, don’t listen, Albedo. You’ll wake up from this nightmare soon. Wake up, Albedo.
“Albedo!”
He opens his eyes to the same blank walls of his Dragonspine laboratory. His throat is dry. “Yes, [Name]?”
“You were not moving. Are you alright?”
“I am.” He’s so tired. “Is there anything you require?”
“Ah…yesterday you said that we could go outside for a walk? Since it’s my birthday today…”
“Alright, we’ll make preparations now.” He has long since learnt to fake a smile.
*
Entry 83. Weather: Heavy snow
The golden-haired visitor came again, discreetly. Right now, I am conflicted, and guilty for having kept this from Albedo. Am I a bad person for doing so? The Traveler says no. The Traveler asked for my name, among many other things. They asked me a lot in that brief period of time. They left with one final word of advice.
Do not trust Albedo.
How could I do that? Albedo is I don’t think that I am at a loss at how to word it. It’s impossible. Albedo would never do anything to hurt me. Since as far back as I can remember, he has been there. He is like family. If I were to doubt him, then who else would there be to trust?
Entry 85. Weather: Heavy snow
I can’t help but think there is something off about him. No, there must be something off with me. And I think he knows. It might be attributed to an overactive imagination, but his stares linger, and behind my back it is as if his gaze burns. While he was out, I entered his laboratory, and I stared at the cupboard he keeps locked. Do not trust Albedo, they say. And, as if possessed by some unimaginable will to do something, anything to quell the disturbance in my mind, I took the key and unlocked it. It was right there, hanging like some fruit I ought not taste.
I’m sorry, Albedo. My actions today were unforgiveable, but I will not tell him. It is not a cupboard; it is a door. To where? The answer lies in whether I will have the courage to open it. There is one more thing. Did Albedo, with his impeccable intuition, anticipate that I would do this? And if so, could he have intentionally let me discover this secret on my own? The thought is blasphemous, and I highly doubt it. I must be dreaming. I can only hope that I will not be tempted by curiosity.
Entry 90.
Do not trust Albedo. Do not trust Albedo. Do not trust Albedo. I will repeat it as many times as I can until I remember. I must first calm myself and articulate my feelings, though my hands shake uncontrollably. Right now, I feel betrayed, horrified and above all, I am scared. I will not speak of today’s events at all after this.
I am almost sure that he intended for me to see what I did today. He intended for it, but there is no guarantee he knows that I went today in particular. I can only bank on this chance, and that my attempts at feigning ignorance will work, if only temporarily. Through the cupboard-door, down the corridor, and into the lab I had never seen before, I saw myself. I saw myself encased in ice, a final resting place. The ‘me’ in the ice coffin shared the exact same facial features and physique, except the sear on my forearm, which ‘I’ lacked. ‘I’ was not moving. Like those helpless animals stuck out in the cold, ‘I’ would never get up again. And on the shelves lining the walls, boxes and jars were stacked as high as the ceiling, and I daresay I can guess their contents.
I knew immediately that this version of me is not the first. I am one of many. He has been treating my predecessors and I like experiments, and one day, my time will be up.
I leave this place tomorrow, at the first stroke of dawn. Whatever he wishes to achieve, I hope it never comes to fruition.
*
Number 079 has been down here.
It was careful not to leave the more prominent traces behind, but Albedo knows. In its haste it overlooked crucial details. He should have come to expect this. The ones in the 60s and 70s pried too much for their own good. A deep sigh escapes him, like a man who has not known peace for a great many years. He caresses your face preserved by cold, admiring the eyelashes that once fluttered and the lips that once curved into a smile. You are beautiful, even like this. Even if your immobile heart and still pulse commands that Albedo will never feel the warmth of your touch.
“It doesn’t scare me anymore.”
“No. You can’t say this. You never told me anything.”
“Albedo-“ he refuses to look at you, yet his grip on your hand is firm. “I couldn’t bring myself to. This wasn’t something I could’ve said easily, but I’m finally coming to terms with it. I am no longer frightened of what comes next.”
“Please,” you want to cry, because you have never heard so much raw emotion in his voice, “don’t leave me.”
And you are at a loss for words, because how does one respond to that? “I’m sorry,” is all you can do.
“You can’t go,” is what he says. ‘I will not let you go,’ is what he means. And until Celestia falls, he will make sure you stay.
Another failed experiment. The rack of test tubes is sent crashing onto the cold floor. Number 079 is not you, and it will never be you. Then, like all the other guinea pigs, there is only one thing left to do with it. He walks out with a final glance at your body, so peaceful that you could be sleeping, and reaffirms with a one-sided promise.
“Good night, [Name]. See you soon.”
*
Entry 1. Weather: Sunny.
Albedo said I needed a medium through which I can channel my thoughts and feelings. If I ever felt overwhelmed, I can pen it down in here. Alright, then. Behold, the very first entry log from [Name] 080’s journal!
A/N: Wishing everyone a prosperous and healthy new year!
"Happy Lantern Rite, my dear."
…
"[Name]?"
"Good morning, Zhongli."
He exhales, setting down the tea cup on the stone table with unfailing gentleness. The balcony overlooking the harbour is illuminated by the morning glow, though the sight is far overshadowed by the sunrise in Minlin.
The buzz of morning begins when the first of the citizens swing open their doors in festive mood. Mortal traditions are so extravagant, borne from passed on customs preserved through many generations, ever changing, adapting. Nothing like the rituals performed by the adepti, with stringent guidelines and unswerving adherence to the scrolls.
The Lantern Rite isn't what it used to be.
Zhongli is sure that is what you are thinking. With that subtle frown and furrowed eyebrows (he hasn't seen you smile in many weeks) as you gaze at the people going about this very special day. He's been on the receiving end of your glares much more often.
"Darling, it would not be auspicious to scowl today."
*
The night is clear, as are the waters of the spring. Liyue harbour is alight with what was once well wishes carried by mothers and sisters of warring men.
You frolic over the waters, to the stone table. "Happy Lantern Rite, Morax!" You clasp your hands in greeting. "Prosperity and longevity to all!"
Someone groans. "One hopes not. One has lived long enough."
"Moon Shaper! You shouldn't say stuff like that! It brings bad luck for the rest of the year." Guizhong says, astounded. "[Name]! Happy Lantern Rite! Is Morax being stubborn again?"
"I have no regard for mortal festivities, nor mortal affairs tied to it."
"Hm…" You place two fingers on his unflinching face and turn the corners of his mouth upwards.
"[Name]."
"Smile more, Rex Lapis."
*
Zhongli smiles. How endearing you were back then.
"What amuses you? Finally gotten senile?"
No stranger to disagreeable remarks from you, with utmost decorum, he reminds you of the annual gathering with the Minlin adepti.
"Must I go?"
"You sound like a child," he chides. "As per the contract-"
"I understand," you say, eyes fixed at the spring couplets on the door of Third Round Knockout. The words are carefully penned, and speak well-wishes of business and wealth. "Please do not bring up the contract again."
Almost sheepishly, he resumes his activities. For once, the distinguished, all-knowing gentleman has nothing to say. Zhongli could understand your distaste for the season. He would be lying if he said the Lantern Rite only brought back painful memories. He just wished that you'd-
Zhongli places a gloved hand on yours for reassurance. You would pull away, repulsed, but 'as per the contract'...
A little green girl and the sound of bells alerts you.
"Aunty [Name]!" She seems ecstatic, toes barely touching the floor as she struggles to see over the table, before giving up and settling for placing the basket of fruits on your lap. "Mr Zhongli, too. Happy Lantern Rite!" Cloud Retainer said that you would- you felt like- she said-"
"Calm down, little one. Happy Lantern Rite. What did she say?"
"She said that you promised to join our reunion dinner tonight, with eeeveryone! Are you really? I've never spent a Lantern Rite with you before. Will you really?" Her eyes light up with fervour, and dull almost instantly. "Oh…but if you don't want to, then don't push yourself. Master also says that I shouldn't pressure you."
You pat her on the head. "Of course I'll go. Anything for my favourite disciple." She giggles and runs, backtracking to whisper in your ear.
"Don't tell anyone, but you're my favorite adeptus too. One last thing…Cloud Retainer and Master and the others all care for you very much! I'm sure Mr Zhongli does too, so take care of yourself, alright?"
You watch her until the jingle of bells fade away into the distance.
Within minutes of that interaction, Zhongli decides to cease feigning disinterest and speak up.
"Do you still express reservations? If it pleases you, we may cancel."
"Ah, why don't you shut up."
"As you wish, dear."
*
She places a glaze lily onto your lap. Its petals droop and its stem wilts. Without a doubt it is on the verge of death, but Guizhong insists that you fix it onto her hair.
'Why?' You wanted to ask. Your fingers were clumsy and rough, far from her own, so deft and dexterous, perfect for tinkering with the mechanisms she loved as much as this dying glaze lily.
You fumble, but successfully weave it into strands of her hair.
She is ethereal in the moonlight, illuminated by stars and lanterns alike.
"Will you do one thing for me?" Guizhong whispers, taking your hands, giving the lightest of kisses on your wrists. You pick up on faraway sounds of slashing blades, shrieks into the night. Somewhere, there is fresh blood being spilt. Somewhere, your fellow adepti are fighting to the very ends of their lives.
"[Name]. I want you to live. Can you do that?"
"I will, if you do the same."
"Please promise me. Live, along with everyone else. You are important to me."
"I promise." As long as you are here with me to see it through. You decide not to voice it.
Her eyes crinkle. There is a dimple on her left cheek. "Happy Lantern Rite, [Name]."
Very soon after, you had come to wish that she had never asked that of you.
*
"Greetings, Traveler. What brings you?"
"We're here to deliver Zhongli some bamboo shoots. It's good to see you, [Name]!"
"The pleasure is mine, Paimon."
Clouds roll past mountain peaks, a sight you had become infinitely familiar with over the course of several millennia. The Traveler's presence is not unwelcome.
"Why're you here all alone? Everyone's gathered over there."
Their companions incessant questions, however…
"I enjoy solitude sometimes."
"But the Lantern Rite is all about spending time with family and friends. Isn't that right, Traveler?"
Paimon's words seem to resonate with them. "...that's right."
…
"Say, Traveler. You are looking for your lost sibling. Losing your own flesh and blood must be unimaginably difficult to handle, yet you carry yourself with such radiance and passion. How do you do it? How do you manage to shine even amongst the darkest times?" They take a while to answer.
"I think…it's because of Paimon."
"Uuahhhh! Do you really mean it, Traveler?"
They nod. "Without you by my side, this journey wouldn't be half as meaningful."
"Awww…that was unexpectedly sweet of you. Paimon would say that her goal is to follow the Traveler all the way! And eat lots of delicious food, hehe. What about you, [Name]?"
"Heh. Me? What do you think, Paimon?c
"Paimon thinks…your motivation is the people around you. The adepti, Yaoyao, the people of Liyue…and Zhongli, of course."
"Zhongli?"
"Uh huh! It's obvious that he really really likes you-" she falters at the Traveler's glare.
"Does he?" Something in your tone makes them hesitate. "Do you agree, Traveler?"
*
"What has gotten into you, Morax?"
He is fixated on his thoughts, only the back of his hood faces you.
"I meant what I said. Henceforth you are exempt from battle. No, it is better to say that you are forbidden from it."
"I cannot accept these terms! This new contract is absurd! You are chaining me to you for what is essentially forever."
"I am protecting you. The enemy is cruel. You are much better off away from war," the next words are spoken under his breath," and closer to me."
"Guizhong's passing has changed you. You- you failed to protect her. Do not project your insecurities and failures onto me!"
The very ground trembles beneath your feet, shaking even its rocky foundations. "Do not," he growls, "speak of her again." The singular glaze lily in his hand crumbles to dust.
"From now on, you are not to cross Liyue's borders, not to leave Guili plains without my presence, and not to interact with other adepti without my explicit permission. I trust you will do your utmost to adhere."
"And if I should fail?"
"Then we send forces to quell the rebellion arising in the north. What was your domain? Qingce? We cannot guarantee they will not get caught in the crossfire."
No. This was not Morax. This was a monster. "You would sacrifice a hundred innocents, let them perish…for this?" Hardened with war and loss, he tells a sickening story.
"Do you accept the terms of the contract?" Finally he turns, and for a fraction of a second, you see his eyes glisten.
*
"[Name]." The voice of the last person you wished to see snaps you out of the reverie.
"What?"
"..." Zhongli had not planned this far. He did not expect you to acknowledge him immediately. He settles for small talk. "Cloud Retainer's culinary mechanism. Have you seen its inner workings? Undoubtedly fascinating."
"I know."
The sun casts a golden edge to the clouds in an ephemeral sunset over the peaks. Very far away, you can hear the celebrations in the harbour. The only thing that remains the same throughout the years is the mortals' love for festive proceedings.
"It serves in the interests of no one to dwell in the past. We can only live on and honour the memories of those who cannot be here today, for their sake if not ours."
You scoff. "You hypocrite. You have seen a millennia worth of history more than I, experienced suffering far more potent than mine, and you still strive. Pray tell, what is your motivation?"
"That would be the people whose company I regard with fondness. Whether it be gods, adepti, or mortals. And you."
This man is shameless. "Is that an excuse to justify the atrocities committed in my name?"
"No. It is simply the truth." Silence. "Would you like to hear about the Lantern Rite's origins?"
You huff but don't object.
"In ancient times, the people of Liyue faced many centuries of war. They sent lanterns into the sky to remind their soldiers of the way home. Over time it became tradition, and after the era of war, citizens commemorated this symbolic custom by celebrating with friends and family. Many years later, the history behind it has long been forgotten, but the meaning is not lost on us. The essence of the Lantern Rite is still to appreciate our loved ones and those who are here now, for they are invaluable in our lives. With that said, may I have the pleasure of spending this occasion in your presence?"
"Either way, I still have the rest of my life with you, so there is no difference."
"Aunty [Nameeee]! Mr Zhongliii! The fireworks are about to start!" Yaoyao drags you away by the sleeve before you can protest.
"Greetings, [Name]. Rarely do you join us. One hopes you will endeavour to do so more often."
"Retainer, what is this frightful mechanism of yours?"
"One implores that you do not touch it! It is most fragile."
Yaoyao inspects it closer. "Isn't this the fireworks launcher the Millelith use?"
"One takes offense at that statement. Though it is inspired by mortal creations, one has made significant refinements and improvements to ensure it far surpasses the original. One thinks you will find it an unparalleled gadget."
The first of the fireworks are launched, setting the canvas of black ablaze with irradiant colours.
"What do you think? Would you find it in yourself to partake in festivities together next year?"
"Happy Lantern Rite, and shut up, Zhongli."
"Happy Lantern Rite, dear."
A glaze lily blossoms by your feet, swaying to the wind.
Aki x reader. Major Chainsawman manga spoiler alert!
Hayakawa, Aki.
To summarise his last will and testament…
He has left you, Power and Denji his properties, which includes this house you currently reside in. Taking into account the situation, ownership shall be shared between you and Denji.
His savings will be split between you two and Himeno's family.
He requested for the settlement in Hokkaido to be sold off.
That is all he has written. As for more personal matters…
This letter is for you. To Denji, he says-
_________________________________________
“Take care of them, while I’m gone.” The cigarette has long been lit out, but he still keeps it to his lips.
“...” The wind fades, and the waves slow their lappings.
“Will you do that?”
“Yeah. You betcha.”
“...thank you.”
“But don’t talk like you ain’t gonna come back or something, cause ya still owe me that lunch.”
_________________________________________
.
I hope you are well, as you read this. I might be with my family now, but I will miss you, and the family I have left behind. Please understand that this is the life I choose for myself, that I am willing to accept my fate at the hands of any devil or contract.
I’ve already known of my death a long while back. The Future Devil told me. I know I have no say in how you live your life, but I want to ask that you move on. From this place and job. From me as well.
I do not wish for you to live with regrets.
I cannot dictate your life. So do what you think is right, and what makes you happy.
