...weighs heavy against the lips, for to kiss is to transfer a fragment of one's soul to another" - yours truly.
⤷ Fanfics, and sometimes with a philosophical twist. ˎˊ˗
New Death Note aesthetic...rip Lara Croft I will always love you.
Prim. Early 20s. She/her. Virtual air kisses to all those who like and reblog! I also post to ao3!
Important: (1) My fanfictions are intended for an adult audience due to their mature and often dark themes (i.e. yandere). (2) Do not copy or repost my works elsewhere, and do not paste my works into AI even if it's just to translate them. We are so close to a Detroit: Become Human world and I am not going to be on the robot side lol.
Disclaimer:
╰┈➤ I do not condone any toxic behaviour I write about. My fanfics are just entertainment and do not portray healthy love/romance. Think of this: when you watch a horror film about a serial killer, you don’t assume the screenwriters are serial killers. Furthermore, I do not own any intellectual property that I did not create, such as characters, plots, and more from copyrighted works. I own my transformative and original elements (my prose, original plotlines, OCs, etc.).
Masterlist: I'm working on one, very slowly, very lazily...
A surgeon must always have steady hands to wield the syringe that punctures into your body, lest he ruin the results of his own experiment. Slow, stable, graceful must the hands be as Dottore carefully injects a murky substance into your wrist for the fifth time this week. Your frown softens as your eyelids flutter shut, overtaken by sleepy serenity. Your chained hands relax and your breathing slows, unintelligible whispers escaping your lips which have gone dry with pleas for mercy. Slow, stable, graceful—just as he wants it.
But even when Dottore is not testing his hypotheses in his lawless laboratory, his hands do not rest.
Just moments before, his elongated, nimble fingers had danced through your long locks of hair which have grown out while years in captivity. He had sat behind you on your creaky bed, the blanket with which you sleep when you are not needed on the examination table was bunched up around the two of you. He gently tugged on your hair as he meticulously braided it. With cold hands, he smoothed out the shorter, stray hairs on the back of your neck. You resisted the urge to shiver in fear he would find pleasure in seeing your body shake at his touch. All the while he hummed a gentle tune, threateningly sweet.
Dottore’s visits to your room were once exceedingly rare; he only found your body interesting from a scientific perspective back then. Though gradually, his demeanor changed. A test subject is more than just that. They can be a confirmation of one’s ability to produce sound theories. Your changes in behaviour as result of medications and circumstances he forces you in are always acknowledgements that his hypotheses are correct, and Dottore loves being right.
However, it was at a certain moment when he realised his partiality. Once during an experiment, he pushed your growing hair away from your face to inspect if kuuvahki, when injected into your bloodstream, would subject your body to its magnetic forces whilst inside a room filled with kuuvahki-operated machinery of the polar-opposite kind. It was the way you looked up at him after falling to the ground upon sensing from within a magnetic pull towards a blue kuuvahki-operated machine. Immense hatred powered your glare, and yet, you looked so beautiful with hair covering parts of your face and the abnormal glow of red tinting your cheeks—a reaction from the red kuuvahki being pumped by your heart. He loved the sight; thus began his attachment to you.
It is highly inappropriate for a scientist to favour his test subject, and it seems even more ill-fitting for a man, who wishes to be a god, wanting anything more from a human other than their devotion or cooperation. But deification is a lonely process, for it is the separation of the soul from the human realm. There are none like him, and perhaps because of this one fundamental difference between human and heavenly being that grounds any who dream of reaching the stars beyond the firmament:
Humans require companionship.
“Do you like what I have done?” Dottore asked as he set your braided hair on your shoulder. He held up a small mirror and in between his fingers were lunar motifs etched onto the handle. You could see his work clearly. Glowing petals from kuuvahki-imbued flowers were embedded between tightly-knit sections of hair; they highlight the years’ worth of trauma your hair holds onto. “This moon mirror is for you. I happened to come into possession of a few of these relics from Hiisi Island. They are quite visionary, one might say.”
In the mirror, you caught a glimpse of Dottore’s expectant expression without his usual mask. “It’s fine.” Your words were devoid of emotion. Years of experiments had taught you that cooperation, to some degree, was safer.
“Not to your liking?” He frowned dramatically. “I thought you would like the accessorization. Doesn’t anyone like to be pampered?”
You remained silent. Your body was bruised, tired, and cold from a week long of running around like a rat in a cage as he closely monitored with a clipboard in hand. Dottore loved getting a reaction, but only the reaction he wanted, so you treaded carefully when you did not know what his hypothesis was with this new experiment. “I guess…it’s nice, it’s fine—”
“You already said that—”
“I like it.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” His laugh rumbled from his chest, his voice soft, too soft. He set the mirror on the bed before moving your braid back. “I tied it tightly, so it should not come undone while you sleep.”
And with a kiss to your hair, he bid you goodnight, humming a tune as he locked the door to your cage.
Now, your room, which is no larger than a generously-sized prison cell, is silent save for the dripping of water coming from the mouldy, cracked ceiling. You prefer to keep your lamp off so as not to see it.
But you want light to see what you are doing.
One by one, you pluck the kuuvahki petals from your braid but the blue ones stick to your hands due to the kuuvahki in your veins. You shake them off and they fall to the floor, whereas the red petals reject your touch and collect on your bed. Where a warm blanket should comfort you, red stains it, much similarly to how Dottore’s touch upon your delicate skin often leads to injury and bloodshed. A god’s touch creates while a human’s hands only know destruction.
Your hands pull apart the sections of hair, undoing your captor’s creation. Unwashed locks fall limp and lifeless against the tattered hospital gown covering your body. With shaky hands, you grab the mirror and inspect your hair, now free from his bind, before hesitantly tilting the mirror upward. As if under moonlight glow, it highlights your soul which seeps out through cuts and lesions. Bags sit beneath your eyes, your skin dull and decorated with grime. Blood oozes from cracked lips and your teeth have long turned yellow. You are a shell of what you once were.
A tear escapes. You have never looked so horrible.
Or maybe, it is the strange fog on the mirror that distorts your reflection.
“All the effort I put into bringing out your beauty—gone to waste. I would say I am quite skilled with my hands but not enough to satisfy you, it seems. A shame.”
The mirror begins to glitch. Red sparks overtake the glass. You flinch and lose grip of the handle and it falls to the floor where it shatters into dozens of jagged pieces.
“Oh, you can hear me? Extraordinary! Well, it is too late, I’m afraid. I have already seen the mess you’ve made.” His voice is amplified as if there are multiple versions of him speaking at once through each shard.
With weak limbs, you scramble off the bed and away from the mirror. Shards embed themselves into your bare feet and leave a trail of blood that follows you to the corner of the room where you take refuge amongst pulled-back hospital curtains that barely hang on their rods.
“The moon mirrors, when conjoined in power and in proximity to kuuvahki, present a reflection of the other’s vision. However, I was unsure this technology would work without pure kuuvahki from a natural source, but you never cease to amaze me.” His tone becomes increasingly deadly as he continues. “I did not think anything more than sight could travel through the mirror. I still need to run more tests with different variables. Perhaps if I increase the amount of kuuvahki in your bloodstream, you will find the courage to speak.”
The door unlocks. White fluorescent light spills into the room behind Dottore’s tall frame. He dons his lab coat and mask that hides the malice you know exists deep within him. How easily a mask could fool a mirror, you think.
He examines your room, your mess. Blue petals that once decorated your hair have been pulled toward kuuvahki-infused blood that glows brightly on the white vinyl floor. His mirror, your gift, has undergone irreparable damage. To him, the sight is insulting.
He slowly picks up a particularly large shard and runs his gloved finger along the edge. Red blood clings to blue latex. “During my time on Hiisi Island, I tampered a lot with those moon mirrors sitting around. Any mistake I made using the kuuvahki mechanics, I could reset," he slowly says as he glances at your unbound hair with a look of disgust you recognise from his downturned lips. “Funny how I have done nothing to reset the moon mirror’s vision yet you have undone my doing? How disgraceful."
Like a god, Dottore takes great offence to the destruction of his creations.
But like a god, will he demonstrate mercy, too?
Before you can move, he drops the shard, steps forward, and takes a harsh grip on your hands. “What gives you that power?” His voice wavers, a sign of hurt.
You stutter incoherent words in an attempt to apologise? To defend yourself? You do not know.
His thumbs rub your skin as he diverts his attention to your hands. There is a moment of silence that follows. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as blood rushes to your head. Your chest heaves as you breathe erratically while he tries to remain calm despite the rage that builds in his core. Thoughts ravage his mind as they eat away at his psyche, but only one thought is clear.
In a voice no quieter than the softest whisper, he says, “Maybe…” and he lifts your hands to your eye level. “You should not have these.”
Red kuuvahki mixed with blood flush against your skin is a pretty sight, but he prefers the sight of blood splattered on your flesh instead. It should be quick, a doctor’s hands are precise.
But Dottore prefers slow, stable, and graceful.
Apologise all you want, let sorry burn itself onto your tongue as your throat becomes sore. Dottore is sick of giving people so many chances.
And so, he picks up another shard from the floor.
A/N: Dottore is very scary. Stay safe!
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
Varka dreams of the reality where you see him as the hero he was meant to be. | 1.3k words.
There are moments at night where even the lull of the northern sea, which has hushed the chirping of birds as waves blanket the beaches for the night at the request of the moon, cannot bring the usually enervated Grand Master to sleep. His mind is preoccupied, pondering about what could have been. Destiny had in store a marvelous plan, the stars were aligned in his favour. What he had seen in Barbeloth’s scryglass that day was his name written among primordial stars and yet, he gave it up to save his nation for you from a wild force of evil that should soon travel south.
But many winters have passed and he has yet to fulfill this deed. And at night, he sometimes wonders what it could have been like had he chosen to remain in Mondstadt.
Would you be calling him a hero instead of the Honorary Knight who you so enthusiastically speak to right now?
Varka has been listening for a while as he pretends to sleep just a few meters away behind a dilapidated structure in an attempt to flee from his responsibilities. It is one of his usual spots to recharge but you are making any possibility of rest difficult, and not in the way he has shamefully dreamt of before, after which he cannot look you in the eye the next morning.
He cannot stop eavesdropping. He has never heard such words of praise leave your mouth, such genuine curiosity. Your words are a beautiful melody stemming from a heart that seemingly recognises sacrifice; it keeps his ears perked. But this melody is not for him, and so his heart cracks every time you sing. It is as if you are taking his own claymore to his chest when you praise another for the heroic deeds he was meant to achieve.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Honorary Knight! It’s almost like I know you—which sounds strange, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s an honour to meet you!”
Varka grimaces. Your voice travels far when you speak so loudly. Usually, you are quiet, focused on fulfilling the duties that he orders. Yes, sir, is the most he can get out of you, along with a Favonius salute. Straight-forward, professional, emotionless. You never speak with him about things unrelated to work, even when most formalities have been laid to rest when the knights celebrate a day’s hard work with drinks. Sometimes, just to make conversation, he visits the tent you work in and gently persuades you to tell him who had been drinking the most the night prior. And even then, your answers are brief. It was all of us, you had once innocently said to him as you pointed to the entire Favonius Keep before resuming your work. The conversation, if he could call it one, ended right there. Varka admires your loyalty to your friends who you refuse to single out in front of their commander, but he wishes you could extend more than just a knight’s loyalty to him as well.
Perhaps if you knew Varka like you do the Honorary Knight, you would be chatting with him instead. He sacrificed his destiny, one where sagas would have remembered his name for centuries to come, just to prevent the Wild Hunt from reaching Mondstadt, from reaching your home. Even while in Nod-Krai, he delegates menial tasks to keep you out of harm’s way. He only brought you here to keep you close, but you maintain such a professional distance from him. So far like a bright star whose warm rays have long turned cold before reaching him. If only you knew.
Varka’s thoughts are interrupted by the Honorary Knight's humble laugh at your praise. Paimon then quickly interjects, taking credit for her part in the deliverance of Mondstadt from draconic chaos.
“Paimon! How could I forget about you? You’re as legendary as our knight!”
You all laugh and a pang of jealousy hits Varka deep in the chest. He is grateful for the traveler, but he wishes that his glorious day, where he can show you what honour looks like, would come sooner so you no longer feel more moved by hearing stories about faraway victories brought to you by travelling winds.
You continue speaking with the traveler while Varka listens absentmindedly. The soft breeze tousles his hair as he draws circles into the dirt ground beneath him with his finger. The cold air has left cracks on the skin of his knuckles in ways that resemble the abyssal fissures in the ground from which the Wild Hunt sprouts from. Blood decorates pale skin, his own body trying to escape himself. Pathetic—that is how he feels, but are his current circumstances not the consequence of his own choice? In the strangest way, he has unknowingly trapped himself inside free will, inside freedom…
…Until you say something that truly catches Varka's ear.
“Fate brought you here—I know it. And despite being dealt a bunch of cards upon entering our world, you chose a righteous path.”
Fate had wanted Varka to defeat Dvalin, yet he chose another path. With his claymore, Varka tore the fabric of the false sky and carved onto the moon a new destiny for himself. Fate, a force that bestows favour to one person as it chokes another with unmatched cruelty—a force that plucks people at random to throw into its pit of chaos. It is the same fate which Varka has so easily changed by choice.
Does that not mean then that Varka is greater than fate?
Oh, the thought drives him wild! There has always been a thirst in his heart for something more invigorating and here it is! A whirlwind of thoughts takes over. The many paths he could pave for himself and yet all this time he has waited for inferior destiny to hand him his title of hero with a ribbon around it. How absurd.
And how absurd one of his thoughts is, too, indeed. He envisions it clearly as if looking into his own scryglass. His beloved Mondstadt is up in flames. The Wild Hunt devours the cobblestone streets and windmills as people run rampant, calling for their absent god to save them. A horrible sight full of opportunity.
How has he not thought of this sooner? One must understand that the only way to be called a hero is to deliver victims from disastrous misfortune. All this time he has protected you before danger could even graze you, but if he just let one of those monsters near, close enough to scare, not touch, maybe he could swoop in as your knight in shining armour. If stories are what have made you so passionate, surely you will worship the one who performs miracles upon witnessing his unrivaled power save you and your homeland. Will you then see Varka as the hero he was meant to be? His heart beats rapidly at the thought.
Mondstadt has survived a calamity before; it can endure another, he thinks.
A statue in his honour, perhaps a crown atop his head. The people of Mondstadt chant his name as if in prayer just as Barbeloth had shown, but this time only one voice stands out. A melody. Your eyes are trained on him as his name falls from your lips in angelic praise. There is that brightness, that passion, that genuine interest in him that should have been his from the start!
The Hexenzirkel would laugh if they knew what one of their children, as Alice had put it, was thinking; but alas, Varka can only ever think when he has nothing better to do.
In that world, he can have you. It may never actually happen—Varka is not completely senseless, but let the man imagine. The thought fuels his dreams as he falls into a slumber.
The last thing he hears from you is: “May the fated winds lead you far in life, traveler.”
The winds may lead the Honorary Knight, but where will Varka lead the winds?
*Written and posted before 6.4 update.
A/N: Varka is so dreamy.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
Was playing Varka's new story quest when I noticed this similarity with the title of the fic I wrote before the 6.4 update. Our warrior can definitely change fate!!
Won at 80 pity babyyyy (I was so worried I'd end up with the Acting Grand Master instead. Love Jean but i have enough Jeans). And he's leveled up to 80 alreadyyy.
Varka dreams of the reality where you see him as the hero he was meant to be. | 1.3k words.
There are moments at night where even the lull of the northern sea, which has hushed the chirping of birds as waves blanket the beaches for the night at the request of the moon, cannot bring the usually enervated Grand Master to sleep. His mind is preoccupied, pondering about what could have been. Destiny had in store a marvelous plan, the stars were aligned in his favour. What he had seen in Barbeloth’s scryglass that day was his name written among primordial stars and yet, he gave it up to save his nation for you from a wild force of evil that should soon travel south.
But many winters have passed and he has yet to fulfill this deed. And at night, he sometimes wonders what it could have been like had he chosen to remain in Mondstadt.
Would you be calling him a hero instead of the Honorary Knight who you so enthusiastically speak to right now?
Varka has been listening for a while as he pretends to sleep just a few meters away behind a dilapidated structure in an attempt to flee from his responsibilities. It is one of his usual spots to recharge but you are making any possibility of rest difficult, and not in the way he has shamefully dreamt of before, after which he cannot look you in the eye the next morning.
He cannot stop eavesdropping. He has never heard such words of praise leave your mouth, such genuine curiosity. Your words are a beautiful melody stemming from a heart that seemingly recognises sacrifice; it keeps his ears perked. But this melody is not for him, and so his heart cracks every time you sing. It is as if you are taking his own claymore to his chest when you praise another for the heroic deeds he was meant to achieve.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Honorary Knight! It’s almost like I know you—which sounds strange, I’m sorry, it’s just—it’s an honour to meet you!”
Varka grimaces. Your voice travels far when you speak so loudly. Usually, you are quiet, focused on fulfilling the duties that he orders. Yes, sir, is the most he can get out of you, along with a Favonius salute. Straight-forward, professional, emotionless. You never speak with him about things unrelated to work, even when most formalities have been laid to rest when the knights celebrate a day’s hard work with drinks. Sometimes, just to make conversation, he visits the tent you work in and gently persuades you to tell him who had been drinking the most the night prior. And even then, your answers are brief. It was all of us, you had once innocently said to him as you pointed to the entire Favonius Keep before resuming your work. The conversation, if he could call it one, ended right there. Varka admires your loyalty to your friends who you refuse to single out in front of their commander, but he wishes you could extend more than just a knight’s loyalty to him as well.
Perhaps if you knew Varka like you do the Honorary Knight, you would be chatting with him instead. He sacrificed his destiny, one where sagas would have remembered his name for centuries to come, just to prevent the Wild Hunt from reaching Mondstadt, from reaching your home. Even while in Nod-Krai, he delegates menial tasks to keep you out of harm’s way. He only brought you here to keep you close, but you maintain such a professional distance from him. So far like a bright star whose warm rays have long turned cold before reaching him. If only you knew.
Varka’s thoughts are interrupted by the Honorary Knight's humble laugh at your praise. Paimon then quickly interjects, taking credit for her part in the deliverance of Mondstadt from draconic chaos.
“Paimon! How could I forget about you? You’re as legendary as our knight!”
You all laugh and a pang of jealousy hits Varka deep in the chest. He is grateful for the traveler, but he wishes that his glorious day, where he can show you what honour looks like, would come sooner so you no longer feel more moved by hearing stories about faraway victories brought to you by travelling winds.
You continue speaking with the traveler while Varka listens absentmindedly. The soft breeze tousles his hair as he draws circles into the dirt ground beneath him with his finger. The cold air has left cracks on the skin of his knuckles in ways that resemble the abyssal fissures in the ground from which the Wild Hunt sprouts from. Blood decorates pale skin, his own body trying to escape himself. Pathetic—that is how he feels, but are his current circumstances not the consequence of his own choice? In the strangest way, he has unknowingly trapped himself inside free will, inside freedom…
…Until you say something that truly catches Varka's ear.
“Fate brought you here—I know it. And despite being dealt a bunch of cards upon entering our world, you chose a righteous path.”
Fate had wanted Varka to defeat Dvalin, yet he chose another path. With his claymore, Varka tore the fabric of the false sky and carved onto the moon a new destiny for himself. Fate, a force that bestows favour to one person as it chokes another with unmatched cruelty—a force that plucks people at random to throw into its pit of chaos. It is the same fate which Varka has so easily changed by choice.
Does that not mean then that Varka is greater than fate?
Oh, the thought drives him wild! There has always been a thirst in his heart for something more invigorating and here it is! A whirlwind of thoughts takes over. The many paths he could pave for himself and yet all this time he has waited for inferior destiny to hand him his title of hero with a ribbon around it. How absurd.
And how absurd one of his thoughts is, too, indeed. He envisions it clearly as if looking into his own scryglass. His beloved Mondstadt is up in flames. The Wild Hunt devours the cobblestone streets and windmills as people run rampant, calling for their absent god to save them. A horrible sight full of opportunity.
How has he not thought of this sooner? One must understand that the only way to be called a hero is to deliver victims from disastrous misfortune. All this time he has protected you before danger could even graze you, but if he just let one of those monsters near, close enough to scare, not touch, maybe he could swoop in as your knight in shining armour. If stories are what have made you so passionate, surely you will worship the one who performs miracles upon witnessing his unrivaled power save you and your homeland. Will you then see Varka as the hero he was meant to be? His heart beats rapidly at the thought.
Mondstadt has survived a calamity before; it can endure another, he thinks.
A statue in his honour, perhaps a crown atop his head. The people of Mondstadt chant his name as if in prayer just as Barbeloth had shown, but this time only one voice stands out. A melody. Your eyes are trained on him as his name falls from your lips in angelic praise. There is that brightness, that passion, that genuine interest in him that should have been his from the start!
The Hexenzirkel would laugh if they knew what one of their children, as Alice had put it, was thinking; but alas, Varka can only ever think when he has nothing better to do.
In that world, he can have you. It may never actually happen—Varka is not completely senseless, but let the man imagine. The thought fuels his dreams as he falls into a slumber.
The last thing he hears from you is: “May the fated winds lead you far in life, traveler.”
The winds may lead the Honorary Knight, but where will Varka lead the winds?
*Written and posted before 6.4 update.
A/N: Varka is so dreamy.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
What would these yandere Genshin men gift you in celebration of the 14th of February?
Featuring: Varka and Flins. ~1.3k words each.
To Varka and Flins, Valentine’s Day is a day for ritualistic devotion that signifies the spiritual connection between two hearts, two souls. This day has been honoured by thousands of loving souls and has thus been imbued with an intangible sense of magic. In whatever way they can, they cherish this day in hopes it will create a deeper bond between you. They would serve their bleeding yet still beating hearts on a platter as their gifts if they could. If you refused, they would be disappointed and outright offended. Tread carefully around these so called gentlemen; they do not take kindly to the dismissal of their horribly warped perception of love.
Varka - A Wilting Gift
You have lost track of time, you have almost forgotten his name. The past and future no longer prevail in your little world bound by Mondstadt’s tall walls of freedom. There is only present, and there is only you, free from the burden of love. You are the dandelion that dances in the wind that whistles—no, sings for your independence. Without him, you are free, and this Valentine’s Day, you have never felt happier celebrating the day alone.
Still, his presence remains with you in a symbolic way. You cannot leave Mondstadt, not so easily that is. He has commanded that guards be stationed at every corner inside the city walls, their eyes should survey the land and all that which you do while they bear the symbol of freedom upon which their Grand Master has sworn an oath to protect the people from the violation of this right. Even Swan and Lawrence have been authorized to forbid you from passing the city gate without an official escort who must be one of Grand Master’s most trusted knights, save for Kaeya who is skilled with the sword—great for protection—but is just a bit too flirtatious for his liking. While the idea of being caged within the city of freedom is ironic, you could not even leave Mondstadt before the great expedition north without him accompanying you anyway, so now with his absence, there is finally room to breathe without feeling that your soul is tethered to his.
This unorthodox feeling of freedom, however, suddenly vanishes when a delivery is made to your shared home, the only place that is unguarded inside. For a long time, you would barricade yourself inside with the front door being the only thing to protect you from those watchful knights until they had, with their Grand Master's permission who had been notified of your self-isolation via letter, threatened to forcefully break down the door if you did not leave the house for fresh air. When you opened the door back then in your disheveled and sickly appearance, the knights standing outside, who were not actually armed like they had earlier yelled through the door, gave you a look of genuine pity. That is when you realised that they were never your enemy.
Now stand a few knights at your door with multiple large barrels behind them. Your name is engraved onto golden plaques on every lid. One knight reads a letter from the Grand Master, emulating his laugh, too, and likely at his behest, but it falls deaf on your ears as you carefully remove the lid of one of the barrels.
It is filled with flowers and plants you have never seen, ones that seem to glow brighter than the small lamp grass that grows in the woods nearby, or so you think as you only have your fading memory to use for comparison. One guard tells you that they are Nocturnal Blossoms along with kuuvakhi-imbued stems plucked from the coast lines and mountain ridges of Nod-Krai. The petals are soft under the pads of your fingers which are now left with a sparkly, iridescent residue from the pollen that mimics an ethereal moonlight glow. A mark of the north, a mark of Boreas.
The smell of the northern sea has invaded your home, so much so you open the windows and doors to let out the intense scent which should have been soothing yet it suffocates you. Flowers now sit in every corner in the many extravagant vases sent with his shipments. On the dining table, the kitchen counter tops, the coffee table. Even the shelves are decorated in pink, blue, and red. It is too much unnecessary decor that overwhelms the home, the heart, but maybe that is what he wants. No matter where you stand, a flower sits nearby, plucked from its root and forced to drink tap water at the bottom of a vase as its sustenance. But nature needs more than this to survive. It needs a life force, and without kuuvahki, it must improvise.
You feel drained and anxious. Perhaps the intense fragrances have given you a headache, maybe even delirium, because it seems that as you move around the house, the flowers shift, too, watching you, observing you. Their petals always seem to face you, their anthers always seem to point at you.
With the bathroom door left ajar, you quickly go to refresh yourself by splashing water on your face when you notice the pollen will not wash off. The droplets of water sitting on your skin sparkle, now imbued with residual kuuvahki. You scrub your hands erratically with soap and water but it only irritates the skin.
That is when you look at your face in the mirror and notice sparkles dusting your cheeks where your hands had touched to wash your face. The lamp overhead catches the shimmer of each sparkle, but it is not that which catches your eyes; it is instead the opened, unread letter sitting on the coffee table in the adjacent living room which you can see reflected in the mirror through the open door. A vase sits next to it and a fallen petal rests on top.
You approach the letter slowly like it poses a physical threat. It does not help that you feel the plants around the room turn to face you as if you are being scornfully observed inside a panopticon prison. With shaky hands, you open the card to reveal neat yet slanted writing.
To my dearest flower,
I hope you are doing well. I haven’t received a letter from you in a long time, but my captains tell me you are content. I would love to hear back from you. And although I am sad to say that this is yet another year I won’t be home to celebrate Valentine’s Day with you, I have sent something to remind you that I will always be there in spirit. I’m sure you already know what I’ve sent. Surprise! Can you believe some of my soldiers told me it was too much? I don’t think it was enough. I had the ones who disagreed carry the barrels on their backs to the ship that has now delivered your gift. One tripped and threw the barrel over his head! It dented the ship’s hull, which means it's safe to say that flowers can be a great additional weight for battering rams, but that’s not important to you hahaha. I’ll send more if you want, just write to me. These kinds of gifts don’t last long, but they are pretty and smell great. I hand-picked some myself, but I can’t seem to get the pollen off my hands. I bet you’re having the same problem. Doesn’t matter though. It connects us in a way even though we’re thousands of kilometers apart. That is what this day is about.
And don’t worry, I’ll be coming home soon one day, but I’m sure when that time comes, I won’t be able to see the flowers you have decorated our home with.
Until then and forever, I will always love you,
Varka, Knight of Boreas
A petal falls from a Nocturnal Blossom in the nearby vase. Two sparkly petals now sit idly on the table, and suddenly, you gain awareness of how quickly time passes. The present which you have basked in for so long is but a fleeting moment. The past always catches up as the future rolls near. It is a suffocating place to be stuck between.
These flowers—those two petals—as delicate as they are, are the greatest force to have ever broken through your door. They are a reminder that even while overseas, you are always bound to him.
There is no freedom in Mondstadt.
♡
Flins - A Soulful Gift
Few would guess that Flins is a skilled tradesman with an artistic vision. And even fewer would be able to tell that such a gentleman would harbour such sick intentions as he does. There is a reason why animals stay wary of him, for they are pure of heart and sense danger better than the human being. The cemetery’s isle has been vacant of all birds for the last week as they were scared away by the loud clanging coming from the Flins’ workbench. He has been working hard for this special day, tinkering in his workshop and reading ancient books from his library about the transferral of body and mind outside the spiritual realm—books of the occult. One might say he has truly put his heart and soul into his creation. He has grown tired, but he is sure his efforts will pay off.
And he is hopeful that you will notice.
Although you have known him for some time as a friend, you are not aware of his true nature. You only know him as a valiant lightkeeper who had once saved you from the Wild Hunt. Always, I shall remain at your side, always, he had promised you as he gently kissed your hand after saving you from an attack. I am glad I came across you in time, though it would have been better if I had already sensed the danger sooner Perhaps another time. Your admiration for his courage had outweighed any thoughts that questioned his strange words.
But maybe tonight, you shall think more clearly without the adrenaline of being saved clouding your judgement. Question is: how many signs will it take for you to notice?
You sit across from each other at the dining table inside his lighthouse. Your plates are filled with extravagant food that, unbeknownst to you, was cooked by Illuga prior to your arrival after he was persuaded by Flins’ insistence coupled with compliments about his culinary skills. Flins does not want you to know this, however, so he does not correct you when you compliment the food that he pushes around with his fork and seldom takes bites from, forcing himself to swallow and hoping you do not notice his look of distaste.
But you do notice, so he distracts you by speaking about anything and everything which he does so well. This is your first sign that something is wrong.
“I am glad you agreed to celebrate this day with me. I would call you my Valentine but that may sound cheesy.” He chuckles as he brings a cup of Fire-Water to his lips. When you laugh in response as you look down at your food, he takes the opportunity to pour some alcohol into his dim lantern that sits hungrily under the table by his feet, waiting for fuel to burn.
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t mind it.” Heat rises to your cheeks until you meet his gaze. He looks sickly but his eyes are livelier than ever, and just momentarily, they seem to glow as one with the candle-lit room. How quickly it sends a cold shiver down your back.
He blinks and the glow vanishes. “I must say you look lovely.” His eyes trail up and down what is visible of your body above the table before resting on your decolletage which is uncovered by your garments. That is when you see it again. You want to blame the alcohol for distorting your vision or perhaps even the flickering flame on the table, but you swear you see, just for a second, his eyes take on the same golden glow as if his soul is trying to escape from his body. This is your second sign.
“Thank you,” you stutter.
“Now that we are finished with dinner,” Flins begins, though his plate remains more than half full, “I would like to give you something.” Before you can speak, he reveals a velvet box from a pocket inside his coat. “I am no jeweler, but I have to admit I am quite skilled with my hands.” He moves the box closer to you before opening it. Inside sits a polished, silver necklace with a vial-like pendant resembling a heart. Across the front in a dotted line are incredibly small pieces of glass to peek inside this locket. “Please don’t tell me you hate it.” He chuckles shyly.
“I wasn’t expecting a gift, especially when you have already so kindly invited me into your home for dinner.” You smile. “This is beautiful, thank you. I can’t believe you made it for me.”
“It was more difficult than I had anticipated, but alas, determination gets you far.”
“And what a beautiful result it has produced.” You slowly reach for the box when he pulls it back.
“Let me.”
He stands up slowly—weakly. The hard wood creaks beneath his weight as he trudges over and stands behind your chair. Cold fingers gingerly push back any hair that protects your neck. He lifts the necklace above you as though he is placing a crown atop your head before lowering it, the pendant now decorating your bare decolletage. His touch lingers and raises the hair on your skin as he steadily secures the clasp. It all seems too slow, too languid, as if he is tired or simply indulging in this moment. And it is both. He struggles with fastening the two ends of the silver chain because his hands have actually lost quite a bit of their dexterity, but when he pushes your hair back in place, his fingers feel a faint itch to run through your locks which he resists.
“It suits you.”
The date comes to an end when the moon has risen high with the tide that threatens to drown the isle should you stay any longer. Flins escorts you to the coastline where you shall depart. In the most respectful manner, he bids you farewell with a kiss to your cheek. His kiss is akin to a frostbite for his lips are as equally cold as the chilly sea breeze and the death he and this cemetery reek of. You wave goodbye once you cross the other side of the narrow strait separating the cemetery and Paha Isle. He slowly reciprocates it but he does not turn away when you do, nor does he seem to pay mind to the seagulls on the coastline that take flight in a hurry upon noticing his presence. It is only when you are out of sight that he heads back to the lighthouse.
As you walk home, you notice your chest begins to burn. The heat is slight, almost unnoticeable under the warmth of your thick coat, until it gradually worsens. It seems to come from your pendant which grows hotter against your skin with every step as if it is being engulfed in flames. You feel guilty for what you think is obviously your brain playing tricks as it had at dinner when you were enjoying a glass of alcohol, but the heat soon becomes unbearable. You unclasp the necklace and examine it. Cool silver against your palm with no sign of a flame’s touch. Strange. It is a rather heavy locket without a hinge. Its contents, which you cannot observe in the dark night, are inescapable. You curse your foolishness and stuff it in your pocket, oblivious to the fiery blue glow now peaking through the glass knowing you cannot see. This would have been the third sign.
Meanwhile Flins is home, humming a soft tune as he pushes and pours his remaining food and alcohol into his lantern that burns more passionately than it had ever before. As it lights the entire room, new, replenishing energy fills his entire body; blue blood runs hot once again through his veins.
Was transferring a part of his soul into the pendant worth nearly dying? He thinks so. A gentleman should never break his promise.
This way, he will always remain at your side and will thus be able to sense danger sooner than the birds who flee from his isle.
♡
A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! I am a teensy bit late with posting this but it's okay. I hope your day was filled with love and joy from your closest loved ones! I also hope you enjoyed these fics. I spent so much time writing them even though I've got the cold, but I wanted to write something for my now 200+ followers! Thank you so much!
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is just for entertainment and is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
What is marriage if not the greatest act of jealousy?
Cw: mild gore.
Marriage is a concept constructed by jealous humans, Yandere! Scaramouche thinks, so what use does it serve him, a puppet, no, a deity, to be tied down to you? You…who he thinks about constantly, you whose name rolls off his tongue in a beautiful melody, you who lives in his mind without any effort as if you are a witch or wizard sent to drive him mad. You? You are nothing to him but an obedient soldier trained to kill who he wishes dead; he tries to convince himself of this even as he twirls bits of your bloodied hair in his fingers after having brushed back your hair just to see your pretty face better, much to your chagrin.
It is the quiet hours of the early morning and before the two of you lies the corpse of a traitor who had tried to escape the physical and mental confines of his Fatui contract. With his insignia strewn across the patchy dirt ground, his mangled body lies bent in ways impossible, ways inconceivable were they not in front of you to witness. Blood covers his cold body like a blanket to keep him warm. His face is no longer recognizable due to the damage instilled by his master, his Lord Scaramouche.
But it is not he who killed him.
Scaramouche scoffs when you shiver as he lets go of your hair. He slowly wipes the blood on your back which stiffens at his touch before he makes his way around you, stepping over your weapon at your feet. The bells on his hat jingle and static from his Electro Delusion crackles in the air as he steps into the bloodied puddles of rainwater that had fallen just hours before now when the moon watched over the land, recording the sins of all those who wandered when they should have been sleeping. The sun now rises but still remains overshadowed by the large mountains of Sumeru where the dead soldier is to lay among now as flesh then bones once spotted by vultures or rodents come nightfall.
The harbinger observes your eyes which stare at where the dead man’s eyes should be. You do not spare your superior a glance, fixated on death only. For a moment, Scaramouche feels irritated, remembering the early days when he had to instill obedience in you until you understood your place beneath him, until you understood what it meant to be a puppet, but that feeling quickly dissipates because you had just shown him the greatest act of obedience of all.
Under his command, you killed the man who had, in his last moments leading to his death, begged you to escape with him to live a life far, far away from the Fatui. A happy life, one without sin, one in which your souls could be linked in holiness and admiration for one another. The fact that you had acted against such temptation is enough to placate him temporarily.
But there is something that distresses him; it is the way the dead soldier’s mutilated face is staring up at you. The fact that the traitor fails to see that, even in death, you are not his to gaze upon, sickens Scaramouche. The audacity, he thinks.
Meanwhile you are unable to think. Your hands shake and your lips quiver. Falling tears mix with the blood and grime on your face. Shame and regret eat at your broken heart as the harbinger, who has your limbs connected to puppet strings made of unbreakable steel that deliver electric shocks with every pull, stands only a meter away.
Then, drip. And again, drip.
The dripping of blood reaches your ears but it is only Scaramouche who glances at the source of the sound for you are too preoccupied with the sound of your heart shattering into pieces with your every raspy breath. Red streams flow down your arms, hands, fingers. The blood belongs either to you or the dead man whose name falls from your lips in apologetic whispers made up of inaudible words he does not catch.
Except for one.
As if struck in the heart as you had your lover, Scaramouche falters. His slightly irritated expression is suddenly replaced by something strangely unfamiliar. How such an insignificant word could rile up the great harbinger, not even he himself knows. Puppets do not feel after all. Words are but sounds strung from the kisses between one’s tongue, teeth, and lips. Meaningless.
But your lips do not cease moving. The quaver of your tongue against your teeth as you say ‘l,’ followed by the drop of your bottom lip pronouncing the ‘o’ with a soft bite for ‘v’ to complete the word, revolts him. Scaramouche wants to tell you to stop, to shut up or he will burn your tongue off with a strike of Electro, but he cannot. His lips are tightly pressed together while yours keep spitting out a word that grows clearer as the sun climbs up from behind the mountains, ready to see what chaos remains from the night prior.
He steps back to escape the noise and his foot lands on something, but he does not look away from you, somehow entranced by the way you cry despite the pain that blooms in his chest caused not by hurting you, but by being hurt by you.
Drip, drip.
Now it is not just red that runs along your skin, but gold, too. Warm sunlight perforates the dense, overlapping tree branches above upon which birds chirp merrily to drown out your cries. And, like a message from the celestial heavens where he believes awaits a seat among the Seven for him to claim, one golden streak runs horizontally across your ring finger. Blood now sparkles like diamond and ruby. He shifts his foot as he steps forward and hears a crack. Below him is the dead soldier’s insignia broken in two.
Not once have you looked at Scaramouche since obeying his most recent command, not even do you squint when the sunlight burns your eyes. He stands in the shadows where your eyes may rest, yet, it seems even in death, Scaramouche is not yours to gaze upon.
He does not realise that in making you a puppet, he has made himself feel like a human. A jealous human.
A/N: wishing all those who like, reblog, and/or comment a very happy new years and a late merry christmas!
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not intended to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
As a Fatuus serving the Sixth Harbinger, you know you must work endlessly to satisfy not only the Tsaritsa’s wishes, but your Lord’s commands as well. You only wish that your circumstances were a little better because Yandere! Scaramouche absolutely loves overworking you until your body aches and breaks. Break—that is a word he only knows in the context of pain. Breaks from work, however, are but a fable you hear from other soldiers. You are sure your Lord has never even uttered the word
You think he might not even know it.
“Is that all, my Lord?” You shut your heavy binder full of Fatui reports on mission progress. You stand inside his tent, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Despite always being a skilled soldier, the boredom of performing menial tasks on what should have been your day off makes the binder heavier than a steel weapon.
“Of course not.” Scaramouche scoffs as he pushes another stack of papers across his desk. “These, too. Get started, there’s no time to waste.”
Yes, Lord, you think.
This is typically how it goes. He orders, you oblige. A perpetual cycle of do-this and it-shall-be-done. Scaramouche has always been demanding and domineering, thus, you assume it is the same with all his other subordinates.
But it is not. Scaramouche favours your dedication profoundly. You deliver on time and excel in all of your duties. The pinnacle of a perfect subordinate; hence, you have been awarded, as he would put it, the position of his right hand soldier, a curse to always have you working.
When you do have the chance to rest in your cramped room where your bed barely fits—compliments of your Lord who granted you a separate space from the barracks—you feel the honour of what it means to be a high-ranking soldier. Your body has become frail, yet, you push through. Why?
Because refusal of work is not an option unless you want to be buried in an unmarked grave.
Oh, but what a privilege it is to work for a man who is to become a deity, no?
Scaramouche sees you as his preacher disseminating the forbidden knowledge of his religion-to-be to a world unready but destined to be ruled by his Lordship. In reality, when you are not stationed elsewhere to fight, you simply deliver orders to low-ranking soldiers and sort through papers he does not want to bother himself with while sitting next to him at his desk only inches apart at his insistence, but a man is free to fantasize, no?
Oh, he cannot help but think you are so pretty running around, working under him. The thought pleases him quite so. Like a dog, you sit, twirl, and bark when he asks because he has trained you well. Perhaps he will start dangling treats before you just to see what you would do for a greater reward than your current salary. Your reputation, however, is not something he is after. No, he is curious to know how much work he can pile onto your shoulders to bear until you break. Will you be obedient ‘til the end, a figure who shall be recorded in history as his most loyal servant? Shall a statue be made in your honour to be revered by the world for eternity or will your crumble like clay that was not burned hot enough in the kiln? He wants so badly to know!
So, he shall continue working you tirelessly. Who knows, maybe one day you will drop to your knees (in prayer).
Scaramouche will then mold you back into shape but with a few tweaks to get rid of your tendencies to roll your eyes when you think he is not looking and to sigh heavily in his presence; he does not appreciate those unspoken yet loud hints of annoyance. Nevertheless, he does not know what to expect when you inevitably fall over the edge after he pushes you, but he excites himself thinking about the possibilities.
It is a surprise when you, instead, hold your ground just enough to build a barricade, but not your tomb.
“What?” His voice is harsher than usual, but it is not unlike him to have an uncouth tongue.
“I said, sir, may I go home earlier tonight since I’ve finished all my duties for the day as you had initially ordered? I’m feeling unwell,” you re-explain.
“You’re saying you’re sick or something? Soldiers don’t get sick. It’d be wise to get started on tomorrow’s tasks now—”
“No.”
What’s this? Scaramouche thinks. Quiet subterfuge or blatant treason? His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape. Though he can tell from your weak stance and dull skin that you speak the truth, he does not want to acknowledge why you are unwell, and least of all to you.
A mere soldier…
“Do you want to repeat yourself?”
…whose presence…
“I’m afraid I cannot promise my best work if I’m under the weather.”
…he very much enjoys…
“My Lord.” You add too late with a stern voice. He hates that.
“Then maybe you should dress for the weather.” His eyes glance over your thin uniform designed for the desert heat of Sumeru. In the dim lighting, it contours your body in a way that compliments you more than a uniform should. He looks away and swallows before standing up and walking around his desk. “Maybe you’re just a bit tired. Not thinking straight.”
You eye his slow movements. He always seems to be walking slowly, never in a rush although he loves to rush others. The concept of time is distorted to the immortal.
He saunters behind you before you can speak, his shadow melting into yours, and rests his hands on your shoulders as he guides you forward to sit on a chair in front of his desk. You are at a loss for words when he begins to gently massage your shoulders. His fingers are porcelain cold, you can feel them through your thin blouse. “Blame the heat,” he says.
“My Lord…”
“Just relax. Don’t get worked up over simple tasks.” His voice is saccharine; unnerving.
In such a strange act, he has taken away your ability to speak properly while being unable to voice his true thoughts.
I don’t want you to go, not yet, he thinks.
Because the Balladeer has confused yearning for his tendency to assert control.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance; additionally, this fic is not meant to romanticize unhealthy work relationships in real life.
Realities are shaped by the beholders who believe without seeing.
Yandere! Flins x Reader. Cw: mature themes. Wc: 3.8k+
Flins will do anything to change your realities, even if it means to rely upon the unknown forces of the world.
A/N: Kind of related to what I wrote for Flins in this post but you don't have to read that first!
Can another person’s love be fabricated, bent, and directed to oneself by manipulating the unknown force fields of our magnificent world? Flins wants to think so. He wants to believe it so. Despite knowing you for many years, he has always been unable to capture your prized attention. You are a star that burns a thousand degrees, a gemstone with edges too sharp to handle without gloves; beautiful and untouchable. He might even say that you are like an aurora that lights up the skies, far from reach yet hard to ignore its magnificence. And him? He is nothing, unworthy and inferior. Thus, in an act of great desperation, he has resorted to calling upon the energies of planets and stars and of light and darkness to make you love and obsess over him as he does you.
What shall be the catalyst to manifest your love is a crystal, a small, jagged rose quartz crystal that fits neatly into his hands to change the trajectories of the stars shooting across the dark skies that are your fates wrapped up in primordial, cosmic fire. Pink and pretty, this crystal shimmers in the chilling blue light of his lantern like a heart that has been stripped of its blood and in dire need of its red elixir. He instead offers it a fraction of Kuutar’s excellence by letting it charge beneath the moonlight. This way, the quartz may carry the sufficient energy to perform his ritual to bewitch you, for he knows that an eccentric who lives among the dead does not possess the charm of a crystal with a beauty only you, his fellow lightkeeper, could compete against.
Where you are the sun, he is the moon, forever chasing you across the skies in hopes of an eclipse. And like a rare gem, you tease him with that sparkle in your eyes that mimics light against polished diamond; and with that lilt in your voice, you soothe his nerves like the strangely comforting chill of the winds that kiss one’s cheeks upon setting foot outdoors. The Cryo Archon’s kiss of love.
But there are no words to describe what Flins feels for you. Love is but a simple word that does not even encompass all that runs through his mind regarding you, but alas, what he feels certainly stems from a love that was once innocent.
And now the love he wishes to extract from you with his quartz may only be a fraction of the sickening desire he has been riddled with. It is a shame, he thinks, that you barely speak to him besides cordial greetings at lightkeeper meetings or the chanced encounters against the Wild Hunt. You have become his entire world and yet he only happens to exist in yours.
But with his rose quartz on which he has crudely carved yours and his initials on one small flat surface as if to set in stone your fates, he can now change this. He need only wish and speak it into existence like a candle blown out on one’s birthday or a prayer whispered humbly to the gods. Reality is in his hands.
And he finds it as strangely exciting as it is terrifying. Oh the things he could do…
It was only the other day when he acquired this gem from a mystic who had promised him that for a great sum he would obtain the key to manifest whom he dearly loves. Perhaps she had sensed his hopelessness and yearning. Never had he thought of gems any more than lavish decor, so this new edifice of spirituality that the mystic was briefly introducing him to, one that relied upon the favour of the cosmos which could apparently be channeled through this gemstone, fascinated him. His desperation and curiosity won; in trade for a few old coins, he obtained what could be a priceless gem if his plans are successful. Be grateful and expect so vividly what you desire, the mystic had said to him, and it shall become so long as the stars are aligned, my dear sire.
A change in reality is what she had promised, but—
—what does reality mean? Flins often wonders this. Is it as things are, objective and unfiltered through bias, or is reality something one creates? Is it created by what we believe rather than what we see? How could one metaphorically describe it? Is reality a reflection of ourselves in an unmoving pond or is it multi-faceted like his rose quartz crystal which has been cut into a shape with many sides?
He does not know, though he hopes it is something he can influence. If it is the pond, then he can dip his finger into the water to create the ripples he wants, and if it is the pink polyhedron, then he can cut and carve what he wants into it, and he has already done that. Oh, how badly he wants to merge your realities together; he imagines it so often it feels real. There you are at his side as a partner who loves him to the moon and back. You fight alongside each other during the day and rest for the night under a warm blanket with the fireplace to keep the lighthouse warm. But it is you who is his flame, his hearth—the one who shall keep his cold heart warm on the chilly isle that is home to those whose hearts have long stopped beating, now buried six feet beneath the ground. And when you lay by his side, he imagines what your hair smells like, what your skin tastes like, and what your voice sounds like when you mutter in your sleep.
A man who whispers your name to a pink gem, his hot breath fogging up the polished gem, before putting it under his pillow to sleep is an unhealthy man, but he does not realise this because his mind has become consumed with what could be instead of what is. Nevertheless, if he wants to manifest your love, he must be grateful for what he has now and expect what he desires as fact.
So, Flins does just that.
During meetings, he stands close to you as the commander reads aloud the day’s schedule. His arm barely grazes your shoulder and he can almost feel your warmth though it is actually the fur lining of his own coat that is warm. Deep down, he knows this, but ignorance is more exciting than the truth. If he can trick himself into believing a false reality, does that false reality not then become real to some extent? Nevertheless, these thoughts allow him to be grateful for small moments like this.
Whenever you run into each other on duty, he strikes up conversations about the mundane, hoping that something would interest you in him all the while affirmations run rampant inside his mind. Notice me, hear me, feel me, want me, desire me, love me, he repeats like a prayer as his crystal sits inside his coat pocket close to his heart. Heart…can it be called that? It is more akin to a rose with thorns that have instead grown inwards and pierce his own heart, allowing his blood to bleed and rot inside his body as eternity stretches thin for the fae whose death is not written in stone.
Yet, nothing happens. Chance after chance, he speaks with you when he can and lingers around in your presence like a ghost that cannot let go of life when he cannot. And yet, you always seem more interested in anything else around you.
He knows he must do more.
Sometimes, he discreetly kisses his crystal when no one is looking before striking up a conversation with you, believing that his intimate touch would better transmit his soul’s energy.
“I wish you luck on your battles against the Hunt today,” he says as he approaches you after a meeting.
“Oh, thank you. You as well.” You smile though it does not reach your eyes that seem to search for something—anything—behind him. Complete disinterest.
Other times, he writes down affirmations in his journal with his crystal present beside him the nights before work. All things he wants to say to you, all the things he wants to do to you…they are all written in a leather-bound journal he keeps safely hidden inside a cardboard box he stores away beneath his bed. Besides himself, only his crystal has seen what he has jotted down.
But perhaps this time, fate has taken a glimpse and acknowledged his persistence.
“The weather should be clear for the evening. Do you have any plans you’re looking forward to?” Flins dusts off the abyssal energy of a ghoul he just killed as he slowly approaches you.
“No, I don’t suppose I do,” you say uninterestedly as you wipe the sweat from your brow and kick away a dying ghoul that was trying to cling to your boot.
It is only the two of you at the dark and desolate Starsand Shoal that fans out from Lempo Isle. A few wanderers had alerted the lightkeepers’ headquarters that a group of ghouls were roaming the sands, so you and Flins being the only available lightkeepers at the time were sent to neutralise the threat. This would be a fantastic opportunity to talk to you alone, Flins had thought then.
So why is he now struggling to find the words to say?
Usually Flins has no problem talking to you but it is because there are other people around and you never seem to be fully focused on him, so it takes the pressure off saying the wrong words even if he is always disheartened by your indifference. Now, with only the two of you, your attention is directed solely on him; this is what he has wanted for quite some time, but he was never prepared for it. It is hard to expect what one desires when they have for the longest time told themselves it would never happen.
Flins is so delusional that your question sparks an alarm in his mind that tells him you are interested rather than just filling in the awkward silence, but all he can coherently think is: Love me. Love me. Love me. It is his loudest thought, and it grows louder with every moment.
You continue, laughing somewhat wryly. “I see, well don’t try to have too much fun now.”
Flins shifts his weight from one foot to the other which allows the orange rays of the setting sun to reflect off the rose quartz pendant over his chest which he had decided to wrap some thin wire around to attach it to a leather string to wear around his neck. Your eyes fall to his chest, and he notices. In his mind, the fabric of his coat pocket was perhaps blocking whatever immaterial frequencies being emitted by the crystal from reaching you, so he decided that he would start showing his crystal instead, and upon hearing that you and him would be working together alone, he wasted no chance in wearing it.
But there are no frequencies. It is instead the stark juxtaposition of the pink against his black coat that captures your attention. Strikingly unique, and with what you believe are random letters inscribed into it make the crystal distinctive. You notice how the light penetrating the gem refracts and hits the metal accessories of his coat with small rainbows that waver whenever he moves or as his chest goes up and down slightly as he breathes, making the rainbows bigger and smaller. It is like fragments of his soul are peaking through.
Flins then clears his throat and laughs. He cannot waste any more time in his head. “Nothing more than guarding the cemetery. Though,” he pauses as he looks up, “the skies are growing clearer. I am sure the aurora will make an appearance tonight. It is always nice to gaze upon the lights.”
“I agree. Keeps the Wild Hunt at bay, too.” You look up to the sky.
“Would you believe the cemetery's isle provides a remarkable view?”
“Really? Even with all the light pollution?”
“The dark sky is far too vast for a lighthouse’s flame to outshine the aurora. It merely warns those who travel by boat of the rocky coast not to come too close. The colourful light display is always striking against the dark background. I’d actually say the isle has the best view.”
“I see…”
“I tell the truth.”
“I believe you.” You smile and Flins thinks you are lying.
There is another pause though this one is more comfortable. You gaze together at the stars that begin to manifest one by one in the sky that fades from orange to a deep blue as if to reflect the murky sea beneath it.
Every now and then, Flins’ eyes flicker to your face. He takes in every contour, every shadow, every highlight, and every scar or blemish that makes you as beautiful as the speckled space above that no matter how many times he looks at, he is always enchanted by what he beholds. You are the gods’ finest creation, he thinks, while he…
Who is he? Someone who cannot even convince you the lights are brighter where the sky is darker up north, let alone to be his friend and possibly more? You do not seem to hate him; you simply seem indifferent to him and you are as kind as any colleague should be. Although this may sound absurd, a part of him wishes you at the very least disliked him because to dislike someone is to still care more than to not care at all.
What am I thinking? I am being ungrateful! I want you to love me, not hate me!
Gratitude, once a simple ingredient to the recipe that would create his reality, has become sour to the taste, a terrible struggle. It is like a mountain with a peak high above the clouds and what is visible beneath is nothing but bleak and rugged terrain that promises no good to the climber. But the view at the peak is the reward, no? Should he face all the difficult trials to befriend you, someone clearly uninterested in him, while being grateful for his opportunity to climb to the top where the air may be so thin as to choke him should you reject any romantic advances he may make in the future?
Maybe and only if he truly loves you, which he does not. He is obsessed with you. With every dodge you make at his attempts to spark an acquaintanceship, that obsession grows. You are the crystal he can never get his hands on! He wants more, he hungers for more and the stars know it, the gods know it. But you evade him, and he begins to suspect that his desires may not align (and perhaps never have aligned) with the stars that twinkle above in disarray.
You part ways after your brief conversation. Although Flins knows he will see you at work the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that one, he feels as though he has lost an entire future with you. There is no mountain to climb anymore.
The skies are his confirmation tonight; the aurora does not appear.
Days pass and he grows sick, nauseous, and embarrassed. And once again, he finds himself questioning what reality is.
On one gloomy night at the cemetery, he holds his crystal up to the sky and the moonlight scatters through the pink gem, highlighting the initials inscribed on it. Each beam of light that passes through is a reality that could have been. He then looks to the stars that pepper the dark abyss looming over his world. These stars are millions and billions of years old in a never-ending vacuum of space hosting infinite galaxies, and each night they sparkle continuously to compete against the one star that lights your planet; and still in their great number, they cannot even compare. That is why they only appear during the night when the moon basks in the glory of the star that has fallen to rest until dawn. Some things are as they are, and they cannot be changed.
Reality…cannot be changed simply by thinking it so. What a fool I am for thinking otherwise.
Never has Flins felt so utterly embarrassed to depend on indescribable forces he did not understand let alone fully believe existed. He mistook himself for a god who could bend reality. Someone of his age should have known better. Humiliation now stings inside his chest like an arrow that has pierced through his thick coat and ugly heart. Oh, how it hurts to yearn.
So, he tries to ease the pain by ridding himself of his heart. He throws the pink crystal into the sea where it may sink to the depths just as his spirit has in this fruitless journey to manifest your love.
There is nothing left to imagine, nothing left to look forward to. Maybe there never was. You simply do not see the stars the same as he does because you live in different worlds, different realities that cannot collide. The word dramatic may be a suitable adjective for his actions and complete abandonment of hope, but is it fair to so harshly judge someone who felt that turning to the unfamiliar workings of fate was his only option?
Fate works in inexplicable ways, thus it is confusing and unreliable, but it does not need to be understood to exist nor to operate. We do not know of the creatures that live at the bottom of the sea just as we do not know what other life forms exist beyond the stars. That does not mean they do not exist, and to think otherwise is to solidify the belief that what cannot be fathomed will never be true.
That is why fate is always a surprise.
Flins is startled by your sudden appearance when you approach him at the cemetery as he comes home from having just defeated some wilderness ghouls that had manifested upon sensing his upset energy and wishing to prey upon him off the northern coast of Paha Isle. The lighthouse had not been turned on for the night yet and if it were not for your lantern which you held in one hand, he would not have noticed you at all.
And despite the darkness, it is not hard for you to spot him even without his lantern burning brightly as it normally does. Over the last few days, a dark cloud has loomed over his head. Dreadful energy. Though it cannot be seen, it can be felt; thick and suffocating, it consumes the entire cemetery. You can feel it, too, but you want to assume it is due to the ghosts residing there and not him.
“Flins! I hope I’m not disturbing you this late but I have something important,” you say. You two now stand at the shoreline. You hold your lantern in one hand while your other is inside your coat pocket.
“Nonsense. All are welcome. There are not many visitors that come by anyway,” he stutters a little as his mind tries to comprehend your presence. You step forward and he does not know what to do but step back because your presence conflicts with his new mindset that has given up all hope.
You smile before pulling out something from your pocket and hold it tightly in your hand without any way to let him see. “I found something which I believe belongs to you. It washed up ashore at the beach where I was stationed again.”
And that is when you reveal to him what it is you hold. It is his heart, pink and pretty like the blush that is settling on his cheeks right now. How strange that you hold his heart and yet inside his chest he feels a beating so rapid, so heavy, it is nauseatingly sweet.
“Yes,” he says slowly as he stares at his heart, “this is mine.”
You bring your hand closer. He then gently takes the crystal with his own shaky hand though his gloved fingers linger for a moment on your skin.
He brings it up to his face. “How did you find it? It’s quite small.” His voice is quiet.
“Pink stands out against a dark background.” You shrug.
“I see.”
Silence. Only the whistling of the wind can be heard as night falls. Flins’ hands tremble as he discretely traces his thumb over your initials before you speak. For the first time ever in your presence, his mind is quiet. The rapid beating in his chest calms down and a warmth settles in its place despite the sheer cold of the Nod-Kraian winter. He senses the tension in his mind, his body, his spirit, and his heart begin to release. It is peaceful, a tranquility unmatched, and it is brought upon him by you.
And for the first time ever, he feels truly grateful. He does not want this feeling to end.
“Why was it—
“If you would like, I have many more gems that may also stand out to you. You’re welcome to take a look.” He cuts you off and gestures to his workshop by the lighthouse.
You hesitate to respond for a moment before smiling, and that is all the confirmation Flins needs to know that he had judged too early the crystal and fate he did not understand. Just as he was told, when the stars would dot the skies, you shall come to him like the waves that crash against the cemetery’s isle.
As the two of you walk to the workshop located at the base of the lighthouse where his collection awaits your amazement, Flins looks at the darkening sky. An aurora is beginning to manifest, but instead of its signature green hues, pink in a shade identical to his crystal, identical to his heart, begins to appear on the edges of the undulating display.
Who is he but someone who could change fate? He rubs the rose quartz in his hand, the very one which you had held so gently in yours only moments ago, as he watches you stand by his workbench and admire his collection of ancient gemstones he has yet to unlock the powers of.
Oh the things he could do…
A/N: OMG this was originally supposed to be less than a thousand words but I couldn't stop myself lmao. Hope you enjoyed this story that took like three weeks to write! Also, I just realised when I was editing this (for the billionth time) that Rerir also has a crystal for a heart lol, I forgot about that.
Disclaimer: yandere fiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
Hi! I never really thought anyone would ask me this, so I never gave it much thought. I am unsure if I can if it is for transformative works, i.e. fanfiction. I know people commission artists for fanart often and that seems to be generally tolerated (at least to my knowledge), but I am not a lawyer so I do not know.
However, I may open commissions in the future for original works if enough people are interested and I have the time.
For example, if someone is willing to commission me to write about an original idea or scenario about original characters they created (or an OC x Reader type of story), that would be an appropriate request because the buyer would be the owner of the prompt and/or characters and I would own the writing and anything else I may add.
Yandere! Alhaitham is the type of person to constantly rage-bait you, his colleague at the Akademiya, just to gain immense pleasure from seeing you stutter muddled words in frustration and bewilderment. Annoying you also gives him the excuse to talk to you, to be in your comforting presence even when you are anything but comfortable around him. It is rather extraordinary how just by scrunching your brows and failing to make a sound rebuttal due to your frustration make it incredibly difficult for the usually dispassionate man to keep himself from grinning from ear to ear. You refute the petty arguments he intentionally brings up which serve no purpose other than to aggravate you, but you are too dumb, he thinks, to realise that.
He persistently feeds off your anger, off your emotional instability and your solicitude for even trivial matters because he wants to be the only one to have the honour of draining you of your energy and sanity. Unfortunately for him, he abuses it too much like an addictive drug which makes this pattern more identifiable with every quibble he starts; it is thus soon you begin to realise what he is doing.
That is when Alhaitham can no longer find any amusement in angering you as you have begun to distance yourself, placing impassive neutrality between the two of you like a barricade to prevent any further disputes. Your irritated expressions are no more, now memories he replays to replicate the feeling of witnessing—no, experiencing your resentment for him in real life. Never has detachment, from him or another, felt so suffocatingly close for the Alhaitham who loves to be indifferent and apathetic toward the undulating highs and lows of life. By just ignoring him, you have made the man who has sought quietude in every part of his life wish for the very opposite. You do not linger where he usually sees you in town, nor do you even spare him a glance when you cross paths at work. There is no tension, no hostility; simply nothing at all. You have built an intangible wall of equanimity that protects your psyche, and thus, you have become the unbothered stoic he has always strived to be.
Never has Alhaitham wanted to anger you more than now.
So, he starts forcing himself into your spaces. It is no coincidence that he is wherever you are. He snuck a peek at your calendar in your office when you were on a break—took a few used pens, too, knowing your hands had touched them, but that is not the focus here. Whether you are coming home from work, shopping at the bazaar, or at the tavern, Alhaitham is there or around. He does not speak to you, however, and does well not to accidentally make eye contact. No, he just exists in your visible vicinity like an annoying curse that cannot be prayed away because the gods do not concern themselves with frivolous issues.
It only escalates when you inevitably have to work with him. Working together has always been troublesome but feelings must be set aside in the workplace, so you cannot avoid him forever. Instead of stirring a heated debate, though, Alhaitham has taken new spins at vexing you. Anything you say, he repeats as a question with that irritating inflection in his snarky voice paired with his half-lidded stare of boredom or contempt—you do not know which. Truth is: neither—it’s a play he enjoys. When you hand him a file or document, he licks his finger before flipping every page knowing it is as socially acceptable as it is disgusting and unnecessary; he glances often to relish your look of revulsion.
But worry not, he is reading your work and he has a few things to say.
“Be more clear here,” he says as he points—with your stolen pen—generally to one page before skipping through a whole section in the document of old texts you annotated, compiled, and made commentary for the Akademiya’s record-keeping and research department. He scoffs. “Needs a whole revision here.”
Alhaitham continues his verbal onslaught with some I-don’t-understands and these-don’t-make-senses until each word has had a turn at knocking down your wall. That is when you ask him, why? You do not elaborate, you know he knows what you mean.
But he has more fun pretending he does not.
“Well, you can do whatever you want,” he shrugs as he turns back to his own work before feigning a look of hurt. “I’m only trying to help. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Aren’t we supposed to work together? Partners, no?”
But even Alhaitham cannot hide the truth behind his words; his eyes soften and the corner of his lips raise just slightly enough to notice but not enough to question outright. Besides, he would just deny it with another lie.
You huff and leave his office with the papers he actually believes are perfect as they are, slamming the door shut. He taps the end of your pen against his lips as he smiles.
He wants to get in your hair so that he is the only thing on your mind. Making you angry is just an easy way to do it.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
Minors DNI with yan fics. CW: psychological torture, mild gore (warnings in sections).
Flins
You never suspect that Flins, the soft-spoken and well-mannered Ratnik who collects coins and gemstones in his spare time, likes to steal your possessions for nothing but his own pleasure. It is no different from his regular hobbies, he believes, except for the fact that he cannot openly talk about it with you.
He begins small, stealing worthless items of yours such as an old hair accessory or a gum wrapper to put in a box hidden away beneath his bed. This box is marked by a ribbon he thinks would look so dashing in your hair but he is too shy, too afraid, to give it to you. These items may seem worthless to you, hence why you do not notice their disappearances, but Flins is always able to find the beauty in the smallest of things, extracting from them stories that are actually made up mostly from his own delusions. To him, these items are extensions of you—they were used, shaped, and distorted by your hands, your will; how could he not see the value in them?
Still, these stories Flins fabricates in his mind just to convince himself of their worth only entertain him for a short while for even he knows that there are greater treasures marked by your touch—items with much higher intrinsic values. Such items would include jewelry. Oh, how Flins loves to hold in his hands gemstones strung from delicate golden chains knowing they once hung from your neck and sat atop your chest, atop your heart. The thought excites him, but not as much as wearing your stolen necklaces in front of you. He keeps them hidden safely underneath the large collar of his coat, so you never notice. It is a thrilling secret that makes his heart race. The stolen jewelry is a tangible indicator of your connection—whether or not you two actually have one and if you are aware of it. A stolen gem is like a promise ring in its own way.
This thrill, however, leaves him wanting more; so, it is quite soon that he begins to grow a bit more bold. You do not find it at all peculiar when Flins, a collector as much as a lapidary, suddenly begins to wear, openly and unashamedly, necklaces and rings that feature the exact gemstones of the jewelry pieces you had lost, and it is because he has repurposed them, cutting and reshaping the sparkling stones so that they are unrecognisable to everyone but himself. Although it slightly hurts for him to do this as someone who loves the histories of gems as they are, the joy and satisfaction of keeping a part of you close to him at all times is ever stronger. So, he shall continue to steal from you until you inevitably notice, and he hopes so strongly that you never do.
“A rose quartz symbolises love,” Flins whispers to himself as he dangles the pink pendant in front of his face while lying on his bed. The gold chain shimmers in the moonlight that penetrates the thin curtains of his windows. “But is it truly able to symbolise what I feel for you?"
Diluc
Could a man so irritable as Diluc want something so seemingly sweet and tender? Although he is a respectable aristocrat who was raised by knights and nobility who taught him the many qualities to become a gentleman such as etiquette, swordmanship, and the arts, the art of ballroom dancing was not among those lessons. Nevertheless, this does not deter him from imagining his calloused hand settled on your waist as the other holds your hand up high while the you two move gracefully to the sound of a thousand lyres’ strings plucked by the delicate breeze of the winds.
It is only with closed eyes and an imaginative mind can all desires become half-truths, so the young master often finds himself indulging in this fantasy when all his work is done for the day. While taking strolls in his vineyard to appreciate the cool, fresh air blown over the mountains to the east as the sun sets in the west, he imagines this comforting scenario with a smile on his lips. And from his closed mouth escapes a hum that matches the one played by the imaginary orchestra in his mind. It is a symphony made from his feelings, each note a beat from his heart that yearns for something more.
But if this scenario were to ever manifest—if Diluc ever found the time to practice his footwork and build up the courage to ask you to dance so intimately, so purposefully—it would be anything but comfortable for you. Like two swans in love who dance to mark the beginning of a life-long partnership, Diluc wants this dance to be your wedding vows and to make you undeniably his. He shall make you dance until your feet are sore and bruised, until the back of your shoes cut into your skin, until blood drips from your heels and onto the fertile ground where his grapevines sprout from. And from those grapes fed by the blood pumped by your heart, he shall make a special wine for you to consume. Not even a drop's worth should remain in the chalice on which his surname is engraved in small handwriting on the thin rim that touches your lips. A red-stained kiss. The wine should coat the inside of your throat, it should become your blood. Diluc desperately wants this, but alas, one’s darker dreams are but wishes the gods do not answer.
What can be answered, however, is that a man so irritable and hopeless as him could never want something so sweet without any strings attached. And this secret is one that he cannot fathom without him crudely attaching to it the broken strings he plucked from the stolen lyre of his god. It can thus never happen. Diluc is bound to forever hum this imaginary tune to alleviate the burning ache in his heavy chest.
“The more I yearn, the more I imagine,” Diluc blows on a dandelion he plucked from his vineyard. The puffy seeds, carried by sacred winds, float away from him as if disgusted by the truth behind his word, his thoughts, his desires. “The more it feels like a memory than a dream.”
Neuvillette
In the most ironic way, seeing water drip from your chin as you chug a glass to quench your thirst lights a fire within the heart of the Dragon Sovereign of Hydro that he cannot douse. Every time he sees you in this state, tired and thirsty as if you have not drank in years, the image gets further engraved into his mind like water continually pouring onto a slab of rock and eroding the stone until there is an irreparable dent. Neuvillette is a reverent and principled man, truly, but even he harbours his own secrets. This one is rather harmless, though, so do not mind the pink that randomly adorns his cheeks when he is deep in thought while sorting through papers in his office. No one dares question it even though they know they would not be met with any malice from his kind soul.
Neuvillette treats you with the same kindliness he does with everyone else, but there are times when he is a bit more authoritative—that should be expected of the Chief Justice of Fontaine. When he wants to have a little fun, he assigns you urgent errands across the city and demands immediate in-person reports in between each one. This requires you to run around without any breaks. You never refuse his orders because when he speaks so sternly, you do not want to know what the repercussions would be. (Honestly, he’d probably just get a little sad, nothing major). And of course, he only assigns you these tasks on a hot summer’s day; it would not be the same if the air already carried some frost to cool you down.
When you come back to his office to read your reports, he has waiting for you a silver tray with a tall jug of ice water and an empty glass he has already drunk from unbeknownst to you. Neuvillette delights in watching the beads of sweat drip down your temples as you read your reports to him in a tired voice, but there is no greater joy than to watch you replenish yourself with the very element he has full sovereignty over. To him, it is like you are drinking the blood of the earth that he had manifested in all those years ago. It is intimate, personal.
And when you are done reading your last report, he politely asks with feigned concern if you would like a drink, though he knows ‘no’ is not an option when water has never looked so tantalising just sitting there on his desk, the ice cubes bobbing up and down and sparkling in the sunlight shining through the grand windows. He pours the water slowly into the cup, the corners of his lips turning upwards ever so slightly as he watches you stand impatiently in his peripheral vision. Then he hands you the glass and makes sure his bare fingers, which are no longer covered by his usual gloves, graze your hands. And when you take your first chug, he watches intently as some water runs down your chin and neck, and he is quite grateful that your eyes are closed.
“You seem parched, may I offer you a glass of water? Only the best drawn from the coldest springs for you. Do tell me if it is to your liking and satisfaction.” Neuvillette leans back in his chair as he begins to watch you drink. “Don’t drink too quickly, now, or you will run the risk of choking.” He laughs.
Ayato
(cw: psychological torture)
It is strange that the politician Ayato, who is the head of Yashiro Commission, secretly wants for you to conspire against him and the country just so that he may have the excuse to interrogate you in a less than friendly, and maybe even unethical, manner. To him, watching an enemy surrendering is akin to taming a wild dog to be loyal—and my, does Ayato admire loyalty—but no one thinks that he would want to see you, an unassuming civilian, in that position, begging at his feet for mercy. His Shuumatsuban are therefore quite confused as to why he requests they gather information about you, but they do not oppose him for they have already been tamed to be his loyal, obedient dogs.
To their surprise, they actually find evidence for conspiracy but before any of the other Commissions can get involved, Ayato commands that you would be best dealt with privately. He does not want to give others what he thinks is the privilege of seeing you blind-folded and bound to a chair, unaware of what is to happen next.
Now, in a cold cell meters beneath the Kamisato Estate, he watches what he has secretly longed for to unfold. His dogs question you relentlessly. Tears dampen your blindfold with a few trickling down your cheeks as you stutter and whimper out incoherent words. Your voice changes from whispers to yells in a pattern that almost mimics Ayato’s quickened cardiac rhythm. He watches you in silent awe as he leans against the wall in the corner just imagining what kind of fear is in your eyes. He dares not move nor make a sound to prevent ruining the moment, but the way you squirm against the tightened ropes binding your hands and feet excites him too much; you make it difficult.
Recognising that you are on the brink of cracking, the psychological torture having lasted longer than it should, Ayato laughs. How utterly cruel of him. He walks towards you, his footsteps slow and calculated as they echo in the room. From his lips spill the lie that his subordinates captured the wrong person; they look at each other with confused expressions but do not say anything. His gloves are soft against your wet skin as he gently removes your blindfold before untying you from the chair. Unaware that he had orchestrated and watched the whole thing, you are utterly grateful for his help, believing he will punish his dogs for their bad behaviour. What you do not know is that this man’s most well behaved dogs act even worse; they did not object to his order to plant evidence in your home prior to him commanding his Shuumatsuban to raid it. That is Ayato’s secret to keep, and he knows his subservient dogs would rather die than reveal it for they have been trained to blur right and wrong until there is neither.
“I assure you that a misunderstanding like this will never happen again and that everyone involved will be severely dealt with,” Ayato says quietly and slowly, keeping eye contact with you as he gently dabs the blindfold on the beads of sweat sitting on your forehead. “However, I humbly ask and beg that for the sake of not myself nor my subordinates, but for the civilians and the country that put their trust in our governance, that this stay a secret between us. You will be rewarded handsomely for your compliance.”
Zhongli
You have signed many contracts with the God of Contracts without knowing of his true identity, but there is one he knows you will never agree to. Where it should ask for your signature instead demands your bloody handprint to show that you agree to become his lawfully wedded spouse. Where in this contract is anything lawful, he does not even know, and that is why he cannot reveal it to you despite desperately wishing to do so.
And this contract is no ordinary one written on paper. No, it is carved on a tall slab of obsidian rock resting in a cave deep in the mountains of Huaguang Stone Forest like a sacred monument that once belonged to an ancient tribe historians have yet to uncover. Covering the walls of this cave are paintings that manifested with the mere touch of the Geo Archon’s hand. They depict you and him, the union of mortal and immortal, in an imaginary love story.
This contract would bind your souls completely, making you eternally tied to him even after you pass. You would be remembered—in stories he would pass down through the voice of Zhongli—as a human whose soul was as divine as a deity’s, but at what cost? Eternal spiritual imprisonment? Mortal sanctity for the unwilling? The God of Contracts must act righteously and set an example for his people, so it would not be right to ask you to sign something that would infringe on your rights as a citizen of his nation for no person should ever be bound for life to a spouse they cannot part from even in death. Zhongli knows it is cruel because he is a god, not a demon, and he recognises that this contract is inexcusable and unfair. It is simply not right.
But where in his obsession with you is there anything right?
When he is not being pushed and shoved by the demands of his mortal boss at the funeral home, he is polishing the contract—the stone—and carving into it new conditions based upon any interactions he has with you that day. If you speak highly of another man, he will outlaw him and forbid you from uttering his name. In fact, he will order anyone sharing that man’s name to change it so that he may never hear it spoken on his holy lands. All you need to do is sign his contract. And if your eyes linger longingly at another, he shall command the earth to shake so that your vision may become so disoriented and blurry until all you can do is to fall to the ground on your hands and feet while praying for the tectonic stability only the Geo Archon could provide. All you must do is sign his contract which is the very opposite of what the God of Contracts should ever stand for, but it is what he wants.
However, the gods cannot want so foolishly; they are meant to guide and govern, not torment and torture. Thus, his bloody handprint shall remain alone on the stone, forever waiting for you to sign it.
“There will come a day when archaeologists and historians will stumble upon this contract.” Zhongli traces a finger over the words etched into the obsidian. Those words glow a golden hue before fading with his touch. “Imagine the stories they will invent to explain what could have been a union between their fallen god and a mortal who had bewitched their god. Whether or not you sign this contract, your name,” he says as he lightly touches where your name is engraved next to his, “shall always be tied to mine.”
Your name remains aglow in the dark cave as he leaves.
Capitano
(cw: descriptions of rotting corpse)
Only in his dreams does the Capitano have the courage to take off his mask in front of you, but recently, he has taken the risk of making his dream a reality, though not quite as you would imagine.
During the nights when there are no people roaming about, the Capitano always takes his opportunity to remove his heavy mask. Bits of dark hair stick to his forehead due to sweat that had accumulated during the day. It never gets easier. Only the moon can see what he sees in the mirror or reflecting off the surface of his shiny armour each day, and that is his decomposing face. Gums and rotted teeth are exposed in the holes in his cheeks and his flesh produces the most putrid stench only a ventilated mask built with a purifier could stop from polluting the air. It is tragic, but he has committed enough sins as a Harbinger to warrant this painful punishment.
But for how long must I be punished, he asks himself as he plays with your hair while you sleep. He sits on the edge of your bed dressed as usual except for his mask which now hangs on his belt. He dares not remove his gloves even if he wants to feel your warm skin against his cold fingers because he knows that the strips of flesh hanging from his fingertips would tangle into your hair, and that would ruin the pretty sight he is gazing upon right now. This is an urge he fights every time he visits your quiet home during the nights where nearly nothing, not even him and his nurturing touch, can disturb you; the only thing that can is your subconscious mind. And whenever you stir in your sleep due to a nightmare, he wants nothing more than to shake you awake and hold you tightly—to tell you that he will be there when your mind cannot be there for you, when your mind has betrayed you and is subjecting you to the horrors deeply rooted within. He knows those kinds of horrors all too well. If he could, he would absorb all and any pain in your soul and carry it upon his shoulders just as he does with all the souls that are waiting to be released into the Ley Lines.
On this night, a sudden idea comes to his mind. If he could not bring himself to touch you with his bare hands, then maybe, you could touch him—if he brings your hand to meet his skin, it would be the same as touching him, right? The souls living in his mind and in his body with his own deteriorating soul whisper for and against this idea in his ear. Do it, some say, touch and feel what you cannot! Do it before you regret what may be your only chance! While others plead, be wise, not selfish! Do not lay your disgusting hands on someone you care for! Do not spread your curse! The Capitano does not know what to think for the souls within him have taken over his mind like parasites fighting for control of the host, but he does wonder that if he carried your soul, what would you say to him?
“If you could see me now, what would you think?” A tear falls from his eyes as he holds your hand only inches away from his chest where his heart, even in its decaying state, beats so passionately for you. “If you could feel what you do to me, what would you say?” he asks quietly but you do not make a sound nor do you stir. Sound asleep you lie on a bed that he has soiled with the touch of his Fatui uniform, a uniform that symbolises unrest and war; you are the very opposite of that, a resting person who sleeps peacefully. So, he scoffs at himself. “Maybe it is better not to ponder over such pointless questions. Rest well.”
And the Capitano leaves from your window for the last time.
A/N: Such interesting men…one steals your jewelry, another wants you to stay hydrated, and another wants to forever bind your souls together! Yay :) Also, writing the Capitano one made me sad. :( We all need to give him a hug.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
In a battle against his mind, Flins chooses to surrender to his immoral thoughts.
Disclaimer: this story includes a peculiar exploration of (im)morality, but I do not condone this behaviour; yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance. MDNI. CW: stalking. Wc: 2.9k+ words. (Author's note at the end).
It was wrong to think this way, for it did not align with the principles of an honourable man, but the esteemed Ratnik Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, a reclusive eccentric who had built a reputation for his noble deeds, secretly loved the idea of your life being put in danger. It was wrong, though the mind could not be censored, nor could its thoughts be ignored for too long lest it grew obsessed with what one tried to minimise as a fleeting thought and nothing more.
He did not always think like this. For a long while, Flins dismissed his inappropriate thoughts with a shake of his head and a scrunch of his brows. You barely knew him and yet his mind could only ever think of you. It was pathetic. He had first seen you at The Flagship with some of your friends sitting at a table in the far corner, laughing and enjoying your time together. He, on the other hand, was only there for business with some fellow lightkeepers he was not so close with. Although he did not express his boredom outwardly, it was an impromptu meeting he was really not enjoying until he saw you. You were enchanting, that was his first thought. Like a gemstone that sparkled even in the dim corner of the tavern, you had managed to catch Flins’ attention, but perhaps it was because he had a keen eye for valuable treasures; he collected gems and coins after all, absolutely fascinated by their unique formations and histories. The same curiosity had plagued his mind yet again, however, this time, he wished to know about you.
At first, the thoughts he had of you were innocent and easily ignorable. He imagined you in need of help with carrying your bags of groceries to your home, the location of which he later came to learn as his obsession grew uncontrollable and his thoughts became unbearable with the only relief being action. This is simply to ensure you are safe alone at night, was what he reminded himself as he followed you home from a distance like a wild hound trailing the scent of its prey. Cognitive dissonance, the battle between one’s conflicting thoughts and actions, was corrupting his spirit further and further with every moment he thought of you, every moment he attempted to get closer to you.
Eventually, that fantasy of carrying your bags had become overplayed, so much so that it was no longer interesting enough to satiate Flins’ hungry mind; thus, he slowly began to wonder how he could be of greater help to you. He imagined running into you during a particularly cold night and offering his coat for you to wear over your shoulders. You were never dressed appropriately in this little fantasy of his. Although Nod-Krai was not as cold as Snezhnaya, the Cryo Archon still clutched the autonomous region closely to her chest, her frosty breath the winds that cooled down any warmth traveling north from Natlan. The scenario was entertaining enough to fantasize about as he would drift off to sleep in his quaint abode. He could bear the sheer cold if he knew the fibers of his coat were both keeping you warm and binding his scent to your clothes. He imagined your kind smile as you thanked him incessantly for his aid and commended him repeatedly for his chivalry. The very thought of his name on your lips made his knees weak.
But that was not all he fantasized about as his mind gradually became saturated with the idea of you the more instances he saw you in and around the outskirts of Nasha Town while patrolling or off-duty. You were enigmatic, a crystalline gem among unpolished stones he had yet to get his hands on. Flins, however, did not consider himself a shallow man who only cared for appearances. The inside of every gem was different; its inclusions, which were the minerals and liquids trapped inside the crystal during formation, were what made each gem special, unique, desirable. By following you around, gaining insight into your habits from afar, and familiarising himself with your schedule, he only grew more emotionally attached to you, a dynamic person with a backstory he was ready to uncover. And he was sure that if you crossed paths, the fiery blue light in his lantern would illuminate more than the eye could see if you stood close enough to it, close enough to him.
Still, Flins had yet to officially acquaint himself with you. He was not a shy man but he really did not have an actual reason to talk to you aside from wanting to get to know you, and he was unsure of what you knew about him. He understood that many found him to be unapproachable, not because of his reputation which was quite positive, but because he was a little peculiar. A man who kept to himself and who was said to prefer the company of the dead as the sole guard willingly stationed at the Final Night Cemetery had to indeed be somewhat abnormal, somewhat unusual. It was therefore reasonable that many tended to avoid him. He did not mind it much, but it did put him at a disadvantage when it came to meeting people because he did not know what others’ opinions were of him. There were even rumours circulating among some folks that claimed animals steered clear of him. Surely, there had to be something wrong with him.
And there was, but proof remained insufficient. To the people, Flins was still an honourable man because he helped keep the citizens of Nod-Krai safe from the insufferable Wild Hunt. On the inside, however, there were secrets he intended to take to his grave, but death was a fate a fae did not have to ruminate on, for it was guaranteed he would outlive all who whispered his name now. A long life was simply a gift handed to him, so he never bothered to understand the meaning of it. He just existed.
The concept of near-eternity could not be applied to you however, and he realised this the first time your life was put in danger. It only occurred to him then just how much he loved the idea of not only helping you, but saving you as well, and from the greedy hands of fate who played life and death with the gods’ mortal subjects, no less.
The night had just begun yet terror had already rampaged the grounds outside Nasha Town, such was the usual case in Nod-Krai. Many of the people had long accepted that the Wild Hunt was an undefeatable curse, so news of any attacks never shocked anyone, but fear of one’s life being claimed by the monstrous entities that lurked where the Archons were farthest from was always abundant.
Dark Abyssal energy oozed from a deep crack in the earth, pooling on the ground like blood decorating an open wound. Above were grey patchy clouds covering shimmering stars that failed to brighten the superficial sky. Though it was hard to see through all the fog, a putrid smell permeating the air indicated that the corpses belonging to wilderness ghouls and riftwolves littering the battlefield still had yet to vanish into thin air. And standing amidst it all was you, weary and frightened with a heart that beat as fast as your thoughts raced, as well as the honourable lightkeeper Flins who had slain with his hands those wretched beasts.
To have the chance to properly introduce himself in a scene as gruesome as this had never crossed Flins’ mind. Your heavy breathing disrupted his coherent thoughts, and the fearful look in your eyes as you clung to his arm as if letting go would kill you stirred an inexplicable warmth within his chest while the sickeningly sweet feeling of a thousand fluttering butterflies erupted in his stomach as he selfishly relished the heat radiating from your body. This had never crossed his mind.
“Are you alright?” He gulped as he tried not to look at your chest heaving up and down against his arm.
“I think so,” you panted, and although tears stained your cheeks, you began to laugh out of relief. It was warm and so full of life, maybe because a near-death experience was all that was needed to bring out a person’s love for living. You then unlatched your arms from him and stepped back slowly to a respectful distance a few feet away. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, thank you so much! I didn’t know the Wild Hunt was on this path. I usually take this path home and it’s always safe but I should have been more cautious with all the recent attacks I’ve heard about. I’ve inconvenienced you,” you rambled frantically.
Flins already knew you would be walking this path, he had memorised your routines and schedules, but naturally, he was not about to reveal that to you. While patrolling, he thought it would not hurt to see you for a moment. The attack from the Wild Hunt was an unexpected occurrence, though, and one that ignited a fire within him like no other. He laid a hand over his chest, over his thumping heart. “No, you have not inconvenienced me at all. This is part of my duty as a lightkeeper—to keep all those in danger safe. I am glad to have intervened before you could have been harmed.”
“I am glad, too.” You smiled followed by a sigh of relief. “I cannot thank you enough, truly.”
“Please, there is no need. Your health and safety are what matter to me most.” Flins waved a hand at your incessant thanks even though he loved to hear it. While he had imagined more harmless scenarios in his mind, this was just like what he had daydreamed about, except this was real. The way you quirked your brow for a second when he said ‘to me’ reminded him of that, and that he needed to think some more before he spoke. Fantasies could be replayed in his mind until everything felt right but he only had one chance to make a good impression.
However, by observing you now, your hands clasped together as you gazed upon him like an angelic saviour descended from Celestia after hearing your tearful prayer, he knew that he had indeed made a good impression.
“May I know your name? So that I may put in a good word to your superior,” you asked as you eyed his uniform, identifying it as a lightkeeper’s.
You were so sweet, Flins wanted to laugh but your words left him conflicted. A part of him had hoped you knew of him, that you had imagined him before. Although he was certainly not one to boast about his reputation and instead regarded himself as a humble man, a part of him had hoped you had, at the very least, thought of him once because he had thought of you innumerable times. His face, his voice, anything at all that could have come to your mind. In contrast, he was equally relieved to know you were so oblivious because it meant you had never noticed him lurking in the darkness where he seemed to so seamlessly blend amidst the shadows.
He cleared his throat and bowed with a hand behind his back. “My name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, though you may just call me Flins.”
“Flins?”
His heart jumped. Hearing you say his name in this state—your laboured breathing accompanied by sweat dripping down your temples—was absolutely riveting and far better than he had ever imagined. He then nodded. “That is correct, and what might your name be?”
You told him your name although he already knew it. Of course, he only asked because it would have been strange and impolite if he did not. You continued to speak. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around. It's nice to meet you.” You stuck out a hand. “You saved my life! It’s because of you I’m alive. I will never forget your help.”
Flin’s train of thought stopped for a moment as he stared at your hand. His hand itched to take it though he could not help but linger on your words. Saved your life. Yes, he had done just that like a warrior—a true Ratnik that served without gaining anything in return. However, something else dawned upon him when you spoke: life was precious, your life was precious, and it suddenly occurred to the fae whose life would continue in spite of the old age that often took the lives of humans each day that he could not waste more time following you around like a shadow for there would come a day you would perish. Life was a limited privilege and thus a curse for human beings. Death could decide to make its appearance whenever it pleased, just as the Wild Hunt had decided to manifest on the road you frequented.
Yet still, was it not the Wild Hunt that had prompted him—no, encouraged him to approach you not as a shadow but as a light who could guide you away from the darkness? In the daylight, Flins was but a shadow that longed for a person to attach himself to, forever floating in a world where he pretended to be human despite not fully comprehending what life meant to a human being let alone himself. Whereas when darkness engulfed the land, his lantern glowed brightly as if it spoke for his yearning heart and soul, as if his thoughts were lit aflame and ready to use as fuel.
This is wrong, he thought, to even think slightly positively of the Abyss for the first time in my life is wrong. It nearly took your life—
But that did not happen. He was there to save you.
Flins could not deny that he was delighted in seeing your relief after a terrible experience only he could have rescued you so easily from. It made his heart race, never had he felt so alive! He wanted more of it. That feeling in his chest—he wanted to feel it again and again just like he had replayed his fantasies of you in his mind. He wanted to feel you panting against his body, he wanted his name engraved on your tongue, he wanted to truly feel life as a human being! And with you, no doubt!
It was selfish, pathetic! And he hated that he loved it, but love, or in his case, a blooming obsession, was a sin that outweighed all his morals. He was your saviour, but he was not a saint. To feel what he had just felt would require you to face death again, and this idea both excited and startled him.
But what of a man of honour? Should a man of honour not be a paragon of morality? He continued to stare at your hand as he silently debated himself.
It seemed fate did not only play marionette with mortals, and if fate had both brought you two together and showed him his potential as well, then would it not be immoral (wrong) to reject this opportunity to step out from the shadows? He did not know. What he did know was that he wanted to be your knight, your hero—the very light source you could cling to in a world of darkness. Was that not honourable? Never mind what he would have to do...
Flins glanced at the Abyssal corpses that were becoming more visible as the fog lifted and in his mind he thought: We live in a world that has become dangerous and disorderly as a result of the gods’ immorality all those centuries ago. The very beings we are to look up to and honour have put us in great harm. He then looked back at your hand that faltered the longer he stared. If the divine lawmakers of our world could not even act justly, then who is to say anyone beneath can accurately judge what is right and what is wrong?
Death was an inherent part of life, but it was also something he could save you from over and over again. If he wanted to feel alive, he would have to understand the fear of death through the very person he had fallen so deeply attached to. This way, he could also become your guiding light, your angel that protected you. In his mind, this was the only way.
Flins’ prolonged silence had become awkward, so you lowered your hand in embarrassment, believing you had overstepped some kind of boundary of his or the lightkeepers’ that advised them not to acquaint themselves with the people they saved lest they begin to prioritise the safety of their friends over all of the region.
Flins, the honourable lightkeeper of Nod-Krai, decided then to take his opportunity.
The skies had mostly cleared, allowing for the moonlight to shine upon him, the metal accessories of his coat gleaming as he bowed once more before you. And with his hand behind his back, he crossed two fingers and spoke in a voice as calming as the whistling winds that blew over the seas to cleanse the air of impurities. “It is a great pleasure and honour to meet you. Rest assured that as long as I am near with my light in my hand, no harm from the darkness shall ever fall upon you.”
You never noticed his crossed fingers.
From this moment, Flins knew that he had to be in your life as fate had clearly wanted, and to him it seemed the best way to do that was to ensure there was always darkness for him to shine in.
— — —
Written and released before character became playable*
A/N: I have read this about twenty or more times and I still don't know how I feel about it, especially with how uncomfortable yandere Flins was making me (and I'm the fanfic writer lol why do I do this to myself?). Again, I don't condone this type of behaviour presented above. If you ever encounter somebody like that, please run. You are destined for great things and fixing insane men is not one of them. Still, I'm posting this silly little fic to break my blog's silence caused by my inactivity and totally not because I would otherwise just abandon this fic completely if I don't just click 'post.' Was I loud enough? Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it! Can't wait to wife Flins up when his banner is released. Cuffing season is soon, babyyy.
↳ Title is a lyric from "Sugar Daddy" by Qveen Herby. Inspired by this catchy song I was listening to at the gym.
Yandere Genshin men who would spoil you with the riches of the world.
MDNI. CW: drug + alcohol mention, slightly suggestive content. Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not to be taken seriously because it is fiction, and it is not a portrayal of romance/love in real life.
If it is Childe’s last dying wish, may it be that all his fortune, apart from what is saved for his family, be given to you—bequeathed to you as if it is your heavenly right. Each bag, jingling with heavy mora as he hands them to you, is a token of his obsession that has spiraled beyond what anyone normal would call love. A better word is worship. He does not even consider it his money; the money belongs to you, even if it is him who earns the sparkly golden coins that shimmer under the sunlight just because he causes chaos in the night under the Tsaritsa’s command.
You see, Childe absolutely loves the idea of giving you his money, just handing millions of mora over like it is worth nothing at all, and yet, it is worth everything to him simply because it is meant for you. That very thought makes each individual coin feel as though it holds the weight of the stars and the heavens—no other gift could be as appropriate for you.
Still, that does not mean he does not buy you presents. While he typically likes to just hand over his money to you, he is more than happy to buy you presents he thinks are worthy of your possession. As he travels around the world, he brings back souvenirs worth more than most could ever dream of making in their entire lifetimes, unfathomable prices that could leave generations bankrupt. Childe chooses his gifts very carefully, paying attention to what would catch your eye or what would match your eyes. And if it sends him to the depths of the underworld to say what he should not, then so be it: with how he worships you, with how he offers you almost all that he is worth, he thinks you may very well be the suitable replacement for Liyue’s fallen God of Wealth for he believes you are worth more than he could have ever been.
Your very existence, he thinks, is a blessing that he must forever be grateful for, even if you do not reciprocate the same amount of love and obsession he harbours for you. You are a deity who must be worshipped, and his money is his most expensive oblation; he even considers it more valuable than his tainted heart which has been corrupted by the Abyss, a place he never wants you to see or experience.
Ayato
Money is not so much a luxury but rather a tool to Ayato. There are only two specific and rather simple reasons why he spends so much money on you. The first is that he believes your appearance represents not only how well his commission is doing, but how successful the Kamisato Clan is. While he prefers to not be in the public eye, it does not mean he restricts your freedom. You are the public face by which people know the Yashiro Commission, and you are free to do as you please so long as you do not tarnish the Kamisato name or embarrass Ayato personally.
As such, you are the symbol of wealth and prestige. Like a sakura tree with roots that stretch deep beneath the earth, supporting a beautiful plethora of wild blossoms above, you must stand tall and poised as Ayato adorns you with all the garments and accessories needed to prove that the Kamisato Clan is as strong as ever. And if buying you whatever clothes, accessories, or frivolous items you want will keep you happy enough, content enough, satisfied enough to remain by his side as his pretty spouse who brings more elegance to what is already a respected family, he will not hesitate to spend his mora on you. What is but a few coins in the name of reputation?
The second reason, however, is one he does not admit to you, and one he hopes you do not so easily figure out. By buying all that you desire, all that you can imagine to own, have, and experience, he desperately wishes that you become dependent on him and what he can offer you. He wants to be the drug you consume, the liquor that has you wishing to drown yourself in. When in need, he wants you to come to him, crying and begging that he help you—and he will never say no.
And if you do realise what he is trying to do with all the gifts he buys you, all the gold, silver, and diamonds, it may be too late by then to leave him should you wish to truly gain your own independence without any ties to the Kamisato Clan. Ayato is a cunning man who plans well before he executes his ideas with grace, ease, and keen intelligence. He will have you believing that it is only him who can provide the life you desire; and you, the sakura tree standing tall in the gardens of the Kamisto Estate, shall remain unaware that your roots beneath the soil have long interlocked with the roots of the trees around you, effectively tying you down to the land and to him forever.
Scaramouche
While it may seem unlikely that this man would care enough to waste his money on anyone or anything at all, it is rather the opposite. Scaramouche has plenty to spare for his wealth is enough to fill the seas between the major islands of Inazuma. And as a high-ranking Fatui Harbinger, he definitely believes that his partner should, at the very least, look decent.
Decent to him, however, does not mean appearing fresh, clean, and tidy—it is far beyond that. It instead means adorning yourself with rare jewels and gems dug out from mountains only the most brave would climb and chiseled by only the handiest of jewelers he can commission; it means wearing fabrics woven by silk threads that are softer than the skin he loves to bite and bruise; and it means smelling like stardust fallen from real skies that hold the secrets of this world and beyond. If he is to be the god he so dearly wishes to become, then his partner should look heavenly, as if you, too, were created by one of The Seven.
You must appear to be a blessed creation like himself so that you may have the potential to stand by his side as he usurps the power from all those who wronged him, all those who deceived him. Your hair, your clothes, and your makeup (if you wear any) must always be perfect. The only time he wishes to see you looking any less than perfect is when he has you crying for his mercy. In those cases, your tears, sparkly like the diamonds he buys you, streaking down your face and mixing into your smudged lipstick that barely covers your bruised and bitten lips as you whisper his name is a far more beautiful sight to him. Otherwise, he loves to dress you up like a doll, a puppet he can control in every way, including what you wear (how ironic for a puppet himself). This is perhaps because he hates knowing he is the true puppet in both a literal and metaphorical way (Ei’s creation, Dottore’s test subject).
And when you look so beautiful in the clothes he bought for you made from imported silks, hand-crafted lace, and bejeweled with stones and jewels that sparkle as you twirl, something he often makes you do whenever he wants you to show off your clothes to him, he cannot help but fall in love (and obsessed) with you all over again as he covers with a hand the warm blush rising to his cheeks.
Kaeya
Kaeya AlbeRICH has a healthy fortune that was gifted to him by his late father, and he is not one to shy away from using his money on the finer things in life, such as you. But he spoils you not just to make you love or obsess over him, but also to make you believe that he is the greatest prize you can and should strive for. If he can buy you all that you desire, then should you not also wish to seek the generous heart of the benefactor, too?
Kaeya likes to drag out the fun as long as possible if he can. He finds it far more entertaining to see you become dependent on him as you slowly begin to realise that he is the ultimate prize you could get your hands on if you so desire it. He will tempt you, tease you until you want more.
The gifts begin small; ornamental offerings he purchases from various luxury shops known for their authenticity and deliverance of high-quality items are handed to you in boxes wrapped in tulle ribbons dyed in your favourite colours. Truly, these gifts mean nothing to him, but they are everything to you, and he knows that. He is an observer with a keen eye who picks up on details others miss and may never realise. It is as if the web of intricacies that make you unique are slowly being spun around his fingers, the thread cutting into his skin, giving way to thin streams of blood, as he uncovers more about you. He knows what you like and what you would like, from material desires to secret wishes you only reveal in your whispered prayers to the Archons. Be wary of people like him, for they can learn much more about you from a single interaction than you may ever feel comfortable revealing.
As time passes, the gifts double, triple, and grow greater in quantity and worth until it seems as though he has purchased the world for you. And do you then see him as the only candidate to win your heart and devotion, and perhaps even your mind should you obsess over him as he does over you? The choice is yours. Do you follow the trail of diamonds he has set or shut the door? He may not be the lord of a manor like his brother, but he could offer so much more as a descendant of survivors from a nation that rose from ashes, conquered through hardships, and operated successfully with no gods. He wields magic and knowledge he has yet to reveal to you. You just have to want and accept him.
Varka (written before release)
Travelers unaware of the political climate of Mondstadt and therefore the long absence of the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius may mistake you as the leader of the nation simply because of your extravagant clothes, your large mansion with architecture rivaling the beautiful Favonius Cathedral, and the great fortune you clasp so casually around your hands—golden bracelets (or perhaps handcuffs) having once belonged to heroes of ancient times before being passed down through the generations and landing in your grasp.
With all of this accounted for, there is an undeniable air of untouchable royalty surrounding you, following you as you move from place to place like a shadow tied to your form; your mere presence invokes absolute respect as people genuflect before you. All that you are missing is a diadem made from the silver and gold found in the caves of Dragonspine and bedazzled with vayuda turquoise slivers in the shape of the Anemo symbol. A true monarch of Mondstadt.
To Varka, you are the moon he has searched long for, the very reflection of blessed sunlight that is cast upon this world to save all the living from the darkness that would otherwise consume everything in its path each night. He therefore cannot even fathom the idea of not treating you like you are the most precious thing in his life. While he may rarely be home, his presence is felt all around you, palpable as if a part of his very essence resides in the bangles, the necklaces, and the rings he buys you. And, in a way, it’s true. A ‘V’ is always engraved somewhere to mark you as his.
But there are moments when his presence, love, and obsession feel much too heavy even in his absence. You may mean everything to Varka, but Varka means everything to Mondstadt. It is only because of him that you are known throughout the nation. As such, no one dares grow close enough to hurt you, let alone befriend you, for fear of inadvertently insulting Varka. He is generally not one to be feared, but his strength and valour commands respect like no other, so people keep their distance from you just to be safe. Perhaps the reverence you receive—superficial and affected—is only due to whom you are associated with. You are an extension of a greater power, a measly reflection of the sunlight that shines during the day.
It is only when the sun sets and the moon rises, your shadow seemingly becoming one with you, do you truly feel that you live in Varka’s shadow. You are alone in a world where all know your name, not that Varka really cares given that he would rather you be his and his alone, a moon reserved to only reflect him. And suddenly, your gold accessories weigh heavy against your skin, feeling as though they will leave shallow indents where they rest. It is almost as if you really are the moon with its craters that speckle its lunar surface.
Pantalone (written before release)
As the richest of the Fatui Harbingers and as a man who came from an impoverished family, he knows that money is not to be spent so frivolously. That rule, however, does not apply to you. You are not a mere lover he spends the night with once and then tosses out of his bedroom like you are only worth regretting and later forgetting. Rather, he views you as his prized possession, someone worth fighting a million wars, someone worth signing his entire legacy to should he die on mission. Perhaps it is because you are the only one who he can trust in this unfair world where wealth determines all. Wealth, or rather mora, is a tainted currency that blesses those with it and curses those without.
Interestingly, Pantalone believes that your inherent worth is far greater than the mora people use across the continent. If he could, he would design his own currency named after you, a coin made of nothing but pure, unadulterated gold beautifully designed with inscriptions declaring his devotion to you in ancient text along the edge. On one side would be your beautiful profile with the other side displaying the map of Teyvat to represent how much you mean to him, and you mean the world.
This new currency would effectively devalue the mora, and he would ensure that everyone everywhere is given sufficient amounts to replace the mora they had, even giving to those who had no mora to begin with. What a considerate man if you ignore the fact that he would completely disintegrate all the mora in the world just for you—a pretty excessive and unnecessary act.
But until that dream becomes possible, he is satisfied with buying you whatever you dream of currently. To him, gift-giving is a powerful bond that strengthens your connection to him. He thinks to himself: if all that you own is bought with my money, then are you not mine, as well? It’s up to you how you may answer, but there is no denying that money is a sacred part of the tightly-tied bond between you and the ninth Fatui Harbinger.
From small diamonds to castles designed by Teyvat’s greatest architects, Pantalone buys them without hesitation, for his heart lies not in how much money he spends on you, but in how each gift—with the intangible and abstract meanings you apply to them—brings you closer together, whether or not you realise it.
Yandere Genshin men as ex-husbands who try to cope with their divorces. || Completed stories. || More parts for other characters to be released in the future.
MDNI. Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, and it is not a portrayal of romance/love.
If the debt did not make him lose his mind, everyone believes the divorce surely has after he tells people that he is building his ex-spouse a home to live in. He does not care for your insistence that you do not need nor want him to design and build a home for you, especially since the divorce has left him in greater debt than he was before marrying you. Even if the weight of the debt crushes his back, crushes his soul—he will continue to borrow from loan sharks looking to cause trouble just so that he may build you that gorgeous home he so desires, and he desires it because it is not really a home.
At first glance, it seems to be a palace constructed by the gods themselves. Its intricate designs rival both the current architectural wonders of the world and the ruins of past civilisations speckled around Teyvat. However, looks are deceiving. One could rather argue that this palace, extravagant as it is and decorated with expensive materials that will last for centuries to come, is a cage instead. A home, a fortress, and a tomb meant to house his beloved forever.
This cage shall sit where the ancient trees and flowers bloom right on the outskirts of Sumeru City. This way, it is within the serenity found in Sumeru’s green landscapes but still close to the perimeter of city life that Kaveh is most familiar with so that he may visit you whenever he wants to, whenever he needs to. Columns will stand high, holding stones encasing rare gems that shall form the shell and structure of this cage. A beautiful sight for anyone walking past.
And the interior will be just as lovely, if not more. It will be grand and breathtaking as if one is stepping foot into a whole new world, a whole new paradise. The several luxury bathrooms will be designed with marble flooring to complement the tubs carved from glistening stone. The many living rooms will be lined with grand windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling so that the beauty of Sumeru’s wild forests feel as though it is part of the home, and silk curtains—in the same shade as your bruised lips that he loved to kiss until it was hard for the both of you to breathe—will fall from those ceilings, complementing the green scenery as seen outside. And in the hallways will be beautiful murals depicting the nation’s history along the walls, so that if you were to walk down any hall, it will feel as though you are transcending through time and space.
Yet, despite all the beauty of this magnificent home, the corridors will seem to lead into one another—effectively trapping you in a never-ending labyrinth of lavish decor. And the rooms will be unusually large as if to make anyone inside them feel small and miniscule—helpless. And should you manage to navigate through the dozens of halls, the figures in his murals will seem to move with you under the dim light of the candles that will be perched on small shelves, ready to be blown out if you run past them while desperately looking for a way out. And if the smoke and scents melted into the wax begin to suffocate you, you will find that none of the windows can be opened wide enough to let in a breeze large or strong enough to quickly purify the dirtied air, and of course, they will certainly not open wide enough to let you escape. The serenity of the outside world, the same world where Kaveh resides, will become ever so tantalising.
He designs this home not only to flaunt his magnificent skills, but also to remind you of how lonely and cursed life can feel without him.
Kaveh may say that he has accepted your divorce from him, that he has moved on from his past marriage, but his drunken slurs to any who wish to comfort him in this time of distress reveal his more honest and darker way of coping.
“Let this home be my parting gift to you, my dear. In these walls, may you be free as you have made me,” Kaveh whispers to himself as he rests his head on his crafting table, his wine-stained lips pressing onto the blueprints of your palace before he drifts into a drunken slumber.
Scaramouche
It may be written in history that when you initiated a successful divorce from the Sixth Fatui Harbinger, there was unimaginable wrath unleashed on the lands he was assigned to spy on at the time. For weeks following your divorce, his temper was at its limit. The smallest of inconveniences pushed him over the edge of insanity where his subordinates felt their lord was teetering on the daily. If his mere presence struck fear in the hearts of his soldiers before the divorce, his presence after you left him became one that felt like a dangerous toxin that could sicken the body instantly.
Scaramouche, however, felt that it was not he who was at fault for the monster he had turned into. It was you. You were and are the poison he consumed, killing his soulless body over and over again even after you left. Clearly, he thought, your presence still remained within his vicinity. So, in an attempt to free himself from you once and for all, Scaramouche instructed his soldiers to burn controlled fires in every stronghold of his that you had ever set foot in so that the embers flickering off the flames could burn your lingering presence. He seemingly wanted nothing to do with you anymore.
And most of his subordinates believed it. No one dares bring up your name even now. It has been forbidden in his presence, but what is forbidden becomes the most intriguing thing of all. Even the strongest of Fatui Harbingers cannot cease the whispered rumours that circulate. Some say that you became bored with him and others say you found another to love. When these rumours reach Scaramouche, he not only dismisses them, laughing hysterically at the soldiers he had instructed to go around and find out what rumours were being said about him behind his back, he also commands that those who spread the lies be publicly punished by various means. It really depends on how insulted he feels at the moment.
What he does not reveal or admit is that each one of those rumours shatters a piece of him. Whispered lies for others’ amusement are hammers that break the porcelain encasing this puppet’s internal world where he battles between his immortality and his human emotions—an incongruence that serves like a naturally occurring poison, except it is one that he is not immune to.
No matter how much he claims to loathe you, no matter how much he claims to want nothing but your humiliation and doom, he cannot fool everyone of the lies that roll off his tongue with such ease. This is the same man who was rejected by his mother for his ability to feel far more than he should. Abandoned for crying and left alone to fend for himself in a world riddled with monsters and chaotic evil, yet somehow, this same man does not seem to care enough to shed a tear, at least publicly, for having been left by the very one he believed had freed him from the spiritual ache he had held onto over the past five centuries, and the very one he now obsesses over constantly?
The two soldiers who guard the door to his bedroom can confirm—at least to themselves because if word got out, the punishment would surely be severe—that the Lord Scaramouche truly does feel for his loss, and that he hurts deeply.
Choked sobs are muffled by the thick wooden doors to his bedroom, but they can still be faintly heard in the dead of the night when all have gone quiet. Inside the chambers lies Scaramouche on his bed as he hugs his pillow tightly, wishing it is you. The very thought that he, a feared Harbinger, has been reduced down to pathetic, sobbing mess over someone who no longer cares for him and likely despises him only makes him cry harder. His eyes are puffy and red as stinging tears burn his pale skin, while his hands shake and tremble uncontrollably. It is as pathetic as it may be heart-breaking, given that he is a ruthless man who has committed enough crimes to last an eternity in prison.
The lonely nights never get better nor do they get easier. He grows with rage and sadness, his body feeling as though it burns from fire ignited by the electricity of his Delusion that, if anything, keeps him more sane than his obsession for you. Conflicted, he does not know whether to truly hate you or to miss you dearly.
And as the night moves along and the moon shines more light through his bedroom windows as it moves across the sky, Scaramouche’s attention is caught by the moonlight that reflects off the glass panel over the small picture frame on his bedside table.
It is the last of your presence, besides your wedding ring, that he has not banned, perhaps because he actually cannot let go of your presence as much as he wishes he could. It is a picture of you and him on your wedding day. He dons a special Fatui uniform gifted to him by the Tsaritsa while you wear the most beautiful clothes weaved by the most skilled of seamstresses who are only commissioned to craft garments for the Fatui elite. And in that picture, he looks so happy even with his small smile. The happiness is evident in his eyes that sparkle like the sacred sakura petals that glimmer in Inazuma’s forests under the moonlight. You, however, are cast out by that same moonlight now. The light leaves a sheen right over your face, covering up your natural and effortless beauty as well as any emotions you had on your wedding day. The picture thus seems to only be of him—alone, abandoned, and rejected once again. More tears fall from his eyes, blinding him with a blur that burns.
Perhaps you were never meant to be his, but he hates to even acknowledge such a thought. So, he chooses to both hate and miss you.
“For as long as eternity lasts, you shall reap what you sow.” Scaramouche whispers angrily to himself, his voice muffled as he speaks into his pillow while he readjusts the leather strip around his neck from which yours and his wedding rings hang as intertwined pendants, a symbol of ever-lasting connection. “If I shall drown in tears, so shall you.”
Diluc
Any who find themselves at the Dawn Winery and who do not know of your divorce from the manor’s lord may believe you are still married to him. There in the main hall where all can see, where all can behold, is your portrait. Beautifully illustrated by the most skilled painter in Teyvat that Diluc could commission, and painted with the most expensive oil paints imported from Natlan. And yet still, he found that the portrait only captured a fraction of your real beauty. To him, your beauty was divine and it could not be replicated on canvas.
But he keeps the portrait up no matter what because it is the only visual representation of the beauty that once lived in his manor.
There are times when Adelinde urges him, in a subtle manner, that it may be time for him to find another spouse, to move on and let go. Diluc refuses each time. He is entirely and utterly devoted to you in body, mind, and spirit. He will continue to risk his life as the Darknight Hero to keep Mondstadt safe for you. He will still think of you no matter how much his friends, brother, or Adelinde attempt to distract him. And he will continue to devote every part of his life and legacy to you even if it drains his soul to linger on a past relationship the Lord Barbatos even tries to whisk away with his strong winds that flow through the opened windows of the manor, chipping away at the paint of your portrait.
So, he keeps the windows closed instead. Diluc has never been very religious anyway, even if he knows his god exists.
And that is surely not all he does. All that you have left, such as accessories and ornaments you left at his home while moving, are kept in the exact position you had left them. Whether because you no longer cared for them or forgot about them, he does not care. Your belongings decorate your old, shared bedroom which he still sleeps in. The maids are instructed to clean around your belongings, and if they need to move them, they must do so momentarily and place them back in their rightful positions. Diluc will notice any misplacements, and while he is not one to get angry at his maids, Adelinde reluctantly instructs that they try to respect this unhealthy command so that he may remain as sane for as long as possible.
But is sane a word that can be associated with Diluc? The very man who went on a killing spree in Snezhnaya when his father was tragically taken from this world, and now the very man who obsesses over his ex to the point where you are the only thing and one on his mind? While tnot a popular rumour, some of the maids have reported smelling something sweet in his bedroom; they don’t know it but Diluc sprays your perfume on his bed every night, clinging onto any remnants of your waning presence as he wishes you and himself a goodnight. Mad is the lord of Dawn Winery, and nothing less.
And when he sees you every now and then while visiting the city, he finds that it is harder to behold the real you as he has become so accustomed to the painted you and to the you he knew when you were married.
There you are sitting in the Favonius Cathedral where much of the entire nation has gathered to honour the God of Freedom on a blessed day that has become an annual tradition in Mondstadt over the centuries. He sits in a pew a few rows back where he stares at the back of your head from afar. And while the church bell rings and the choir sings, the irreligious Diluc finds himself silently praying in his mind to a god who drinks himself to near death at his tavern each night for a chance that you may come back to him. The man wants you crying in his arms, he wants you clutching onto him like he is your very life source. To be frank, he wants to be the air you breathe to stay alive; he wants to become your freedom.
But does the lord of the manor realise that he prays to a greater lord who represents true freedom to bring back his ex to a home where they may never again experience the freedom of Mondstadt? Does the lord of the manor realise such a prayer will never be answered, for his god is not so cruel? Surely, Diluc has gone completely mad.
“I will keep your presence here alive and well, and you shall always be part of my life and a part of the Ragnvindr history,” Diluc thinks to himself as he watches the very painter who he had commissioned to paint your portrait retouch the chipped pieces of his artwork. “You will always be mine.”
Childe/Tartaglia
With enough wealth to drown himself in, this Fatui Harbinger does not hesitate to make use of his great wealth to buy your love back. Childe is a simple man who believes he can throw mora at anything, yet still, he loves a challenge. His heart beats quicker at just the thought of an obstacle hindering his path to reach his goal because it makes the value of the prize so much more worth the difficulty. Your refusal to have him waltz back into your life may be frustrating given that he yearns so deeply for you, but it also excites him in a way that it should not. Playing hard to get? No, but he seems to think otherwise, and he loves it.
Childe wants his message to be clear, so he buys you an abundance of what he believes to be nature’s greatest symbol of love: the rose. Its velvet petals, soft like your skin, are as red as the heart that feels deeply for you. And its thorns remind him of your courage and valour that he fell so deeply obsessed with simply because they posed a challenge to him. The rose is thus the perfect symbol, the perfect message—he believes—to send to you.
The deliveries of roses are a routine you become accustomed to; Fatui lackeys, usually two or three, knock on your door each morning with enough roses to fill up a cart. They do not ask for a signature or if you are willing to accept the roses at all when the bouquets quite literally spell out your name. The front yard of your home looks like a rose garden due to the excessive deliveries, but you soon find that you have no more space outside to plant the roses, so you are forced to keep some indoors in the vases and pots you have on hand. Roses and vines hang from every corner of your home, serving as a constant reminder of his past love and ever-lasting obsession.
However, there are too many to tend to all at once, and those uncared for whither away over time. He does not worry about that. With his rough hands, he wraps each bouquet with pink ribbons, the thorns cutting into his fingers, before he sends them off to your home to replace the ones that could not withstand the obsessive and sickening love they were supposed to represent.
The thorns, of course, are not cut off from the stems before he sends them to you; they are meant to also prick and cut your fingers as you handle them and bring them into your home. The blood, red as roses, that seep from your small cuts shall serve as a reminder that his obsession has transcended the realm of love, marriage, and divorce, and has situated itself as close to your heart as is your blood.
Yet, despite all the roses he sends, you never respond. Not once does his subordinates report any signs that you may be gradually welcoming his gifts with good spirit or perhaps even getting fed up with the absurd amount of roses being sent to your home. They say you simply accept them with apathy—expressionless with little to no emotion or surprise laced in your voice as you gesture for the Fatui soldiers to bring in the boxes of roses they struggle to carry on their persons. It seems as though you do not care, even when the roses you had planted in your garden had grown out of control, climbing onto the outer walls of your home as if to encroach on the very space you felt was otherwise untouchable to the obsessive Harbinger.
That is because you and your home are untouchable. You have turned those roses into a shield to defend you from the man sick with determination. Perhaps you know Childe better than himself. Childe is not as mysterious as he may seem to some. In fact, he is rather open and quite manipulable. That, nonetheless, does not mean you are stronger than him, at least not physically. However, you do not need to be stronger; you need only be smarter, for Childe is but a simple man. You know that he wants—no, craves a reaction, and it does not matter to him whether it is positive or negative, so your silence and easy compliance irritate him in a way that he hates, in a way that frustrates him unlike any obstacle he has ever faced. Who knew that by refusing to be an obstacle, you became the greatest challenge to him yet?
You did, of course, and this challenge is one he will never win.
“Am I to hate or love this challenge you have given me?” Childe crushes the rose petals in his calloused hands. He then looks at the dozens of open boxes in his office that are filled to the very top with roses he himself plucked this time. “If I fail, perhaps it is because it is the will of the cursed heavens. And what then? Will I then hate you or admire your wit?”
