...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˗
Prim. Early 20s. She/her. Diluc enthusiast. 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.).
Being married to Diluc Ragnvindr would mean learning all the different versions of him that the rest of Mondstadt never gets to see.
To everyone else, he’s intimidating. Quiet. Untouchable. The wealthy owner of Dawn Winery with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. But with you? He softens in tiny ways.
He’ll loosen his gloves after a long day and silently hold out a hand for you to take. He’ll linger in doorways just to watch you talk. Some nights he comes home exhausted from dealing with the winery or disappearing as the Darknight Hero, and the second you touch his face, all that tension melts right out of him.
Diluc is the kind of husband who remembers everything about you. How you take your tea. Which side of the bed you prefer. What expression means you’re upset even when you insist you’re “fine.”
He pretends not to notice little things, but he notices all of them and he’s protective in the quietest way possible. You’d mention once that a merchant was rude to you, and somehow that merchant would never overcharge anyone at the winery again. Someone makes you uncomfortable during a social gathering? Diluc suddenly appears beside you with one hand resting at your waist, expression unreadable but unmistakably possessive.
He isn’t overly clingy in public, but he is deeply affectionate in private. Forehead kisses while passing by. Pulling you into his lap while he finishes paperwork. Resting his head against your shoulder late at night when he’s too tired to keep up his composed facade.
The servants at Dawn Winery absolutely know when the two of you had a peaceful morning together because Diluc becomes noticeably gentler for the rest of the day. Adelinde especially finds it amusing and despite his serious reputation, Diluc secretly loves domestic moments with you more than anything else.
Late dinners together after midnight. Rain tapping against the winery windows while you sit beside the fireplace. Him wordlessly wrapping his coat around your shoulders because you forgot one again. He’d never say it dramatically, but loving you becomes the safest part of his life.
After losing so much, having a home that includes you is the one thing he refuses to take for granted.
Below are all my works organised in alphabetical order and in the collections they appear on AO3 for convenience. Please note that on AO3, chapters are published in chronological order instead. Individual story links are to Tumblr posts while collection links direct to AO3.
In progress collections:
1. Hearts of a Kind (Yan Genshin Imagines and Short One-shots)
Description: these works tend to be between 0.5k to 2k words. They are posted as individual stories or as mini collections following a central theme, i.e, a general premise with several short stories/drabbles involving different characters.
2. Bleeding Hearts (Yandere Genshin x Reader one-shots)
Description: these works focus on a single character and have much more fleshed out plots; each story is over 2k words, and there is no limit to how much I write for these ones.
A Man of Dishonour | Flins
Manifest | Flins
3. Expired Love
Description: Yandere Genshin men as ex-husbands who try to cope with their divorces. More chapters/parts to come out (I promise!!)
Expired Love, part 1 | Kaveh, Scaramouche, Diluc, Childe/Tartaglia.
Completed collections:
A Declaration of War
"He love me, he give me all his money" *titled "Sweetened Obsession" on AO3
You try to take back your freedom from Diluc in a failed attempt to escape as retribution. Only do you see then that Freedom and Retribution, when mixed, spark a flame stronger than Hell’s.
Yandere! Diluc x Reader
Cw: burning body. 1.3k words.
When Freedom has allowed the perpetrator to deeply offend and hurt Diluc, Retribution becomes his god. The fire of his phoenix does not need the oxygen in Barbatos’ wind and air to burn the path leading to vengeance. It only requires anger for fuel.
And currently, he is beyond angry with you.
It would have been another quiet night in Mondstadt had you stayed by Diluc’s side in the warmth of your bed, in the warmth of his manor; instead, the frosty howling winds of Dragonspine are what kiss and nip at your skin. The stinging cold would have been better than his hot breath had he not so quickly found you.
He stands there a few meters away dressed in a long, heavy wool coat that makes him appear twice his already large size. His body is fairly still while his Vision, revealed by the belt of his coat which has come undone, pulsates as the only source of light beside the moon. Pyro waiting to be unleashed illuminates the snowflakes swirling his legs in a bloody red. He does not speak. He only heaves heavily as he wedges the tip of his claymore further in between two snow-covered rocks to keep him steady. His hot breath immediately turns into puffs of visible air that dissipate into the atmosphere. Surely, the impromptu hike was a troublesome ordeal in the ceaseless blizzards that kill all that wish to live. Retribution is, however, something Diluc would dance with Death for.
You had only wanted Freedom. That was, as a resident of Mondstadt, your only crime. None believed your attempts to expose your husband for his possessive and restrictive behaviour. None could ever suspect their beloved friend, boss, brother, or former colleague could cage in his home like a bird the person he loves most, the person he always speaks so highly of, the person he does everything for. They have all drunk his wine made from the grapes he crushes beneath his feet. Superficial appearances built upon his socio-economic power are detrimental to your attempted revelations of the horrors that lie inside manor walls where your every move is watched and reported by maids loyal to him. Speaking to other men is impossible; not even friends nor family can access you without his intervention. It is all to keep you, in his words, safe from the influence of bad and potentially bad people. He has suffered betrayal too many times. If he can prevent such a fate with the one he loves most—
Diluc watches, like a wild boar does its prey, as you back further into the cave as though it were a cage that could keep you safer than your home.
—he will do whatever is in his power to smother your spark.
It is no wonder you turned to the gods; they were all you had left. In your belief, the mountains were the safest haven to ask for and to obtain the right of Freedom which had become a privilege when Diluc had first set his sights upon you, for the cold would presumably deter anything which burned passionately, like his love. Dragonspine’s peak was the closest you could reach for Celestia where Barbatos surely lives, and upon reaching it, you would call out his name in a desperate prayer.
“Save me, my Lord,” Diluc repeats what he had heard you say moments before in a mocking voice so quiet, you can barely hear through the wind’s cries. “From this terrible monster.”
A part of you knew you would never make it to the peak. Not because of the sheer cold, nor the Fatui soldiers and hilichurls you barely made it past on slippery trails covered in permafrost, but because of Diluc’s determination. Nonetheless, you and Diluc are quite similar in that respect. Determination is what Diluc had once admired in you when he had yet to call you his. That fire in your eyes paired with the passion in your heart burned so brightly that he was the moth to your flame. You are his sun, his whole world. That is why you knew it was unlikely for you to reach the peak. Your determination for Freedom is, however, something you would dance with Death for.
You feel something against your back as you slowly retreat further into the cave. There follows a loud thud. Oil paints of all primary colours bleed from opened cans onto the stone ground where brushes lay sporadically and aimlessly as if exhausted from being dragged against canvases. The paints mix into varied colours, and in some areas, muddle into brown. This is the vacant campsite of the alchemist and artist Albedo which you have unknowingly sought refuge in.
“You cause disaster wherever you go.” Diluc steps forward with his claymore as a cane. His voice is clearer this time. “I’m fairly certain it’s your curse. You curse me.”
Any vulgar warning and pathetic plea escaping your lips to leave you alone falls on deaf ears. He continues to approach you in a slow, steady manner unlike the raging fire from his claymore had as it lit his path to you in the darkness of night.
You look around the cave’s interior dimly lit by tabletop lamps. Miscellaneous items for alchemical and artistic purposes decorate the tables. Flasks, vials, rulers, pencils, and canvases with flying birds painted on them. You throw whatever you can at him and at his feet to deter him from entering the cave, so when you grab a glass Erlenmeyer flask with an unknown liquid inside, you do not think before you act.
Fire becomes all there is. It spreads rapidly in streams inside the cave but embers fear the blizzard where Diluc stands outside. Flames catch onto the fabric of your clothes, fire eats at your frost-bitten flesh. Your screams breathe to life the inferno that burns to death Diluc’s soul and heart just from witnessing it. Corrosive, oxidizing acid and oil paint do well to emulate hellfire.
You jump around frantically to free yourself of the flames. This is your dance with Death and the music which accompanies you are Diluc’s shouts and the blizzard’s howling in a harmonious symphony.
Between fire and snow, you must choose. Corrupted Freedom in Death or in Diluc’s arms?
Choice, however, is a freedom you do not have.
Diluc pulls you out of the flames with bare hands when you stumble close enough to the cave’s entrance. Quickly, in arms that cage your body, he wraps his wool coat around you to successfully smother the flames. Snowflakes sizzle and burn exposed skin where fire fueled by oil once raged. Your knees buckle but he catches you before the snow at your feet could hurt you anymore than the fire has.
“I’ve got you now! You’re safe!” He chokes on his sobs as he tries to hug you with burnt hands despite all the pain that shoots up his arms. He leans his head downwards to kiss your head before stopping when he sees how the fire has scorched the hair off your scalp. The damage inflicted upon you as a result of rejecting his pursuit, his desire, his love, pains his heart more than his burns for a moment. He is a monster, and he cannot help but cry harder. “I love you—I love you so much! Don’t ever leave me, don’t ever die on me! I won’t let you!”
In burning yourself, you have put out the fuel that is his anger.
“Barbatos could never take you from me.”
In your peripheral vision, miraculously preserved, you see the flames continue to engulf the campsite.
Only then do you remember there are no gods in Hell.
A/N: I originally wanted Diluc to roll you and himself in the snow to put out the flames but then I remembered snow is water and this is an oil fire…so instead, I gave him a wool coat to keep him warm in Dragonspine’s eternal winter since wool is fire-resistant. I hope this is all correct in chemical terms…but if it's not, oh well, Teyvat has its own laws, right? Also, please do not use this fanfic as a way to understand how to put out grease fires. This is fanFICTION!
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
Intended for an adult audience. Cw: mature themes. Wc: 1-1.3k words each.
RESPECTFUL version.
A/N: I'm back from the dead, and I present unto thee a very long post.
Dottore
1k words
Would it disturb you to know that your Lord Dottore derives pleasure from watching you sleep?
The full moon has risen over Teyvat, calling upon all creatures to descend into slumber, but monsters rarely heed the call of the divine. Instead, the Doctor roams the halls of the Special Territory Research Institute looking for prey. His rats have fallen asleep in their cages, his monitors have been turned off, and his subordinates have returned to rest in their rooms. He walks alone with intentions unknown, the dripping of rainwater seeping through cracks in the metal ceiling harmonising with the echoes of his footsteps. He moves in one direction, determined. Like how the ocean’s tide reaches for the moon each night, it is the rainwater that leads the Heretic of The False Moon to your door where water pools outside the threshold. You reel him in to drown in your sea of dreams with the rhythmic rise of your chest and the quiet snores that escape your chapped lips he so badly wishes to kiss. You do all to entrance him by doing nothing at all. So, prey he has found in you.
To leave your door unlocked thinking the Fatui, including you, are the only ones to fear in this world was a foolish mistake.
Because sometimes, the call comes from within the house.
You convince yourself it is nothing, just your imagination playing deceptive games when the truth has yet to be revealed. The feeling of being watched must come from the Fatui’s security measures planted in the institute’s every corner. The strange bruises littering your arms you attribute to combat training. The wet footsteps leading away from your bedroom door are but the traces of a drunken Fatuus who must have mistaken your room for theirs in the darkness of the hall. There is a logical explanation for everything!
Your dismissal is exactly what Dottore had hypothesised would happen before conducting his experiment, for what is there to expect but nothing at all? It is easier to quietly deny than it is to convince others of your inexplicable suspicions without evidence.
However, evidence is clearly there for those with the eyes to see it. One morning, Dottore catches you trudging absentmindedly about the institute. Your tired eyes stare ahead into the hall as though you are transfixed by the trail of rainwater leading down the corridor of this metal maze of horrors. Each puddle you step in reflects different distorted images of you that do not mirror your current state, and as you proceed through the hall towards the laboratory where you assist your Lord with his research, the puddles develop a reddish hue as if reflecting something from above, but nothing on your person could be the cause of this. Nevertheless, it would seem to a colleague passing by that you are just fatigued. In truth, you are not fully conscious of your state.
That is why you do not notice your Lord fall into step with you, his heavy footsteps sounding like a distant echo in your mind, one that is almost familiar though you cannot figure out why. After admiring your lack of awareness and the shocked looks of some passing soldiers who bow in respect to demonstrate how unlike they are to you, Dottore inquires, with feigned obliviousness, about your sluggish attitude, to which you greet him with a salute a second too long after realising who asks. Nothing, my Lord, you explain, forgive me. He flashes a smile that showcases his sharpened teeth. What you do not see are the wide eyes of a madman beneath his mask.
And even if you had seen his full expression, nothing could allow you to process the logical explanation behind it when your mind is constantly distracted by the horrible images that come flooding while you sleep when the moon is at its zenith.
Monsters, murder, madness. Your body is unable to move nor scream. Pain surges through your veins where blood is pumped hastily by a heart that is ready to fail at any moment. The sky has been shred to pieces, planets and stars come falling from the firmament beyond, crushing the world as the blood of all life drips from the red moon above. Each image is vivid, palpable. It is as though the Abyss has made home in your subconscious and has seeped into your dreams like the Wild Hunt does through faults and fissures in the northern isles.
But the Abyss is not to blame for your circumstances. Just as the ocean is a reflection of the sky, so, too, is the Abyss to the horrors which roam above ground.
The horrors which roam flooded halls in search of prey as night falls.
You could awake abruptly in sweat, panting and heaving, and meet the darkness that consumes your room but your mind would not forget what it has seen. That is why you never process the cold metal against your forehead, the glow of something red in your peripheral vision, the soft whirring of a lab machine nearby, nor the sting of the syringe swiftly injected into your inner elbow before you fall back to sleep at the behest of the undivine.
You only ever hear the dripping of rainwater that has begun to flood into your room uninvited because it senses the presence of the moon nearby.
“In the realm of dreams, logic is unable to constrict possibility. It is thus the perfect laboratory to test how just a fragment of my fabricated divinity can reconstruct the mind’s understanding of what is and what can be.” The Doctor whispers while he lightly pushes the hair from your face as you shift in your sleep. He has knelt down on one knee beside your bed. His face is close to yours, so close, he can feel your warm breath hit his face, and he smiles.
The monitor nearby signals an almost complete copy and transferral of data from the moon marrow hooked to your head with cords. “You make an excellent test subject with how obedient you are. Tampering with the subconscious requires the absolute obliviousness of the conscious mind. And for this reason,” Dottore pauses when you whimper in your sleep, hushing you. “I must keep this a secret.”
You will surely safeguard his secret whether or not you ever realise the truth, lest you meet a terrible fate and your blood become that which reflects the moon, that which makes the Heretic’s moon red.
Wanderer/Scaramouche
1.1k words
To witness you cry both hurts and excites the aimless Wanderer whose moral compass has been tampered with by turbulent winds. He cannot resist the winds that lead him to sin, though it should be the winds who answer to him. He is a puppet to his own desires, a puppet with strings that have been caught tightly around your fingers, cutting deep enough into your skin to scar.
He understands his actions are wrong. The way he makes you second-guess yourself, instilling doubt and fear where neither have reason to be, is wrong. The way he mocks your mannerisms, your ideas, your voice is wrong. The way his chest clenches as if he has a heart to race at the sight of you crying is wrong. Angels of Virtue and Vice sit upon his shoulders, recording his deeds for when the heavens question his life choices, but what good does the threat of punishment in the afterlife do to the immortal who has lived lives of both evil and now, apparently, good?
The Wanderer does not know; he only feels, and that is what unsettles him most.
He begins with small, frustrating quips. Where anger is present, sadness often follows. He regularly approaches you at the Akademiya where you work on your history thesis for your upcoming defense. This document is your ticket to graduating with honours, to nation-wide recognition like all the scholars before you, but your defense is closer than you think. It looms over your shoulder, dissecting your words with unwarranted scrutiny, and that which has witnessed history has much to say about the credibility of the historical evidence cited on the paper before you. He is especially critical of your research topic: the centuries-long vacancy of the Harbingers’ sixth seat.
At first, you consider his comments as necessary advice, but furrowed brows, according to the Wanderer, are much prettier paired with a tear-stained face; he thus increases the dosage of poison lacing his words.
What he foolishly does not expect is defiance against him. He is not a sage against whom you shall defend your hard work. He is—
Who are you? Leave me alone, you say as you shut your binder so that he may no longer see your work.
Scaramouche, The Balladeer, Shouki no Kami, Kunikuzushi, Kabukimono. The names cross his mind like quiet whispers stifled by wind. He only tsks in response.
It stings the first time you retaliate. Words of rebuttal leave your pretty lips more coherently than any argument you have written. Resistance was a rarity amongst Fatui subordinates whose lives were on the line. There is no act of treason when you insult him, however; there is only courage in the face of a bully. Your eyes reflect the anger he has planted within your soul. You spew hateful words as suffocating tension builds in the atmosphere, though it is only you who finds it difficult to breathe, for the puppet does not require air. Still, how frustrating it must be to the man who had, for centuries, persecuted anyone who defied Scaramouche.
Yet your anger equally invigorates the Wanderer.
One must remember that he is a hollow vessel which has been promised an eternity to search for his purpose. Born from a branch once connected to Irminsul, he is fundamentally an appendage of something greater than himself though he serves little purpose on his own. So, it is no wonder he latches onto whatever will make him feel alive. That is how the fiercest winds work. The very winds that kiss the cheek on a hot summer’s day are present in the heaviest sandstorms that blind the eyes once wind has bound to the desert’s grain, the coldest blizzards that freeze the heart when frost intertwines with frigid air, and the hurricanes that drown the soul after the sea has claimed the sky for itself. The wind needs only one partner to cause disorder.
And he has found a partner in you. You challenge him, the man you see crossing out main points in your draft as you reach to grab your work back, as well as him, the man whom you have researched about without knowing of his existence at all.
The man whom you defend against himself.
You give the Wanderer reason to confront past and present. A shame you refuse him, but a leech does not seek permission to drain its victim for sustenance.
The Wanderer clings to you, the greater one in this strange duo of good and evil. He stalks you in the halls of the Akademiya. Belligerent and contentious, he convinces you of being lesser through never-ending criticism and insults. You try to run but the smoke from the fire he has set to the air has already settled into your lungs. Each word of his is a poison that kills you slowly, but does he realise he, too, drinks from the same vial? Speaking ill words not only unleashes sickness upon you but also unto himself. His tongue has already begun to rot from vulgarity.
He understands this is wrong; it only feels right. Good and evil quarrel inside the Wanderer’s mind while he feels the weight of his sins replace the burden of Scaramouche’s which he cannot escape because his immortality is itself eternal damnation. Death is but a dream.
He is left utterly sickened by himself.
Thankfully, every sickness has a remedy, if not a cure. Your tears, like alcohol to a cut, burn and cleanse the wounds of his psyche as you beg him to release you from his psychological hold. All he hears, however, is a melody that is your cries. Like the strumming of a lyre, each sniffle, each whimper, momentarily releases the tension from the regret he holds against himself for his past. He almost forgets who he is when he sees you gasp for your breath as tears scrape against your soft skin. Is this the freedom of the wind which was promised to him upon receiving his Vision?
Scaramouche does not exist, but the branch of Irminsul which became him can never be erased without extirpating the Wanderer.
And how could he do that when he is your thesis and you—
You’re evil, you say as you rip your thesis from his grip.
—are his defence?
“What is wrong with you?” You muffle your sobs with your sleeve so no one else in the House of Daena can hear you.
“Everything,” he whispers as he steps forward while you back into a wall behind a bookshelf. “Can’t you see? Or is that something you struggle with, too?”
“What do you want from me? Why are you like this?” You clutch your thesis to your chest where your heart resides, and in the chaos of his mind, he can imagine feeling your heart beat against his own cavernous chest.
“Don’t—” he hesitantly wipes a tear from your cheek as you flinch. “Don’t cry anymore.”
Honesty has never been a virtue recorded on his behalf. Secrecy, however, shall be written a thousand times over. Punishment shall consequently be exacted upon him by the heavens in the name of the good he pretends to be.
Alhaitham
1.3k words
There are countless words in the language of Teyvat, but Alhaitham is adamant that none can describe how enigmatic you are. And of all the languages that have died with civilizations lost to time, there are not enough words to describe what he feels for you. Nevertheless, he has become enamoured with the way you think, so he tries to understand you in the only way he thinks is possible: through the language of your mind.
In his hands is your journal of confessions, a treasure hoard of secrets that, unlike any novel he has read, covers all genres. A bad day transcribed into a journal entry that continues for numerous pages, a lovely conversation with a friend written down for memories, or a tense disagreement with a certain colleague recorded to unload frustration; these are cathartic snippets of your mind made easy to digest, though this journal was meant only to be seen by your desk drawer which can be locked with a special key. That key, however, is currently being held hostage within Alhaitham’s pockets, jingling next to his roommate’s. Like a shiny apple suspended upon the branch of a forbidden tree, the sight of your key left forgotten on your desk, which he could see from his office across the hall as you left for your lunch break, enticed him too much to ignore.
As long as it remains in his possession, so shall the journal, the key to unlocking the recesses of your mind where he may ensconce himself like a parasite in a metaphysical sense.
To Alhaitham, you are a puzzle, a scholar whose intelligence rivals anyone he has ever known. He truly is a feeble scholar in your presence, for your published works challenge him unlike deciphering any ancient rune. He has studied all of history’s words transcribed on papyrus, wood, and stone, and none share the same soulful depth and expression as does your writing. They are works of art deserving the attention of artists all over Teyvat because a mind like yours is art itself. And like ancient runes waiting to be translated, he only wishes to comprehend how you think.
To fulfill that wish, he must study.
Repeated exposure to the content is necessary. When you leave work, Alhaitham hides in your office while he interprets every word printed by your hand. His feet are propped up on your desk as he leans back into your chair, relishing in the comfort of the cushion despite the fact his office chair is of the same quality. The blinds covering the window on your locked door are pulled close to keep secret his surreptitious activities from other colleagues. This is his sanctuary.
Analysing the structure and language is equally important. Unlike your academic work, your journal is unrefined. Sentences jump from one thought to another feeling. While your voice is casual, there is subtext attached to every word he underlines. Names of colleagues and friends manifest repeatedly, but it is only his name he cares for.
Alhaitham is so annoying, so terribly tiresome, you wrote in an entry, but all Alhaitham can do is blush at your mention of his name. I can’t work with him. He never listens. Always wearing those gaudy headphones! Sometimes I wonder, though, if he pretends to not hear me because he doesn’t like me—
You complain of his inability to hold a conversation, and he finds himself arguing with the paper. With your pen, he writes rebuttals in the margins and slots ink between the lines of your writing as if to interrupt your flow of thought. Why endure boring work-place small talk required of superficial, collegial etiquette when he can, with your journal, plunge into the depths of your mind which are informed by the feelings in your soul? Besides, by doing so, he will not have to be so annoying, so terribly tiresome.
It does not unnerve him that you think this way, that must be why he spends so much time searching for other mentions of his name. His roommate seldom inquires why he seems distracted when he comes home, but Alhaitham does not hear because his mind is busy trying to comprehend why you had been frustrated by his recommendation to post-pone a meeting between scribes, why you had taken offence to his minute re-organisation of documents for a shared project, and why you had taken it to heart when he only hummed to say hello when you had greeted him—
How you think deeply unnerves him, but Alhaitham does not voice his opinions so easily aloud. Writing, nonetheless, allows him to articulate his thoughts.
He writes quickly as his mind races with thoughts that try to make sense of you. What an achievement it is on your part to befuddle the man who avoids all distractions in order to stay focused! Neat printing muddles into scribbles resembling damaged hieroglyphs as his sentences squish against each other along margins no less than two centimeters wide. Lines and arrows connecting ideas are the threads meant to weave his thoughts together into a blanket that threatens to cover and suffocate your mind spilled out in written confession. These are the pages of a madman.
And when he cannot comprehend, what then? One should ask: what does a parasite do to its host once it assumes control?
It attempts to change how it thinks.
Negative adjectives are wiped clean with white ink and re-written. Alhaitham is so understanding, so genuinely genial. Mentions of others whom you praise are replaced with his name written with careful precision to replicate your handwriting. Clearly, his actions are evidence that it is his own mind he wishes to fool. Reality made fiction for his sanity’s sake.
The weight of his additions makes the journal cumbersome to hold as if he has woven parts of his soul into it. Two minds in chaos. Though paper bound by glue is not sufficient to carry such weight. It thus follows that chaos leaks from pages of semi-fiction to reality at the hands of the madman whose soul exists between real and imaginary.
Right in front of you, at work, at meetings, at the tavern, at the bazaar, Alhaitham carries your journal masked in a blank paper cover. You assume he is innocently journaling about things unimportant to you, or that he is organising his thoughts just as any good scribe would do. The thought of him writing in your missing journal is completely unreasonable, downright absurd!
That is how the madman believes you, the sane, should think.
Alhaitham is obsessed with your idea of him as he is obsessed with the idea of you, and he shall control what he can through edits of your journal as though he is changing history.
It seems what truly makes a person mad is the curiosity of understanding things that were never meant to be known.
“What has you so invested that you won’t help with our upcoming project?” You try to peek over the desk to see what he is reading after barging into his office, but he tilts the top of the book toward his face, covering the lower half of his expression where his smirk hides.
Alhaitham sinks into his chair. “Since when have you ever wanted to work with me?”
Confused, you furrow your brows before hesitatingly saying, “Put your novel down. The characters aren’t going anywhere.” You turn to leave.
“You sure?”
You stop abruptly at the door and grumble. “If you won’t help with work, then…maybe you can help with something else. It’s the least you can do when you don’t do anything. I’ve recently lost a key and—hey, are you listening?”
Alhaitham flips through the pages of this journal of his and yours which is written proof of your minds bound together in prose, but he sees no reason for you to understand him through the language of his mind.
He then slides the journal into his pocket with your key. “So, what is it you’re missing?”
One must remember: a parasite does not rule alongside its host.
Kaeya
1k words
The indirect kiss is the most honourable of dishonourable deeds, Kaeya thinks, for it does no true harm. What cannot harm cannot be bad, right? A knight cannot harm and must be honourable in everything he does; so therefore, a knight can only choose to do good and adiaphorous deeds. Honour is the code of law by which all Knights of Favonius follow to reduce harm and garner respect from the people so that Mondstadt will continue to flourish in peace. This is what they had promised Barbatos on the day of knighthood to fulfil and maintain, and to break such a promise would be to dishonour their god and thus do harm. It follows that the profession of a knight will come with sacrifices where honour and personal desire cannot overlap if goodness will be infringed upon.
But if the honour demonstrated by the knight is ultimately for the people, where is the harm in being just a little dishonourable if no one is to notice?
Angel’s Share is crowded with knights, civilians, and bards on this hot night, but despite all the singing and dancing that would normally captivate Kaeya, he is enchanted by only you. You do not dance with drunken tease nor sing lines in slurred speech; instead, you sit upon your chair across from him, chugging a large glass of wine the Grand Master had dared you to drink whilst your fellow knights cheered you on.
Kaeya cannot ignore the wine dribbling down your chin and splattering onto your armour like blood spilled in battle. Rather, he would liken the sight to paint that drips from the canvas on which has been created a masterpiece, one worth being stolen in a grand heist to keep for oneself to admire alone. But he cannot take so easily. That would be most dishonourable. Besides, he feels the eyes of his brother nearby who knows he is up to no good. He watches him like a hawk from behind the bar, as he should be for Kaeya is indeed teetering on the line between good and bad.
The knight knows he must be discrete. His honour is on the line; that is what makes this all so exhilarating.
You set the glass down, a little wine still left inside while red stains your plush lips, before you hastily arise from your seat and, with some of your fellow knights, head to the center of the tavern which has been made a dance floor. It is now a duel between the drunk hollering of restless knights and the thin-stringed harps of bards with weary impatience.
A window of opportunity; this is the moment to strike swiftly like a gust of wind that comes and goes before one can take a complete breath.
Kaeya’s gloved fingers inch towards the glass across the table while his good eye locks onto your dancing form. The way you stumble around with two left feet, the way you lean onto another knight to keep your balance, and the way you laugh at his ill-attempted jokes does all to irk the dishonourable knight who, burdened by envy, unintentionally chills the wine with his Vision upon grasping your glass which fits so naturally with his character. No one would ever take a second look at Kaeya drinking wine.
In truth, drinking wine is befitting of all in the nation. Wine is the blood of Mondstadt, the very drink of Barbatos. It connects all those who believe themselves to be children of the free winds to the Anemo god.
Kaeya, however, does not seek a connection with his Lord, but rather, with a paladin whose honour and respect outweighs his own.
So, he takes a sip from your glass. The wine is tart against his tongue, but your saliva that coats the rim is as sweet as the fresh grapes that grow from the vineyard of his old home. This wine—your blood—quenches his thirst unlike any other, so much so he could almost consider abstaining from all liquor until his final breath if he were told none would taste as good as your indirect kiss. Kaeya takes it as a sign that he has done the right thing; that if Barbatos were to have seen him commit such a disrespectful and dishonourable act, he would pardon his sin, for you and him are bound in a way inexplicable to the non-believer.
But the ritual is not yet complete. Kaeya pushes the glass towards your seat when you come staggering back. You plomp down onto your seat and mindlessly take a swig of your glass, oblivious to what taints the rim and liquor. Your drink is cold unlike how it was before abandoning your post, but this is not a detail you will remember in the morning. Just how it should be. Like frost that nips at numbed skin, one is unaware of how one’s fingers have begun to rot until it is too late. In your case, however, you shall never know of the frost that has bitten you. He is quick and discrete, like a snowflake that melts upon hitting the skin, leaving one to think it was a drop of rain instead. Deceiving.
Upon noticing him across the table, you smile and wave giddily as you hiccup. Kaeya smiles back with a warmth that could melt your heart.
Harmlessly dishonourable is the deed no one notices; or so, that is what Kaeya thinks.
“I should report your reprehensible misbehaviour to Grand Master Varka. If not him, then surely Jean will imprison you for your wrongdoing.” With a cloth, Diluc wipes the glass that you had left on the table. The tavern has gone quiet with the retreat of knights after the bards finished their performances. There remains only the two brothers and a few passed-out drunkards.
“Who’s going to believe what no one has seen?” Kaeya crosses his legs after taking a seat by the bar which he leans an arm on.
“Oh? I’m no one?” his brother deadpans. “So it wouldn’t hurt if no one said anything?”
“You’re no fun, Diluc.” Kaeya smirks. “Where's the bad in having a little fun?”
“Knights of Favonius.” Diluc huffs.
Kaeya ignores him. Although his brother is no longer a knight, it does no good to Diluc to lower the people’s respect for those who help protect Mondstadt, his home, especially when he has only recently begun to heal from the Ordo’s past undeniable misdeeds.
And so, Kaeya’s honour remains, sealed secret by kiss.
Varka
1.3k words
Some say that those who repeatedly cheat Death are protected by divine forces for their virtuous deeds. The Knight of Boreas bears scars inflicted by all beasts, his skin littered in slashes, scratches, and scores made by the iron and claws of enemies human and celestial. Yet he stands tall and strong like the rigid, unshakeable mountain of Dragonspine. He is like a god in human form with winds beneath his feet to lighten his steps as he marches towards glory. Blessed be the angels who look out for him.
Surely, such angels include you.
The white gauze wrapped around your soft hands are woven from the clouds upon which are built the heavens you have descended from. Your touch is as light as the morning dew weightlessly sitting atop mint leaves that speckle the green grounds of his Mondstadt. And your voice? Oh, how he loves the voice that reminds him to hold his breath, that the saline may sting, that he may look away momentarily as you heal him with holy water and a prayer, for it is a melody reminiscent of the hymns that escape the cathedral doors where devotees mispronounce your name for Barbatos’.
If you were to ask what was on his mind, you might be able to make him confess, reveal all that he keeps secret from this world and its sinners and saints who shall admit their deeds to their gods after departure; but you have no reason to question a hurt man seeking a healer.
So, he will keep from you the fact that he is not actually injured at all.
Through years of battle, Varka has built a tough exterior. Thick skin grows where his palms and fingers touch his claymores as well as where heavy armour sits on his body. He is the shield of Mondstadt. However, that wall of iron falls apart whenever he sees you walking around the knights’ headquarters, your Favonius nurse’s uniform loose and thin against your body to accommodate the heat of the approaching summer. The wind blows the fabric tight against your figure, and he praises Barbatos in a dirty curse that leaves his lips. How disgraceful.
His stoic stance falters and he feigns hurt, groaning out in pain as he limps towards you. Please, he begs, I think my wounds will need some more tending to. It has been months since his return to Mondstadt. He lies through wine-stained teeth.
The first time you healed him after battle, your voice wavered full of worry; your intonation resonated with his slow-beating heart, resurrecting him from his unconscious state. You kept him alive in that moment, not the Archons who bless and take Life from all living beings.
The blessing of Life can so easily be taken for granted, and those who have had the privilege of truly living rarely question the idea of seeing the sun set for the last time. Although to Varka, the thought of Death has always lingered in his mind like the pungent smell of smoke after hellfire has scorched the battlefield where his allies lay dead. He has always stood alone, barely living, with a soul neither dead nor alive. His life would play out before his eyes. Every selfish and selfless act. I could have done better, I could have been better, he thinks. When Death surrounds him and Life suffocates him, it is difficult to truly live in the present. He is stuck in a perpetual cycle of what has happened and what shall become with all the time he has. It is therefore no wonder he takes for granted that which is abundant to him: Life.
So, contrary to what may be inferred, your healing hands, which kept him alive, also brought him the closest he could be to Death; that is, to experiencing Life in his own understanding. You made Death and thus Life understandable to the one whom Death evades. He knew then that wanted you all to himself, as shamefully as possible. Though you are not only his to heal. Your duty comes to Mondstadt first.
Now, as you bandage his bare torso in the low-lit infirmary of the knights’ barracks, he wonders how your hands have stitched the wounds of his soldiers, too; how you have wiped with a cloth the sweat upon the brows of other knights, your chest so unintentionally close to their faces as they sat upon the very cot he sits on now; and how you have helped others stand who are truly injured unlike himself, hugging them close to your form.
And as you bend down and roll up the cuffs of his pants to check the healing progress of injuries you had bandaged upon his return home, he wonders whose wounds you have kissed better. Unashamedly, he thinks: who else have you brought back to life?
A light scowl tugs at his features.
Is something wrong, sir? you ask.
Nothing at all, he lies, for Varka has never truly been very religious.
That is why the thought of offending Barbatos for you does not disturb him as it would you, someone saintly. Perhaps he should disassemble the millennium-old Ordo, an organisation built in honour of the Anemo god, to keep other knights away from you. Or, if offending Barbatos would risk offending you, Varka could venture out in search of the greatest beast who shall inflict the greatest harm upon himself which would require only your attention and medical expertise. The search for a worthy opponent would be lengthy but the outcome would occupy your time for an equally long while. If he truly has the favour of the gods, he will always live to see the next day.
But will he be living to his greatest potential through such extremes in favour of selfish desires? Is this the reason why the gods keep him alive?
A lock of hair falls in front of your face, and he resists with all his might the urge to push it back, especially when you are kneeling before him as though you, a saint, wish to be knighted by the hand of a selfish liar—a sinner. Reality is a painful truth, and there is very little that can console him.
Though what is real does not have to be painful. If he steps outside his mind, he can make the present worthwhile. He could truly live and not just be alive in search of an impossible death through you. It suddenly dawns upon the knight then: why think of tomorrow when today is promised and I have you all to myself at this very moment?
Although Mondstadt’s divinely-guarded leader can secretly fantasize about making you his personal nurse or declaring you an angel deserving worship, he is better off being someone to you now rather than you be something to him if he ever wishes to be worthy of a saint. He must change and live in his present.
“What would Mondstadt do without such a knowledgeable nurse?” Varka pretends to wince when you gently wrap his arm with a bandage. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“What would Mondstadt do without its leader?” You suddenly tighten the bandage, catching him off guard. His reaction is nevertheless delayed. You raise your brows and smile with a knowing look he ignores. “You have to be more careful for Mondstadt’s sake.”
“You know best.” He laughs and lifts a pinky. “For Mondstadt.”
The sun will rise as it does each day, and he will be there to see it because you give him Life. You have made it clear what he must live and die fighting for.
You interlock your pinky with his.
And it is not Mondstadt. It is instead you; Life.
A white lie is surely the first step to becoming an honest, respectful person worthy of you.
A/N: I wrote so much more than I had intended. I literally wrote three wildly different drafts each for Alhaitham, Wanderer, and Varka. My fingers hurt from typing. I truly hope you guys enjoyed reading! Anyways, I want to add that Kaeya and Varka can arguably be respectful men, but they are not at Diluc and Flins’ level of respectful, c’mon. They’re honourable drunks. I see the disrespectful potential in our Knights of Favonius.
Disclaimer: yandere fanfiction is not meant to be taken seriously, nor is it a portrayal of love/romance.
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.
