Who do you feel is most likely to non con their darling?
Content warning: not-sfw, smut, rape/noncon, dubcon, yandere behaviour, drugging (Albedo), sexual violence (blame Childe), blackmail, (threats of) torture, conditioning (Scaramouche), bdsm themes, somnophilia, manipulation. Reader discretion is highly advised. (If I’ve missed something in the content warning, please let me know!)
Noncon: albedo, childe, scaramouche, xiao, venti. As a bonus, dubcon/not noncon: zhongli, ningguang, diluc, shenhe, dainsleif
Answer: All of them. Hmm, it would depend on what kind of noncon we’re talking about. There’s A) “they don’t initially consent, but I’ll drug/manipulate/threaten them into agreeing so technically it’s consensual”—which of course is still noncon (more than dubcon definitely) or B) “they could be literally crying while having sex, but who cares? not me, that's for sure.”
For the former, ohhhh boy, my list is long long long. Albedo, Scaramouche, Kaeya, Ningguang, Xiao, just to name a few. For the latter, the only one I can think of is Childe (maybe Venti, if he’s in a particularly mood of madness). Kaeya also, because he's a sick bastard who's also very versatile. Since anon didn’t list anybody, I just went with what ideas I had. May use these concepts for later. (Also, I inferred what darling meant from this ask. If that’s the wrong interpretation, feel free to point out my idiocy.)
Albedo.
The aphrodisiac user. He’s got it all planned to minutia. He’s prepared for weeks, gathering information about you. Height, weight, heartbeat rate, diet, metabolism, everything—so that he can calculate the dosage for maximum efficiency. That way, if (when) you refuse his touch, there’s always the backup plan. So when you push his hand away, wave off his words, he doesn’t really mind.
Instead, as you’re conveniently trapped inside of his laboratory with him, the snowstorm raging outside preventing your escape, he just stands there. He doesn’t tell you that the meal he served you before your (quite hurtful, if not unexpected) rejection is laced with an aphrodisiac. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t approach.
Albedo just… waits. Watches with his crystal teal eyes, as you begin to shudder and writhe. Listens as your thighs begin to subtly rub together in search of frictions, whines start escaping your lips.
You’ll ask him what he did to you, choking on the words, but he says nothing. Eventually, your body feels so hot you actually stumble outside into the snowstorm in hopes of cooling off, and still he waits. But of course, you come back. Reddened cheeks and ashamed. The cold only makes the heat inside of you burn brighter.
With your skin so oversensitive and raw, just a touch—one touch only, you tell yourself—feels as if it would be enough to sate the lust. So finally, his patience pays off. You beg him to touch you. Pleads for him through clenched teeth, in the smallest of voices, hating yourself for every word that comes out of your mouth.
But his only response: “No.”
He refuses you.
(When you’re crazed with lust, when you would act rather than speak, when it hurts so much that you’ll pounce on him rather than asking for permission… that’s when he knows he has you exactly where he planned—mindless in need, your hate all but erased in your urgency for him to fuck you.
So if you don’t want him, he’ll wait instead. Wait until you want him—until you need him.)
.
.
.
Childe.
A sadist. Well, that would technically be incorrect.
It’s not so much that he gets off on seeing you scream and cry when he fucks into you, though he won’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy the sight. No, what he lives for is the thrill of battle—sex included. So of course, he enjoys the protest. The struggle. The desperation.
Childe pins you down, brutally thrusts in you with his cock, and just as he likes it, your nails are clawing at his skin for all the life that you’ve got. The scratches you make add to the landscape of scars scattered on his body, and he wears it like a badge of honour. Proudly, as if it were a war trophy. To Childe, it’s the definitive proof of the battle between you. It’s an undeniable proof of your coupling. The slices of pain from your nails, the scent of blood—it excites him like you can’t imagine. Causes him to utter a curse in Snezhnayan, as his hands grip your shoulders so tight it borders pain.
Every movement he makes is designed to bring about your unwilling pleasure; Childe fucks like he fights—with finesse and precision. From his teeth worrying your nipples to his cock grinding into that vulnerable spot inside you, it’s all deliberate. It’s a bit of an exercise for him, to see how long before you stop pushing him away and your sobs to slide into moans. How long it takes for him to fuck the fight out of you.
In the end, you’re left dazed beneath him, . No more protesting, no more crying, just acceptance. Little hiccups of pleasure escapes your throat when he makes a particularly rough jerk of his hips, wanting to reach as deep inside you as he can. He’ll swallow your moans too, in kisses that are less loving and more consuming.
He’ll taunt you to get a rise from you again when he gets bored with your lifelessness. Croons about how you submitted so quickly. As if you were just putting on a show, an obligatory protest rather than your true wish.
And when the spark flares back into your eyes, even as you’re shuddering in an orgasm that he’s ripped out of you—when you whisper that you hate him—that’s when he comes. A groan, as his cock twitches and fills you with his essence.
Afterwards, Childe collapses on you and transforms into a tender and soft lover—as if he didn’t just violate all that you have. All that you are. Kisses away the tears at the corner of your eyes, but you shed even more silent tears. Presses his lips to your forehead in apologies instead, murmuring that he’ll be more careful next time. You know that he loves you, right?
But all the while, he’s thinking. Planning.
Maybe next time, he’ll give you a dagger. Just to make the fight that much more exciting.
.
.
.
Scaramouche.
A sadist, but different from Childe. You’d think Scaramouche would take particular joy in seeing you in tears when you have sex, but no. Only in specific circumstances. He doesn’t like you fighting him. He likes being wanted. (The need to be desired is from his leftover trauma of being abandoned for supposedly not being good enough, though he’d never reveal it. Probably isn’t even conscious of it, in fact.)
There’s the aphrodisiac route, but it’s not as if he’s desperate. He’s a divine being and you? You’re nobody. While he’s not above using underhanded means, in this case, it would be admitting that he desires you—which he does not.
Instead, Scaramouche uses threats. Little sparks of lightning that jolts your body should you behave in a way that’s unsuitable to his taste, until you begin to fear him more than hate him. Whispers about your loved ones, so innocent, so naïve, it’d be oh-so-unfortunate' if something were to happen to them. So you learn to give into his demands, however unreasonable they may be. It’s easier than living in a constant state of heightened anxiety, after all. It’s like training a dog, he’ll sneer.
Through this, Scaramouche molds you into what he wants. Deferent and pliable. Eventually, you’ll more than agree to his touch. You’ll begfor it. Scaramouche will agree, with the greatest reluctance. An owner needs to make sure the needs of their possessions are met, unfortunately. It’s not his fault you’re so needy.
And if (when) he does fuck you, it’ll be at his control. For his pleasure. He doesn’t care about you orgasming or anything quite so ridiculous. In fact, he’d be delighted to just leave you at the edge, in need of his cock. You’re just here to be used. His mouth is absolutely filthy too, all sorts of degrading terms, calling you his little whore, slut, toy. You’ll frantically nod your head. Sobs in agreement, half out of fear, half out of pleasure—but mostly fear, because he’s going too fast for you to properly enjoy it. (That’ll change, he promises. You’ll come to like the pain eventually.)
After a while, people around you start looking at you with this pitiful look, whispering about the absolute broken look in Scaramouche’s—what? What are you to him? A servant? A slave? A pet?
But whatever terms people use at the end of the day doesn’t matter. As long as one thing is clear—that you’re his.
—bonus—
Some shorter noncon scenarios.
Xiao: Somnophilia. The only way Xiao could even approach you is while you’re asleep, simply because he is a massive Virgin (TM). He’ll be too embarrassed to approach and ask you for sex, but he’s got urges that need to be filled. Also, the guilt over his karmic debt tainting you with his touch means that he’d prefer it if you never knew about his… misdemeanour. So, like all his battles through the millennia, Xiao stays in the shadows, readying himself to strike when you fall unconscious.
Venti.
If he's feeling particularly unforgiving, he’s quite sadistic. Likes seeing you cry, actually. Will hum a song, even, as he fucks you. And laughs. Also goes for the somnophilia route, but for a different reason than Xiao—it’s about the control. It’s knowing that your unconscious body is at his whims—courtesy of his melodies. He could do whatever he wants to you, and you wouldn’t even remember. So when you wake up sore, complaining about that crick in your back, he’ll just giggle in response.
The wind is a trickster, and Venti is no different.
—bonus bonus—
Characters that do not noncon/go for dubcon.
Zhongli.
Usually, I’d say Zhongli is someone who waits for consent. Zhongli is patient; he knows that you’ll come around eventually. The difference between his patience and Albedo’s is that he needs you to consciously want him. Zhongli doesn’t care for the haziness that comes with an aphrodisiac—when he fucks you, he wants you lucid. He wants you to remember it. Every. Single. Detail.
(But he won’t deny you should you have an aphrodisiac problem; he’ll be more than happy to help, actually.)
Ningguang.
Manipulation, manipulation, manipulation. Whereas Zhongli waits until the time is right, Ningguang makes the time right. Think female Zhongli, but less patient. To Ningguang, mora is a trophy. While this particular investment doesn’t give out mora as its dividend, you are still a symbol of her victory. A deserved return on her investment, even more precious than mora.
Ningguang is similar to Scaramouche in that she will subtly force you into willingly going into her embrace, but through gaslighting instead. Ningguang isn’t Tianquan for nothing. She will isolate you until the only one you can seek out is her, the solution to all your problems.
You’re lonely? You feel touch-starved? No problem. You need only say one word: please.
And then… Well, a shrewd merchant knows how to press their advantage.
Diluc.
The amount of guilt will crush him, so no, he won’t do it. He can barely steal a kiss without feeling like he needs to kneel at your feet in repentance. Too much of a coward—but if you push him too much… Well, fire always did need a bit of kindling before it flickers into an inferno.
Shenhe.
Won’t force you, simply because she doesn’t even know what sex is. Living isolated in a mountain while training under an adeptus master doesn’t exactly entail biology lessons.
Once she finds out though… you’d best sleep with one eye open. Actually, best not to sleep at all, because she’ll probably whisk you away into some adeptal realm to learn just exactly what this mortal act entails.
Dainslief.
Even more of a coward than Diluc, when it comes to seeing you in pain. Soft. Very, very soft, even as a yandere. Definitely a service top, so no, your discomfort will put him off from forcing you. But make no mistake, even though he’ll attend to your every need with reverence, it’ll come at a cost: your freedom.
Ummmm if requests are open can I request yan!ayato x f!reader. Reader discovered she's pregnant after being forced into a marriage by ayato, and decides to plan an escape?
tw: fem reader / pregnancy / yandere / controlling behaviour / mentions of drugging / physical imprisonment
i am 50 years late, but some thoughts:
ayato smiling more than usual when he finds out the news from the healer—and of course, this healer is loyal to him too, a woman that's a part of his shuumatsuban operatives. so he finds out immediately. of course he does. he wraps his arms around you and murmurs that it's amazing, how much happiness you give him (as if you'd ever, willingly, given him anything.)
ayato is a family man. he cherishes the idea of family, always protects and chases after the concept, on account of his father and mother passing away early. the entire household finds out the news, ayaka first, and she's so enamoured by the thought of having a niece/nephew, always asking after your needs or wants, glancing at your stomach.
you always demur when ayaka asks how you feel, never admitting how it itches at you sometimes, knowing that the child in you belly is of his seed. but it's also yours too. a proof of your survival, that despite ayato having stolen you away from you family (though stolen is perhaps not the right word—bargained, perhaps), you're still alive, if not thriving then at least surviving. you're capable of life, even in the most desolate of places, trapped in a gilded cage of silk and yumemiru.
you dream of the child sometimes, in your arms after birth, peaceful dreams when it resembles your father or mother or you, nightmares when you catch blue tufts of hair and pale violet eyes. you wake up in cold sweat, touching a hand to your stomach, where the bump has begun to portrude, and feel the urge to throw up. ayato is always around you immediately, asking the servant to fetch water, and then murmurs of how he'll protect you, that you won't go the way of his mother and father, because he has that power now.
you heart shrivels whenever he touches you, whenever he makes these vows, resentment beginning to splinter what's left of your ability to feel tenderness.
no. you refuse to let ayato influence your love for your child. if it looks like ayato, you will still love them. but you can't do that if you're forever in the embrace of this man who makes your gums ache, your joints creak, as if you'd already aged a hundred years. in the kamisato estate, love cannot flower at all, so you plan your escape.
it's not easy. you never have privacy to ask for anything, let alone something as risky as passage off of inazuma. but you grit your teeth and forcibly make the opportunity, stray touches here and there, sultry eyes to let him know you're receptive to his touches, and you change. you no longer flinch and act so hateful toward him in private. lowering his guard like this, bit by bit, until he gives you have slivers of freedom that you gulp down like a man dying of hunger, grabbing onto the tiny openings of your windowless castle and prying it open, asking for news here and there until you've cobbled enough savings to bribe a man to take you if not to mainland teyvat, then at least ritou where less people will know who you are.
the bright crack of dawn comes: you sneak out of the estate, surprisingly easy. ayato is asleep thanks to the sleeping draught you'd slipped him last night in his tea, and he doesn't even stir as you remove yourself from his side. you feel the shackles coming off as you tiptoe out of the compound, sandals lifting over the wooden threshold. but then—
"having fun, dear wife?"
you almost slip, catching yourself on the door frame. numbness spreading from your fingertips to your neck, you turn. ayato's standing there, leaning against the wall as he watches you with amused eyes. no trace of anger. just amusement, like a god watching his followers from up on high.
you open your mouth, intending to make your excuses, and almost sob instead. you were so close. so close you'd almost felt it, the sensation of ocean water kissing your fingertips as you sit on that boat, your lovely unborn child beneath your other hand as you'd murmur sweet nothings about how your lives would be nothing but joy.
and now, this. "i know pregnancy boredom is quite unbearable," ayato sighs as he reaches for your shoulders. "but you shouldn't be so mischievous, hm? the shuumatsuban have their hands full as it is, let alone keeping track of my own wife. first that medicine, and now this. you know better than to try to go off on your own. it's not safe."
you shudder as he picks you up, sweeping you up into his arms as he'd done before you'd entered the bridal chamber on your wedding night. left with no avenue but to play obedient, you rest your head against his shoulder and caress your belly while whispering, "i'm sorry. i won't... i won't do it again."
ayato hums. you feel the vibration of it, how it makes a hollow instrument out of your body. "of course you won't. it'll be hard to move with the shackles on your feet, after all."
pls pls pls write for capitano your writing's so exquisite i feel like you'd do him so much justice
content warning: slightly not sfw implications / yandere / forced relationship / power imbalance. reader discretion is advised.
oh, your compliment's making me cry haha, thank you so much! as for capitano, his english voice is soooooo good 😭 normally i prefer the cn vas instead (like for zhongli or xiao or ningguang) but. too good.
it's gonna be a little hard to flesh out a character based on one voiceline, though for the harbingers, worth. i was planning to write an actual fic for this, but right now i just need to brainrot a little about this: il capitano with a darling that's quite arrogant, despite you being just a commoner with no standing or power.
you're an artist that's well known in snezhnaya for your aloofness and pride, because you're damn good at your craft and you know it. you have suitors, many of them in fact, but none of them satisfy you. then comes this man, who asks you, "what are you looking for in a husband?"
you give him your stipulations, impossibly high standards, he comes back with them fulfilled, each and every time. then one day, he comes back, revealing himself to be a harbinger, and that's the day your fate is sealed and entwined with his forever—and by that, i mean you, forcing a smile on your face as you accept his proposal.
i like the thought of capitano being perfectly satisfied with how willful you are. what did it matter to him if his spouse wanted to have everything their way? he's indulgent like that (or perhaps just that he couldn't be bothered to care about the opinions of others, especially when your thoughts are so much more important). so when you demand for impossibly lavish/impossible things even after your marriage (mostly to spite him), he gives it to you without a word of complaint. you swallow down your pride at how he doesn't even attempt to argue with you, as if he viewed your demands as nothing more than the amusing chirp of a bird that didn't know it was trapped.
because even if he gives into your demands, that doesn't mean it comes free. he's aloof, but not physically. you've come to learn his body, the way his bare skin feels against yours, how a husband loves in almost-bruising touches, unaware or uncaring of how much you shiver. even though he would normally be attentive to your whines and complaints, he doesn't when it comes to the bedroom matters, because this is how a husband is meant to love.
capitano doesn't care about those weaker than him, but you have that spark he likes, the fire that keeps him warm in the cold winters of snezhnaya.
(it's only too bad he doesn't realize that he's dousing that very same spark with his foreboding touch, until nothing remains of your spirit except you, weary and worn down.)
If you're still accepting requests, can you do a manipulative yandere Zhongli? One where darling has no idea how terrible of a person he is, where he's the only one they can rely on, completely blind to the trail of bodies in his wake.
I really love everything you write, it's everything I'm looking for in fics. You're super talented and I hope you can always be happy and proud of your work.
notes: quite late, but finally completed! i also had another version of how to fill this in mind, but i'll shelve that for later. also, thank you for the lovely words, anon
content warning: yandere behaviour, unhealthy relationship, unequal power dynamic, manipulative behaviour, brief mention of character death (not reader). you know the drill at this point—reader discretion is advised.
word count: 1.2k
oh, what could light ever know of shadows | yan zhongli x reader
Another dead end. Quite literally. The man you’d been searching for, the one with news about your family right at the tip of his tongue, words that could have bloomed from his throat, now lifeless. Zhongli stands next to you when you finally identify the man, washed up on the shore, body bloated and rotting.
You stagger back, the weight of the sky tumbling down, smashing onto the loose sand beneath your shoes. “What—I’m—Please, no—” you choke out.
Zhongli put his fingers over your eyes, gentle and calm like the waves lapping at shore, before steering you away from the sight. “You shouldn’t look,” Zhongli says softly, so you don’t. Numb, you let yourself walk aimlessly, body propped up by his touch, until your feet finally meet steady earth. Zhongli hums and finally releases your eyes from his grasp. You stare downward, afraid of the bright colours across the horizon, too cheerful to bear.
“Sit,” he says, hand at the small of your back, nudging you down. You sink down onto the grassy hill. “You’ve become unsteady from shock.”
“Is he really…” You dig your nails into the flesh of your palm, trying to keep your voice even. Bang your fist helplessly against your thigh. “I’ve looked so long, Zhongli. So long! Finally, there’s a clue, and now—!”
Your voice breaks.
“I know,” he says simply—and he does. You tell him everything. How you’ve been separated from them as a child, how you’ve been looking ever since. “Rest. I’ll handle the… discovery.”
A shift of fabric besides you lets you know he’s gone. “That’s the man,” you hear him tell the Millileth soldier stationed nearby, voice low. “My friend here has been searching for him, but now…” The conversation filters in and out, pieces you find yourself too tired to try to hold onto. “Ah, yes, I understand… Of course we will cooperate to the fullest of our abilities.”
You rub at the corner of your eyes, lost. A year of investigations had turned up nothing, until word came of a man who’d been last seen in the area of your childhood home, the night your parents had disappeared.
He’d been asking around, you’d heard, of a child who’d been left behind.
So close, but still nothing to show for it.
Zhongli returns to you, and with his amber eyes, carefully watches as you wallow in your misery. He says nothing, merely offering the silence of his company. Waiting.
“I…” You swallow a sob. “I thought this time, we’d finally find something. But still… nothing. You’ve helped me so much…” Potential leads, information, time. All for naught. “I don’t know how to repay you. Or how to apologize for wasting your time.”
“I volunteered to help you,” Zhongli says, resting his hands together. The sea breeze ruffles through his hair, brown locks fluttering. His words are light, forgiving. “You do not have to apologize for taking what is freely given. No matter what, I will be here. We are friends, are we not?”
You feel even worse—because the thought comforts you, that he’ll be here for you, even through this endless, endless search.
“Zhongli,” you whisper, leaning your head onto his shoulder, burrowing your face into his suit. The corner of your eyes prickles from a sudden flash flood of hot tears. “What would I ever do without you?”
Zhongli quirks an eyebrow, even knowing that you won’t see. “Is that a rhetorical question, dear friend?”
“No,” you mumble. The nails of your hand dig hard onto the hem of his suit. “Yes. I don’t know.”
Zhongli remains silent.
What Zhongli does not mention is this: that the body had been thrown from the tallest peak of Guyun Forest, where the man had made his temporary home, that the nuisance of the truth had been lost to the sea in this way. That your parents are searching for you too, a wealthy family from Fontaine separated from their child under unfortunate circumstances, divided by enemies seeking their riches. That they’ve sent people after people to seek you out from the vast crowds of people in Liyue.
But you know none of this, because every day that passes, you remember less and less of your mother and father. Memories were surprisingly fragile, easily disturbed and easily changed.
Would you ever know how much effort it took to keep you from them? How many charms he’d had to cast, how many people he’d lead astray, how many untruths he’d told? How much he’d made you forget? How much blood covered his hands?
If Zhongli made his calculations correctly, you’d never know, because what Zhongli does not say is this: the truth. Because when the autopsy comes, it will contain no mention of shattered bones, as if the man had been tossed from the heavens itself by a dragon lord. Because Zhongli knows all the right people in all the right places, and he knows how to play them too, as well as he does the politics of Liyue.
After all, the exchange for Rex Lapis’ authority came with a price, one that Ningguang was happy to pay with blind eyes and deaf ears.
My lord, Ningguang had said with no small amount of amusement as she spun her pipe between her graceful fingers. You know that you could suffocate a human with this much smothering, right? Perhaps you ought to loosen your grip.
Better in my hands than in another's, he’d answered. And maybe Guizhong was right. Maybe Morax could never understand mortals the same way she’d been able to. But when you’d stumbled into the Funeral Parlour, asking for his name, it didn’t matter—because Zhongli knows this feeling, this tightening of his throat when he sees you, the urge to tuck you away so that none may gaze upon you…
And most importantly, Zhongli knows it to be true. Love is love. Twisted, but love nonetheless.
Morax has not gained his seat by playing nice. Zhongli neither.
He may have not caused you to be separated from your parents, but what is done is done. You’re one of his people now, raised and grown in Liyue under his skies. Fate could have made you invisible to him, but you’d come to him, desperate eyes and pleading voice. Soft and sweet, like drifting osmanthus flowers.
You cannot go back. He cannot either.
So to your question, Zhongli does not answer. Instead, what Zhongli does is this: tucks a strayaway strand of hair behind your ear, care shown toward the plucking of glaze lilies condensed in his soft touch. The tip of his finger, the delicate cloth of his glove, it lingers ever-so-briefly… He’s loath to let go. Especially when he so rarely allows himself to show such intimate affection.
Not for lack of trying, but because he knows you’re not at the point where he wants you: wholly dependent, unable to think of anyone else but him. He wants you pliant and willing, wants you to love him as much as he does you. He wants you to have you at the edge, teetering toward total hopelessness, on the verge of being broken.
And at that moment, Zhongli will piece you back together, exactly how he wants you.
So.
“You’ll get through this,” Zhongli says quietly, schooling his voice into sympathy. “I’ll be here.”
“...Promise?”
Zhongli rests his hands over yours, and hums. The heat of your flesh bleeds through even the gloves, and he wants so badly, to press his lips to your skin and sink his teeth down. “Promise," he finally says, filing down the sharp glint of his eyes until they're deceptively soft.
It’s difficult, waiting for the right opportunity. But he knows patience—in the end, Zhongli outlasts all.
May i please have some yandere venti headcanons with a female s/o? Maybe with some nsfw? (Preferably dom venti if you don't mind)
i love the stuff you've written so far! i'm so curious about your whole take on yandere Venti
content warning: fem!reader, not sfw/smut, yandere, unprotected sex, emotional manipulation. reader discretion is advised.
word count: 0.8k (this was longer than i expected oops)
answer: oooh yan venti! thank you for the ask, anon; i don't see much of him in the genshin fic landscape, but he's one of my favourites. venti's such an interesting character to me as a yandere (and quite difficult to pin down), what with god of freedom and all that. writing him is always so... delicate? there's a fine line to straddle between the possessiveness and his canon nature. as for his personality, it's very Cheshire Cat-eqsue with a touch more trickery involved. overall, all I can say is: i thirst. i extremely thirst. venti rerun when
heartstrings | yandere venti headcanons
There's a balance to be struck inside Venti when it comes to you. On the one hand, he'd love to bind you to his side, eternal and undying; on the other, he finds the idea distasteful and reminiscent of the slavery that he's purged from Mondstadt.
The solution? You'll stay with him willingly. You have to. Venti has trickery and wiles in spades, and he's not afraid to use them. A sad pout of his lips, a glint of tears at the corner of his eyes, a whimper about how scary he feels, how utterly alone. Would you really leave him when he's so miserable? When you hug him in comfort, he'll give a secret smile against your skin. Venti strums your heartstrings like a lyre, and you fall for it every time. You always give into his neediness, this innocent travelling bard and his beautiful, mesmerizing songs.
Venti is clingy, and that would be putting it mildly. It shocks you at first, his casually intimate touches. You protest in the beginning, chastising him about 'inappropriate behaviours', and he rubs his neck sheepishly, chuckling. But you soon come to realize that Venti treats everyone closely, even strangers, and your worries lessen. So without your notice, it increases, the frequency of his touch. The duration. In the beginning, his touch is like the brief brush of the spring wind, but now, it lingers. Sometimes, your skin prickles, as if feeling a phantom touch.
Definitely a closet pervert... or maybe just an outright one. Oh, you're wearing a skirt today? Somehow, the winds coincidentally manage to be extremely strong during those times, and you're shrieking as your hand flies to hold down the fabric. It's all to no avail though, because he's getting a perfect view of everything. a A small smirk on his face, Venti shouts through the wind, "Do you need any help with that, miss?" All the while, there's a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes.
Venti's very particular about your scent. Being the god of the winds, he's sensitive to smells. He gets jealous when there's someone else's scent on your skin, sulks and has a silent tantrum. Maybe it should be extra rainy that day, just so that foreign scent disappears. He likes it best when there's a subtle celilia undertone, as if you had been scrubbed clean of all but harsh winds. As if you've been touched by none but him. As if you're being covered by him.
nsfw.
His touches start to escalate into plain pervert territory. Faceplanting himself into your breasts, snuggling into them as you squeak in surprise. His hand finding its way onto your waist, hips, until it goes lower, lower to caress your—! He expected that slap, but it's still worth it.
One way that he gets you to sleep with him is through pity. Tearing about how he's so lonely for a woman's touch, how no one wants him because he's too boyish looking. That's right... Venti goes for the pity sex route. He doesn't really care that it's pathetic, that you're not too into it, because at the end of the day, his needs are being met, and that's the important thing. This man has absolutely no shame. Besides, he'll make you sing soon enough.
You relunctantly offer yourself, saying that's it's just one time, and before you even finish speaking, his whole composure shifts. Immediately perks up and jumps for you.
That mischievous nature doesn't disappear in sex. He's a tease. Venti gets you worked up with the lightest of touches. Swipes his tongue on a nipple and then blowing softly over it, the cool breeze making you shiver. Dips his finger ever-so-briefly between your folds, collecting your slick and shows it to you as you blush. But he's also impatient. Once you start writhing in his lap, grinding into his hardened cock, the flash of pleasure he gets makes him forget all about his initial plans to drag it out.
Venti is surprisingly forceful when he fucks you, rough drags of his cock against your walls. It's fire, the heat of the friction. He'll lather kisses everywhere, sucks bruises over skin, forcing you to moan for him. He'll tells you exactly what note that was, and then laugh your embarrassment. Coos about how you're so pretty with his marks on you. The Anemo Archon becomes a harsh tempest in his movements, not stopping his rut into your cunt. You'll beg for him pull out, but he doesn't listen, a fake apology already on his lips about how he can't help it as he groans and releases in you. And then, he'll scoop out his cum and rub it into your skin, slow and gentle, draping you in his scent. He sighs, content. Now you'll smell like him for days.
How about Zhongli and Xiao with an immortal (or whatever would be the equivalent of an adeptus in Snezhnaya.) traditional unicorn that serves the Tsarista/Cryo Archon.
Mostly because of this quote from the Last Unicorn:
"I can never regret. I can feel sorrow, but it's not the same thing."
a diamond heart (is not unbreakable) |
yan!zhongli x reader (x xiao)
content warnings: yandere themes, slight references to drugs (but not in the not-sfw way lol). reader discretion is advised.
word count: 1.0k
notes: this prompt really interesting! i will say i was quite stumped on this one because i have no idea what the last unicorn is—bless our wikipedia overlord—but the film premise looks interesting! I just went with whatever came to mind at the quote to be honest, so hopefully it’s up to standard/ xiao seems quite harmless here, not really yandere like i intended at first, but well. sometimes the words write themselves instead. (also this is extremely late, so apologies:'))
“Rex Lapis has welcomed you with open arms,” Xiao hisses, the grip on your arm taut and just shy of dangerous, force strong enough to splinter human bones, “and you return hospitality with daggers and lies?”
His voice is more desperate than threatening, as though he were on the verge of cracking instead. You smile woodenly, not a trace of pain in the expression. “I had my orders from my Tsaritsa. I did what I had to do,” you repeat. The famed adeptal realm is more dim than you thought, you think vaguely, staring up at its artificial skies. Sunny blue, to be sure, but your senses tell you it is mere illusion—a prison, crafted by Rex Lapis after your betrayal.
“Don’t look away!” The gloved hand of your prison guard reaches out for your chin, forces your eyes on him. How fragile the gold in his eyes seem, sparks of frustration tangled with longing. “Why?” he demands. “Why did you try to kill Rex Lapis?”
“It was my mission,” you repeat softly. “Nothing more and nothing less, Xiao. Tell me, if it were between me and Rex Lapis, who would you choose?”
As expected, there is no answer.
“You see?” you say gently.
Xiao grits his teeth and flings your arm away from him, as if the contact of skin burned, even through his glove. “Fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. Stay here forever then.”
His face becomes stony—like Rex Lapis’, when your hand plunged into his heart, searching for that precious, precious gnosis. Perhaps Xiao and Morax were not as different as you initially thought.
What was Zhongli thinking, you muse as you stare at Xiao’s tense shoulders, using such a lost little prison guard. So fragile, you felt the slightest sorrow at his mission—it must torment Xiao, to know that your heart had never moved an inch, despite your times together. The Tsaritsa crafted you from the coldest ice in Snezhnaya, after all. A touch of your horn freezes everything in its path.
You look at your arm dispassionately, wringing it to check for fractures. The lack of such breaks, despite Xiao’s uncontrolled strength, confirms your words: you were never built to melt. To crack, despite what Xiao wants of you—and Zhongli, too.
Zhongli visits you on the third day of your imprisonment. You sit alone, waiting. Xiao flitted away when the earth rumbled, already alerted to the presence of his sovereign.
He brings a jug of traditionally brewed wine. Sets it on the granite table in front of you, crisp clink as stone meets clay. The scent of osmanthus flowers drifts lazily in the air when he lifts up the lid.
You regard him with a cool gaze.
The corner of his eyes lift, a byproduct of the wry smile on his lips. “You’ve stopped pretending,” Zhongli says. “This honest look—it suits you better. Xiao thinks differently, of course, but he is more naive than I, unfortunately.”
“Have you always known?” You settle your palms in your lap, as still as ice.
Zhongli twists his hand—and from thin air comes goblets, vessels used long ago by the archons. The Tsaritsa kept one such cup in her vault, you know. A souvenir from Archon summits long ago. “I had my suspicions,” he admits while pouring the wine into the goblet. It’s effortlessly graceful, the smooth flow of liquid. Zhongli never did anything by half measures. He places the filled goblet in front of you.
“Yet you let me get close enough anyway,” you say quietly, taking a small sip. Floral osmanthus blooms on your tongue, but it’s too sweet. More fruit than osmanthus, you find. How ironic, the mask this wine wears in its scent. “Close enough to thrust my hand through your chest. I didn’t know the blood of the Archons were crimson too. How mortal of you.”
“Gods bleed too,” Zhongli murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he stares at you. Takes a delicate sip, and says, “They feel too, despite what the legends say.”
You think of your Cryo Archon, her too-big heart, wounded and bleeding in her chest. Love kills, she’s taught you. Love hurts. Maybe that’s why she made you, so you could remain unfeeling in her place. “You’re right,” you say. “I’ve forgotten.”
“And when you tried to kill me, did you remember this?” The grip around his wine vessel tightens.
You don’t flinch. “No.”
Zhongli laughs humorlessly. “Of course. I am the fool for expecting any less.”
“Will you keep me here forever?” you ask evenly.
“Not forever,” he says. “Only until…”
“Until I return your affections?”
Zhongli stills. Soft orange irises harden into cor lapis. “I am foolish,” he says, “but not quite that foolish.”
Still, there’s a glimmer of something behind the hardness of his eyes. Want? Anticipation? Ah, you think, closing your eyes from unexpected fatigue. They feel heavy. The master is as foolish as his disciple. “What did you lace this with?” you finally whisper. It’s a small betrayal compared to yours. Besides, you can’t hurt anyway—not anywhere important, at any rate.
Zhongli smiles again. “Nothing harmful, I promise.”
“I only have loyalty toward my Tsaritsa,” you say, words melding together from how leaden your tongue feels. There’s a burning sensation in your chest, uncomfortable for you to clutch at it, and oh dear, what is this heat at the corner of your eyes?
“No matter what,” you gasp, some liquid leaking from your eyes that you don’t understand. It hurts. “I.. I won’t falter. That was how she made me, Zhongli.”
Before the world blacks out, Zhongli’s expressionless face is the last thing you see. His words are the last thing you hear too: “We will see who lasts longer against time, dear heart—yours or mine.”
Uh...maybe Zhongli has a crush on reader who happens to be a father/mother (gn pls)? Their wife/husband/spouse has already died but reader doesn't want to fall for another person. They are loyal to their dead lover all the way!
notes: written for 700 followers mini ficathon
somehow, Zhongli is always unlucky enough to be in love with a darling that has a dead spouse in these requests. do people just like to see him annoyed
sudden relocation | yan zhongli x reader
“I do not think I heard you correctly,” Zhongli says politely. “Could you repeat yourself?”
“I’m sorry,” you say apologetically. A little bit flustered at the attention he’s afforded you; flattered, even, but you don’t think you can move past the grave of your dead lover, so recently buried. “But I’m content as I am. My little one too.”
He frowns, and you wince a little. You’ve never quite seen Zhongli so… shaken. As if your rejection of him came unexpected.
“I had thought…” He furrows his brows together, eyes going dark. “I must have not…”
“I-It’s not you,” you scramble to say, rubbing your neck. “You’ve been nothing but good to me. I just… I’m not ready to move on just yet. It…” You shake your head, finding yourself pained from remembrance. “It hurts to think of being with someone else right now.”
At that, Ling’er comes bouncing into the room from the gardens. “Oh!” She comes to a stop, little pigtails swaying from the motion. “Mr. Zhongli! Have you come by to play today?”
You freeze. Open your mouth, and find that no words will come out. How do you explain this to a child? Especially considering the fact that after your rejection, Zhongli may not wish to come around anymore. What a miserable break in your relationship.
He glances at you with his eyes, hard amber. “Not to play, Ling’er. You see, we’ve been talking”—and here he gestures between you—“and we thought it’d be best if you both pack up and move in with me.”
Ling’er claps her hand. “Really?” Her eyes sparkle, and she jumps for Zhongli, hugging his leg. “That means we’ll have even more time to play together, right?”
You reel back. Shivers go down your back. “What are you saying—”
But he cuts you off with a sharp look. A shimmer comes into his eyes, and he bends down to pickup Ling’er before you could stop him. With a sinking horror, you realize the vision at his back is also glowing.
And he has your child in his hands.
“Yes, Ling’er,” he says mildly. “You see, it may not be safe for the both of you, living alone in the outskirts of Liyue Harbour like this. It will be safer—and more fun—in the city proper. Isn’t that right?”
And here he looks at you. The command in his eyes is clear: you can only agree. Or else.
You force down the panic in your mind. You… you can’t do anything rash. Zhongli has never quite been so volatile until now. You had thought him rock-steady. Predictable.
But now, there is only fear. He has Ling'er right where he wanted—by his side. Leaning into his embrace, her cheek pressed to his chest. And you can do nothing to separate them without risking Ling'er's safety. You, who is so helpless and weak. You, who is visionless.
So you can only swallow your cries and protests, numbly saying, “Yes. That’s right.”
I've personally fallen hard for Arlecchino so maybe her and I also like Capitano and Pantalone so if you ever felt like writing for them I'm definitely for it
arlecchino is just everything, my god how can i be so down bad over a woman on the same level of raiden shogun. especially the "so why don't you keep your mouth shut!" left me in shivers. as with capitano, have no idea about characterization aside from the short dialogue we saw, so hoping this doesn't age too poorly.
just a concept for now, but i might come back for a full fic because she deserves it (as she does everything else in this world. (also can you imagine pantalone and arlecchino fighting over someone... another idea to be explored later, perhaps?)
arlecchino is kind to those who she wants to be kind to. toward those she finds distasteful or beneath her notice, her tongue is knife sharp, capable to sending even the bravest of men cowering. but around you, she's soft. soft in a way that she doesn't even show to the children under her care. only the most caring of touches, devotion clear in her eyes, so much so that to outsiders, they'd never fathom that she was one of the harbingers at all.
but it's when your gaze turns to others—any other than her—that arlecchino's titles rings true. she's poisonous against anyone else that dares to hold your attention. the knave, they call her, always aiming her cold and harsh glare behind you back, her red irises becoming knives when any of the fatui even glances at you. if she had her way, she'd keep you warm in her hearth forever, but you, her dearest darling, can’t just stay by yourself. where would you be if she wasn’t next to you, constantly keeping you from harm’s way?
arlecchino wraps herself around you like a fur coat in snezhnaya: tight and needed. careful questions of whether you were in need of anything, what do you want, darling? who looked at you wrong? who has wronged you? why is your face so sullen? tell me, she always says. tell me and i will rectify the matter, i swear it. her expression, all the while is a haunting want, a longing cut so deep you wondered sometimes if she was bleeding beneath her coat every time she looked at you. wondered if she was drowning, the ruby crosses of her eyes gleaming so bright they looked like freshly-spilt blood, her voice always as if she can't get enough of the air you breathe.
arlecchino isn't loyal to anything, you see. even the tsaritsa herself is just a goal for arlecchino, to be abandoned at the drop of a coin. but you, she'd never leave. not even if you wanted her to.
