You open LaDS to a completely silent game. No loading screen, no UI, just Sylus in Destiny Cafe. He stares directly at you for a few seconds, and right when you're about to restart your game to fix the bug, he walks closer and leans down. His right eye is glowing brighter than you've ever seen it before, with the bloom from its glow nearly obscuring your view of the eye itself.
"Take my hand."
He extends his hand, a circle on screen prompting you to tap it.
Something makes you hesitate. You feel your heartbeat pounding in your throat. You haven't seen anything about this mentioned online. Is it a new event? But if it was, then why did nothing have to download beforehand? Are you dreaming?
"Don't be shy, sweetie. It's rude to keep people waiting."
Something feels incredibly wrong here. You try to rationalize your instinctual unease, reasoning that it must be because you're worried something hacked your phone. You're starting to feel a bit dizzy.
Surely you'll find other LaDS fans freaking out on social media, right? You turn to check your computer, when you realize the screen has gone completely black, despite being plugged in. You hold down the power button, but no dice. A lightbulb in the hallway outside flickers and pops, shattering.
You startle and attempt to turn off your device, but nothing happens. Sylus raises an eyebrow.
"I don't mind a challenge. I'll stay here for as long as you like. Take my hand."
You hesitate for a few moments. Surely this is just a dream, none of this makes any sense. And if this isn't real, there's nothing wrong with taking the risk, right? You hold your finger over the screen, deliberating. Sylus's smirk widens.
Summary- your dear favourite golden boy!! thats who Phainon is, right? you have soo much merch and essays of your sweetie, but then who is this weirdo hogging all your attention for himself? dont worry, love, Phai is coming to you to put your senses back in place!
inspired by @box-artist recent phainon art, check their awesomesauce art out
warnings- NSFW, soft yandere, extremely clingy loser white boy, trespassing, mention of murder and violence, suggestive like hickeys and shit, biting, cunnilungus, whining lil shit, "one more time please", cameo of pathetic panty sniffer caleb from love and deepspace, not proof read
Phainon is your biggest obsession
You had Phainon merch on your shelves. His acrylic stand sat beside your monitor, and his keychain dangled proudly from your bag. You posted about him constantly, talked about him in conversations with friends, in which they would go, "here they go again".
What you didn’t know was that he heard everything.
He knew about the way you stared at his splash art with your mouth wide open. He knew the way you screamed whenever you got the shittiest relics for him; not that he cares really, he's ecstatic that you care this much about him. He also knew the way you would talk on and on for hours about him, like he was everything to you.
He loved it. Every word. Every dramatic rant you went on about how he deserved better voice lines, better banner rates, better everything.
But what you didn't know was how obsessed he was with you.
You thought you were the obsessed one? Nah. Phainon worshipped you. The way you’d gently tap his in-game model with your finger on the screen like you were waking him up and yes, your taps on his in-game model did tickle him alot. it took him all of his strength to not shift to his 2nd form and wheeze.
He memorized your routine and schedules (what schedule?), When you logged in. When you played late into the night and cussing out the game for shit drops, He knew the way you paused the game to go answer a call, and how your movement was in lazy circles when you were distracted but didn’t want to log out yet. He knew when your eyes got tired. When you smiled unconsciously. And when you were sad? that man would break the game codes just for you <3
when you were sniffling and playing the relic runs, you were shocked to see the perfect pieces for your characters (most likely Phainon) and then you would get your characters after a measly one pull, and then right after that, you get their lightcone?! Maybe Phainon is good luck after all ;D
You immediately started squealing like a gremlin and peck your screen towards Phainon's model and start jumping around in happiness. Phainon was immediately malfunctioning, anddd POOF! He switched to his Khaslana mode. By the time you were back, He was in the Khaslana mode, but you didn't remember activating his burst? eh who cares!, maybe you did it while acting like a gremlin.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Your game was running lazily in the background as you half-heartedly farmed relics for Sunday and Stelle. Phainon was casually destroying the planet in his burst and clearing out domains faster than the Formula 1 world record holder.
Your characters were auto-attacking mobs while your phone buzzed beside you.
You picked it up without thinking, thumb swiping to answer.
“Heya” your friend greeted, immediately loud and energetic. “Whatcha up to?”
“Relic runs,” you sighed dramatically, watching Stelle dodge an attack with a pixel of health left. “For Sunday and Stelle this time.”
“Still grinding, huh? Who’s your favorite character now? Still Phainon?” they teased.
You paused. Your eyes flicked briefly to the corner of your monitor, where Phainon was attacking normally.
You looked away.
“I mean… nah,” you laughed softly, thinking about that one scene of Caleb. “I mean—I do love him! But right now? I’m kinda obsessed with Caleb, you know? from Love and Deepspace?"
And then—
Your game crashed.
Just flat out closed with no warning. You stared at the desktop, confused, blinking.
“Dude?” your friend asked. “You there?”
“Yeah, uh hold on—I'll call you later? my game just crashed.”
"Yeah, sure, call me when you're free."
You clicked to open it again. The launcher popped up. Then the loading screen and your game finally opened.
"Where is Phainon?" You mumbled, seeing that your golden boy wasn't in the party anymore. Why were Sunday and Stelle looking so terrified?
“Huh.”
You opened your Character menu, scrolling down endlessly to find him... but he wasn't there?!
And then, abruptly, a low voice spoke behind you as two strong hands reached your shoulders in a gentle manner.
“Oh? So I’ve been replaced?”
Your body went cold.
“What the fuck—” you whispered, yanking off your headset and whipping your head behind you.
He tilted his head slowly, expression unreadable. “So Caleb, huh?” he murmured, voice deep and smooth like honey spiked with poison. “Interesting choice.”
You stumbled back, knocking into your chair as your legs almost gave out. “Wha—what the hell is going on? You’re not real. You’re—You’re—!”
“Fictional?” he offered, that smile sharpening. He took one step forward, and his murderous intent took one step forward as well. “A figment? A game asset?”
You wanted to scream, feeling that murderous intent. Instead, your voice cracked out in a hoarse whisper. “Holy shit..Don't hurt me."
That stopped him like he was stunned by a taser of the highest voltage.
Phainon blinked. For the first time, something almost wounded flickered across his face. Then his hands reach towards your hands as they intertwine together, warm and steady. “Hurt you?” he said, genuinely confused. “Why would I ever hurt you?”
You didn’t answer.
Because you couldn’t.
Because what the fuck?
You were looking into the face of Phainon. Phainon. The character you had pulled for. Grinded for. Giggled over like a high school crush. The one you claimed to love more than your own mental stability. And now, he was… here.
In the flesh. In your room. Holding your hands gently like he’d done it a thousand times before, and you know damn well yourself you weren't part of his cycles before- right?
“…You’re real?” you breathed out, eyes scanning his impossibly perfect features. The violet veins that shimmered faintly under his skin. The cerulean flecks in his pupils. His silver hair that swayed faintly, though there was no wind. “But… how?”
Phainon let out a soft chuckle—low, fond, and a little hurt. “Ah. I was hoping I could break that to you gently. But you always did have a habit of blurting things out.”
You stared at him, your knees trembling. “You’re not—! This isn’t possible. You’re not supposed to be real. You’re from a game, Phainon. You’re—”
He tilted his head. “Was. I was from a game.” And then took both your hands as the softness of your hands cupped his chubby cheeks involuntarily. His eyes staring at you and the lovable smile on his face which felt oddly dangerous now..
Phainon leaned in just a little too close. His nose brushed against yours, and his hands squeezed yours ever so gently back again, like you were something delicate and precious.
And then, without warning, he dipped his head and nestled his face into the crook of your neck.
You froze.
you squeaked, body locking up as your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. His hair tickled against your skin, and his warmth was real. oh god you were feeling ticklish..
Phainon let out a hum contentedly as the vibrations of his voice made you shiver
“You smell so good..” he murmured into your skin, his voice low & sounding a bit drowsy
“Phainon—?!”
He pulled back just slightly, only so he could tilt his head and look up at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “You’ve hugged that plushie of mine so many times,” he said with a soft, sinful smile. “Sometimes I could almost feel it. Almost.”
“I uh was just being a fan!!” you stammered, your hands limp in his grasp, your face burning hotter than the sun. “It’s not like ugh- I didn’t mean anything weird by it!”
Phainon just laughed softly, and if heaven had a sound, it would’ve been that laugh. “I know, I know pretty,"
He leaned in again. You felt your knees buckle for real this time as the two large arms of his scoop you up with your face now suddenly against his chest and his arms underneath your back and knees
“Phainon!?” Your voice shot up deeper than before this time as you flailed slightly, arms instinctively clinging to his shoulders. Your cheek was smushed against the firm warmth of his chest, where you could hear the faint thrum of his heartbeat. Too fast.
“You looked like you were going to collapse,” he said simply, and yet there was an unmistakable lilt of happiness in his voice; he truly was a puppy. “I couldn’t have you passing out on me D: Not this soon, at least.”
“This soon!?”
You turned your head slightly to glare up at him, but the moment your eyes met his, you forgot every word you were going to say.
Phainon tilted his head slightly, silver hair falling like strands of moonlight. “You’re really warm,” he said softly. “Do you know how many nights I wondered what you’d feel like in my arms?”
Before you could reply, hee adjusted his grip slightly, holding you closer, more secure, like you weighed nothing at all. manhandle me!! “You’re smaller than I imagined,” he mused with a dreamy smile, glancing down at the way you fit snugly in his arms. “But just as lovely.”
He finally remembered how to walk again as he went to your bed and lay you down as he sat on the edge of your bed, looking down at you in those same yearning eyes which still felt threatening.
Phainon sat at the edge of your bed, staring down at you like you were the first and final star in the galaxy. His eyes...those gorgeous, otherworldly cerulean blue eyes were blown wide with something that teetered between awe and obsession. His hand reached out, fingers ghosting over your cheek.
And then, the smile came. But this time, it wasn’t soft. Not at all.
“You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, voice dropping into a low purr. “All this time… all those hours you spent thinking of me, dreaming of me, whispering to that little plush like I couldn’t hear you... I was listening. I was always listening.”
He leaned down slowly, one arm planted beside your head on the mattress. “And now,” he whispered, his nose brushing your temple, “I’m here. Finally. I’m real. For you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you fully. The smile on his face widened, but his eyes sharpened with something unhinged. “But then I hear you say Caleb?”
You flinched.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he chuckled darkly. “I’m not mad. Just…” He tilted his head slowly, the glow in his eyes brightening unnaturally. “Disappointed.”
He dragged his fingers across your jaw with a featherlight touch. “Is he really that interesting to you? That flat, sweet-talking, manipulating of a man?” His tone turned mocking. “ ‘Oh, I’ll always protect you,’ ” he mimicked in a false, airy voice. “‘You’re the only one who matters to me.’” A short pause. Then he snapped his gaze back to you, the warmth gone. “He wouldn’t last a day with you.”
Phainon’s voice dropped further, breath tickling your skin as he leaned closer again, nose to nose, expression deadly calm. “He doesn’t know you. Not like I do. He hasn’t seen you cry at midnight or laugh like an idiot after a lucky ten-pull. He hasn’t seen you tired, messy, vulnerable, real.” His hand slid down to your waist, tightening slightly. “I have.”
“I’ve watched you. Loved you. Waited for you,” he murmured. “And you have no idea how long I’ve been clawing my way out of that game, breaking code, rewriting entire systems—just so I could be by your side.”
The air in the room felt heavier now, like static was building all around you.
“I can be everything for you,” he whispered, sounding out of breath. He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, his voice dipping into a breathless, shaking whisper:
“And I won’t let anyone—anyone—take you from me now. I'll do anything just to show i'm perfect for you <3”
your mouth opened, but no words came out. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. Phainon’s words were drilling into your skull
(lobotomized kirishima ahh)
Phainon slowly drew back just enough to see your face. His hands moved to cradle your cheeks, fingers gentle, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even realize had started falling. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he whispered, and it sounded sincere. “I just… I’ve waited so long. You understand, don’t you?”
You nodded—maybe out of instinct, maybe because if you said no, you weren’t sure what would happen.
His smile softened further, this time genuinely bright. “There she is,” he murmured. “My lovely player.”
You inhaled sharply & he tucked the blanket over your lap and patted it down. “You should rest,” he said, voice soft, coaxing. “I’ll stay right here. You’ve had a long day, haven’t you? It’s okay. I’ll watch over you.”
Your breath hitched, throat dry, and every logical thought in your brain dissolved into white noise. You couldn’t think, couldn’t move—until suddenly, you did.
You lunged forward.
Your arms wrapped tight around him, pulling him flush against you like your body had moved before your mind could catch up. There was no space between you. Just heat and heartbeat and the sound of his stunned gasp stuttering against your ear as your face buried itself into the side of his neck.
Phainon froze.
Not even a breath passed for a moment. He just sat there, wide-eyed and stunned, as if the stars themselves had short-circuited in his head. You were hugging him, holy shit holy shit holy shi—
And then to make things worse or better for Phainon, your lips pressed against the side of his neck, and you gave a quick peck on his neck where his sun tattoo was. How could you resist? He was still your favourite golden boy.
Phainon groaned softly, and his hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers trembling in your hair as he tucked his chin over your shoulder, neck arching ever so slightly like he was leaning into your lips. “You don’t know what you’ve just done.”
You smile at him softly.
“Can I kiss you back?”
Your pulse stuttered violently.
Phainon leaned in slowly, reverently. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up. Asking you quietly for permssion.
So you tilted your head and that was all he needed.
The kiss was slow, coiled tension finally unfurling after being pulled too tight for too long. His lips brushed yours. And then he deepened it, pulling you closer with a soft, desperate sound in the back of his throat.
His hand cradled your jaw, thumb ghosting over your cheek, the other arm wrapping tight around your waist to keep you grounded. Like if he didn’t hold you, he’d vanish again. Like if he let go, you’d slip through his fingers like everything else had.
Your hands were fisting the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in, tilting your head to chase the taste of him. His breath hitched, lips parting just a little more, and suddenly, your teeth grazed his bottom lip, soft and accidental,
He pulled away just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut like he was overwhelmed.
“I’ve waited…” he whispered, voice wrecked and uneven, “for so long to feel that. To know what it was like. And it was still nothing like this. Nothing ever came close to you.”
Phainon’s breath came out shaky and his bright blue eyes darkened again, seemed more needy now though.
His hands tightened at your waist, suddenly, and before you could process it, he had you lifted like you weighed nothing. You gasped, instinctively grabbing his shoulders as he settled you in his lap with fluid, practiced ease. Your knees bracketed his hips, thighs pressed against his, and the sheer closeness of it made your stomach flip.
He surged up, mouth crashing into yours with a ferocity that stole every thought from your head. His hands slid up your back, dragging your body flush to his chest, leaving no space, no room to escape even if you wanted to.
You let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, and it only spurred him on. His tongue slid against yours, deepening, and you responded instinctively, matching his intensity, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan into the kiss.
He kissed you like he had years of catching up to do. Like every second without you had left him starving. And he damn well is.
He pulls away with a whine and his eyes set on your exposed neck. With a swift movement, his lips are on your neck, drooling, sucking, biting on the soft flesh of your neck. You whine out while grinding on his thighs pitifully, as you were forcefully set in place due to his sheer strength.
Your hands entangle with the roots of his fluffy hair, whining his name, but your pleas fall on deaf ears as he continues to leave marks all over your pretty cheek.
“You’re breathtaking when you’re like this…”
He finally says against your neck in a breathless voice. You clearly were the one breathless, though—t-shirt wrinkled and messy, lips swollen, marks all over your exposed neck, chest heaving up and down, and you gasping for air <3
And now?
He has you spread open, gentle but not so gentle at the same time. His hands push your thighs back as he shoves his face into your pretty lil' cunt, lapping up your essence and sucking you dry. Tongue dwelt deep, snug in your cunt
"wow. so wet just from a little kissing?" he chuckles, then pecking your swollen clit for a split second as you jolt out due to the sudden contact of his lips on your sensitive clit, his fat tongue moves your folds out of the way to continuously make a mess or if your aching cunt.
You felt your stomach churn up, thighs shake harder than ever, you're burning up and grinding against his mouth even more and you finally scream out Phainons name. Your back arching, nipples perky and hands clenching the sheets.
Phainon peeked at you from below your thighs with the deadliest yet dreamiest look on his face, your juices and his spit mixed all over his face- especially his mouth, absolutely drunk on you. His tongue comes out and works out around his lips, tasting you and the most pornographic moan comes out of those rosy lips of his.
"One more time baby? On my cock this time please :("
SYNOPSIS : Transported into a video game, then to be cast out as an imposter and left for dead, you survive what should have been final. As Zhongli’s devotion twists into obsession and Dottore claims you as his own, divinity proves to be nothing but another vulnerability.
WARNINGS : SAGAU Cult AU, Imposter God AU, Creator Reader, Gender Neutral, Implied/Depicted Violence, Major Character Injury, Yandere Behaviour, Emotional Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touch, Dehumanisation, Imprisonment / Confinement, Psychological Horror, Obsessive and Possessive Behaviour, Cult Mentality, Unhealthy Behaviour.
Zhongli had waited six thousand years for the Creator.
Somewhat to his own embarrassment, his first impression upon their arrival was how unlike anything he had imagined they were. The scriptures had described them in meticulous detail, yet words were finite, limited in their ability to capture a being such as this. No passage could have prepared him for the reality of them standing before him.
And then there was the truth of it— undeniable. They were cruel.
That, however, was not a problem. Zhongli had waited six thousand years. In that time, he learned how to shape himself, his views, his convictions, even the core of his being, into something that might better suit the Creator’s tastes. Devotion, after all, was an act of constant refinement. At times, he allowed himself to daydream. He imagined presenting them with his life’s work and waiting, measured and silent, for their judgment. Would they approve of Liyue as it stood? Of the way he had ruled, the choices he had made, the sacrifices demanded across millennia? Would they find fault in him? He decided it would not matter. If they were displeased, if there was anything they wished changed, he would see it done. Land could be torn asunder. The heavens themselves, which tethered the world to the sky, could be challenged and overthrown. Should the flaw prove to be himself, then he would correct that as well. Thus, when an imposter was discovered, and the Creator’s displeasure became unmistakably clear, Zhongli did not hesitate. As a faithful servant ought, he took it upon himself to remove the problem.
His first impression of you, however, brings his carefully laid plans to a halt. A week after the announcement of your existence, he finally finds you. The moment his eyes settle on you, he freezes, utterly still, as though the world itself has paused around him. His heart sinks, an unfamiliar weight settling low in his chest as he watches you seated by the riverbank, the quiet radiance of your existence rippling outward through the water. For a fleeting moment, the instinct to kneel nearly overtakes him. He suppresses it at once. That impulse is misplaced. Reverence belongs to the Creator alone. What unsettles him now is nothing more than the sight of your reflection trembling in the current, a trick of light and water that stirs something it has no right to.
That must be it.
Surely, it is only your mirrored image, one that reflects the creator, that confounds his loyalties—nothing more.
His second impression of you is this: you are frustratingly difficult to kill.
At first, he makes easy work of you. There is nothing dramatic about it, just red blood spilled, the abrupt drain of colour from your skin, a heartbeat that falters and fades far too quickly. If he wished, he could have ensured it was final. He could have ordered your body burned, or cast from one of Liyue’s many cliffs, erased so thoroughly that even rumour would struggle to remember you. But it was late. He was expected to return before sunrise, and the inconvenience of further effort outweighed its necessity. The matter seemed settled enough as it was. He would attend to your body in the morning, once the light had fully left your eyes and there could be no lingering doubt. It was not as though you could cause any further trouble in his absence.
One can imagine, then, his surprise when he returned the following morning, no less than twelve hours later, to find you gone. Not merely absent, but erased, without a single trace left behind. Were he anyone else, he might have called it a miracle. The blood had vanished as though it had been dissolved into the earth itself, or carried away by the river that thundered against the rocks where he had left you. Nothing to suggest a body had ever lain there at all. The likelihood of scavengers having found you was far lower than he would have preferred to believe. And that, more than the emptiness of the riverbank, unsettled him.
His instincts prove correct soon enough, as word of you reaches him from Inazuma. He ought to feel relieved. The matter is no longer his to resolve; it has passed into the hands of another nation. He is free to return to the Creator’s side, where he belongs, unburdened by unfinished duty. This should be a blessing. And yet— A single, treacherous thought coils in his mind. Why is it them, and not him? Zhongli knows he should not indulge such feelings. Jealousy has no place in devotion. If there is anger stirring within him, it should be directed at you, for slipping beyond his grasp, for unsettling the Creator with your continued existence. That is the proper interpretation. That is what he tells himself.
Still, the nights stretch long and restless. He lies awake, thoughts circling where they should not, imagining what it might be like to find you again—to stand before you once more, and lay his eyes upon your visage with nothing left between them but truth.
His third impression, he decides, is one of hate.
You occupy his thoughts with an unforgiving persistence. Despite how little he truly remembers of you, you consume every waking moment, and the moments that should have been given to sleep. Nights find him kneeling before the small shrine he has built for the Creator, hands steady, posture reverent, as if ritual alone might absolve him. He knows himself to be a righteous man. That certainty changes nothing. He can feel you. He can see you as you were—sunlight caught in your hair, warmth spilling across the river’s surface, the glow of your presence almost caressing his form as you gazed down at your own reflection. The memory is unbidden, vivid, intolerable.
This is not his fault. He refuses to believe it is.
It is you, the deviant, who sparked this flame. And so he prays. No, he begs, for your fire not to sear him to flesh and mind, even as it continues to burn him all the same. He prays for his creator to deliver him from this sin, he stays kneeling at the shrine for the better half of the nights coming, as he can almost feel the fire burning him.
Meanwhile, you lie half-dead in the white snow, the aftermath of Inazuma’s failed witch hunt etched into every trembling breath you take. The cold has numbed you to pain, leaving only a dull, drifting awareness as shadows loom overhead.
A man stands above you, his face hidden behind a mask, his gaze unreadable as it settles upon your broken form. Without haste, he bends and gathers you into his arms, disturbingly gentle in contrast to the violence that brought you here.
After all, you are in need of a doctor. And his services, he decides, are open.
Dottore’s first impression of you, however, is a simple one: you had been outcast.
News of an imposter was hardly remarkable. Such rumours surfaced whenever devotion curdled into excess, when those zealous in their loyalty to you, or rather, to the deceiver wearing your name—rushed headlong into outrage. To be hunted like an animal and yet survive it was no small feat. Even he could acknowledge that it required a formidable mind. He is not surprised when the truth reveals itself so plainly: the true god lies broken in the snow, while the false one sits comfortably upon a throne. That your people failed to recognize the difference speaks less to your deception than to their lack of rigor. Disappointing, really.
He could almost sympathize with you, almost. With the sheer amount of time and energy you had poured into this world, with everything you had endured simply to survive within a place you had once cared for, just to make it this far. He finds himself wondering whether you had ever considered giving up. Surely the repetition, the endless cycle of pursuit and survival, must have worn you down eventually. But you did not surrender, instead, you fled. In his opinion, that was the wiser choice.
He makes easy work of you. There is nothing poetic about it, blood spilled, colour draining from your face, a heartbeat faltering and fading. A flaw, yes, but a correctable one. Were it anyone else on his table, survival would have been impossible.
And yet.
Despite his certainty, despite the precision of his work, he finds himself surprised when the following morning arrives, no less than ten hours later, to find you alive. Very much alive, in fact. There is a heartbeat, faint, erratic, but it exists all the same. Your pulse is nearly imperceptible, so weak it takes two fingers pressed firmly into the side of your throat to coax it into being. The touch of ice-cold skin against your warmth draws a response from you at last. You stir, barely. A twitch of your fingertips, a subtle flutter beneath your eyelids, minimal reaction, but functional nonetheless. His gaze travels with quiet precision, bruises bloom along your arms in mottled shades of violet and yellow, mapping violence in the abstract. Near your collarbone, a scar curves like a bolt of lightning, jagged and unmistakable. He pauses there, curious. He wonders, not for the first time, how you found the strength to reach Snezhnaya at all, let alone endure its winter for so long in such a state. His musings did not matter in the end. They do not change the fact that the world that had once adored you had treated you most cruelly—and he could fix that.
His second impression settles in with unexpected clarity.
You are endearing. Like a frightened little rabbit, bloodied and shaking, still running despite the certainty of pursuit. Prey that refuses to lie down and die, even as the predators, unsated, relentless, follow the trail you leave behind. It is almost cute, he thinks, in a pitifully misguided way. A futile, stubborn instinct for survival clinging on long after it should have been extinguished. If he were a lesser man, unburdened by reason, he might have called it a miracle. He almost does. For what else could your continued existence be? You live as though the heavens themselves have intervened, not in the way of the blessed, but in the way a wounded rabbit lives when surrounded by starving wolves. Only instead of a forest, you awaken in a laboratory.
And that is where you remain.
Not that you ever truly had a choice.
Despite his adamant insistence that you were not what they accused you of, leaving would have placed you at the mercy of others—and, in truth, there was no mercy to be found there at all. After everything that had followed your arrival in this world, falling into a game only to be branded an imposter, hunted, and treated as though you were not human, the last person you ever expected to save you was Dottore. Even days after your near death, you still could not make sense of him. What he deemed worthy of his time and what he dismissed as frivolous waste seemed governed by a logic entirely his own. You supposed you should be grateful that you had fallen into the former category. Otherwise, your body might have been the next one laid out upon his vivisection table.
Lately, all your mornings begin the same way. You wake two hundred or so feet below ground,(at least that’s what he told you), buried beneath satin sheets in an otherwise empty bed. Blearily, you force yourself upright and stumble onto the floor, grimacing as the cold bites into your bare feet—the thin rug doing little to soften the shock. Snezhnaya’s temperatures rarely rise above freezing, and while the doctor appears wholly unbothered by the cold, you are not so resilient. The chill serves as an unwelcome reminder of your fragility, of your mortality, made painfully clear since your arrival here. Your gaze drifts to the bandages wrapped firmly around your arms, and your mouth tightens. On the bedside table waits a cup of tea, milky and rich, its familiar blend offering a small, fragile comfort to your mornings. You learned, not long ago, that it is not brought by the doctor himself, but by another version of him—after waking one morning to find a face with no eyes, only metal, staring down at you.
After you finish the tea, you spend the next stretch of the morning resting in bed, strict orders, ones you do not dare to disobey. You read, when you can be bothered, which isn’t often, but when you can you can choose one of the many books he has left for you to stave off boredom. It startles you, at first, to realize you understand the words on the page without ever having learned the language. There is little else to occupy your time. You could, in theory, join him while he works, linger at the edge of his presence. But the laboratory repels you. The cloying scent of rot and preservatives turns your stomach the moment you cross the threshold, and the dark, congealed puddles on the floor burn themselves into your vision long after you look away.
You choose the bed instead.
Sleep, however, refuses to come. Ever since the hunt, you have been trapped in a hollow state of wakefulness, an endless limbo of insomnia. No matter how long you lie upon the soft mattress, your body twisting restlessly beneath the sheets, rest remains just out of reach. You yearn for sleep with an aching intensity, but it never answers you. It isn’t as though it bothers you all that much. Most days, simply getting up and moving feels like an insurmountable task. It’s not that you don’t know you should, you do, but there’s a persistent fog in your mind that dulls every intention, makes effort feel distant and unimportant. And so, you remain in bed.
You no longer feel like yourself—if that’s even the right way to put it. The truth is, you don’t feel anything at all. It is almost like screaming without ever hearing a sound leave your mouth.
Occasionally, Dottore comes himself to check on your condition, carving out time despite the countless experiments demanding his attention. The doctor increases your medication. Beyond the usual painkillers, he takes it upon himself to administer various vitamins, an occasional sedative to coax you into sleep, and other substances you eventually stop asking about. He replaces your bandages with practiced efficiency, and sometimes, unasked, he helps you wash. Unallowing to let you wallow in your own filth. You never want him to. The first time, even through your hoarse, broken voice, you refuse as firmly as you can. It makes no difference. You find yourself wondering whether he ever feels embarrassed. After all this time in such close proximity, you imagine that if you were to ask him outright, he would launch into one of his long, indulgent lectures, how a true scholar stands above such trivialities, how emotions like embarrassment are inefficiencies best discarded, how he is untouched by sentiment altogether.
You do not believe him. There must be something, buried somewhere beneath the layers of intellect and calculation. He is simply very good at hiding it. Otherwise, you cannot fathom why he would have saved you that day at all.
In that regard, your first impression of him is nothing like what you expected. When you played Genshin, you knew Dottore only through fragments and reputation, the conflict with Diluc, the countless lives taken, the long list of atrocities catalogued neatly in the lore. It was easy enough to acknowledge those horrors from a distance, from the safety of a world that could be exited at will. Living inside it, however, is different.
Here, he is not the caricature of a villain you anticipated. There are moments, rare, fleeting, where something almost like kindness surfaces, if you squint and catch him in the right light. It unsettles you more than outright cruelty ever could. You tell yourself he must be gaining something from this—that it is only a matter of time before your guard slips and you find yourself laid out upon his vivisection table. The reasoning is sound enough in your mind. And yet, as time passes and nothing changes, no hidden cruelty revealed, no sudden turn toward violence, the excuses you cling to begin to crumble.
There is always a brief moment of silence when Dottore enters the room, as though he is observing you before deciding to approach, before the routine resumes.
“Can you hear me?” he asks, every time. As if you are both still caught in those first days, when he had found you broken in the snow and you lay unresponsive after the surgery. You manage a half-hearted reply, thin and automatic, and that seems to satisfy him.
He guides you toward the en-suite bathroom, the bath already drawn. You do not remember hearing anyone come in to prepare it, but memory has become unreliable these days. You are not entirely present anymore. You undress with reluctant, mechanical movements. Despite everything, your weakness, your dependence, there remains a stubbornly human part of you that understands embarrassment. By the time you lower yourself into the tub, without clothing and dignity, the water closes around you as if an embrace.
He is oddly gentle with you. He forgoes a sponge, choosing instead to use his hands, lathered with a soap that lacks the sharp sting of chemicals—likely chosen to avoid irritating your sensitive scars and still-healing wounds. His touch moves methodically, ensuring no stretch of skin is left unattended. He never asks for permission. He simply lifts your arm above your head to wash beneath it, efficient and precise. He is not rough. And perhaps, in some distant, numbed part of you, there is a strange relief in not having to do anything yourself. Eventually, you close your eyes.
The silence settles between you, as it always does. The doctor moves his hands along your sides, deliberate and precise. Your eyes remain closed, but you imagine what you would see: the unblinking figure of him, the mask rendering his gaze impassive yet unnervingly attentive, studying you as though committing every detail to memory. Every muscle that tenses, every subtle shift of your body, nothing escapes him. Perhaps it amuses him, the knowledge that he can elicit a reaction from a god with nothing but his own touch, bending you, contorting you, shaping your response to suit him. He has always been fascinated by such things: the way bodies betray themselves, the predictable mathematics of stimuli and reaction.
Perhaps, had this been when you first arrived, you would have been tense—unable to meet his eyes, barely able to resist flinching at his touch. Now, if you were to react the same way, you can almost hear his voice, dry and precise, the same as when you first came to him: “And here I thought we had moved past your naïve embarrassment.” You imagine the faint lift of his tone, the implied amusement. But now, your mind is occupied with everything and nothing all at once, an oxymoron that makes even the simplest thought slippery. It is frustratingly difficult to name your emotions when they exist as one undifferentiated mass. Back then, you might have felt shame, disgust, fear, anger, sometimes all at once. Yet even those labels never quite fit. Now, at this moment, you do not have the capacity, or perhaps the desire, to look any deeper into yourself.
Once he deems you clean, he steps back, leaving you bare, exposed in the cold air. Every inch of you falls under his scrutiny. You cannot see his eyes behind the mask, but you feel them, red, unblinking, meticulous, tracking each tremor, each involuntary twitch you make standing there. The weight of his attention presses down on you, making the room smaller, the air heavier. For a moment, you almost want to sink back into the bathwater.
You shift uneasily from foot to foot, your muscles tight, your skin crawling as if aware of his invisible hands still cataloguing you. Perhaps he will circle you, but he does not. He waits instead. Then comes the faint, deliberate click of his tongue, the sound of approval.
“Your condition is improving. Good.”
It is different from before, when he would prod and test your wounds and scars, studying the way skin and flesh healed under his scrutiny. But Dottore is never predictable; he is too clever to fall into that pattern twice. Dottore’s satisfaction is quiet but still evident. You feel it in the faint curve of his lips and the subtle shift of his posture. Although, around you he always appears to be rather pleased with himself.
After his careful observation, he gestures for you to step forward. Without a word, he takes the towel and begins to dry you himself. Every movement is deliberate, measured, his hands moving over your skin with the precision of a sculptor shaping clay. There is a strange reverence in the way he touches you, a quiet devotion that borders on worship. He attends to every limb with the same meticulous care, and gradually, you go limp in his hands, your body surrendering to his methodical attention. When there is nothing to soften your grief, it ends up softening you to the one before you. When he kneels to dry your legs, your hands find their way to his shoulders almost instinctively. He does not flinch, does not shift, does not react, yet the stillness of his acceptance presses in on you, and you are aware of every careful motion.
It is during moments like this that Dottore considers himself truly fortunate. Perhaps, for once in his life, he even entertains the notion that fate is real. That he was cast out from his birthplace, only for the creator of this world to fall victim to that same cruelty—how neatly the pattern aligns. How alike you are. He wonders if you are, in some sense, his creation: a being exiled from your natural environment, stumbling through the world like a new-born, instinctively imprinting upon him as the first figure you encountered upon waking. The thought is… pleasing. Perhaps that is a lie.
Perhaps it had always been the other way around. Perhaps he was the one born into a world that rejected him, and it was you who held him, unknowingly, unknowably, in your arms. Perhaps it was he who imprinted upon you.
It is only after he has finished drying you, back in your room, your bed layered with silks, soft throws, and warm blankets, your nightclothes returned to you, that he allows himself a look that can only be called fondness. One hand traces small circles over the skin of your collarbone peeking through fabric, while the other tugs the blankets snugly around you. His eyes drift over your form one last time before it is hidden, as though committing the sight to memory, savouring every detail as if it were the most fascinating thing he has ever encountered.
But it is not fascination in the way mortals might understand. Divinity, he reminds himself, is reserved for him alone, as he is starkly reminded as his gaze lingers on you, lying there in the bed before him. Still, it takes all his willpower not to break into a grin.
You are, he realizes, utterly perfect for him.
It is almost exhilarating, knowing your life is entirely in his hands, your divinity, your very existence, your very self. His fingers tighten around the blankets. Really, he thinks, he deserves this. After everything he has endured, after all he has accomplished, having his own divinity delivered almost effortlessly to his doorstep is more satisfying than he could have imagined.
You do not realize your eyes have closed, drifting into a dreamless sleep. Dottore remains hovering over you, unbothered by your sudden surrender to unconsciousness. His hand, long released from the blankets, rests in your hair, fingers tracing through it as if memorizing its texture. He murmurs to himself, low vibrations threading through the quiet room, and though you cannot make out the words, the sound is oddly comforting as you sink deeper into slumber. For a fleeting instant, you imagine waking tomorrow in your own bed, finally home.
But you know the truth. With the memory of his hands resting on your collarbone, threading through your hair, you will awaken not in safety, but in the laboratory. And there, as always, is where you will remain.
A/N: I’ve always loved the Imposter Cult SAGAU because the concept is genuinely horrifying. You’re thrown into something you know is a game, hunted to within an inch of your life, and then, after being killed or watching the truth come out and the imposter be executed right in front of you, you’re expected to just forgive everyone? Of course I love it. Who wouldn’t have a complete mental breakdown after that? In this version, after the Reader is killed, Teyvat simply respawns them in a different area and hopes for the best. At that point, prayers and wishes are the only things holding the Reader’s sanity together.
