in which : your boyfriend gets jealous when you flirt with another guy during a mission (re: blade is salty asf)
honeytrap [noun]: a stratagem in which a person entices another person into revealing information or doing something unwise.
wc: 2k, established relationship, stalking (it’s blade lol), reader is a tease #hellyeah, skinship bcus he can’t help but be touchy when he’s jealous (source: i said so). art by @/guaisanmu on x.
in celebration of blade n kafka x fortnite collab ig.
when blade first heard about the mission you were assigned, he showed no obvious interest. no questions asked, not even a glance in your direction. which, if anything, made you more suspicious.
after all, he had a (terrible) tendency to “coincidentally” appear on nearly every assignment of yours, regardless of how often you insisted he stay behind.
for once, he complied—begrudgingly, but still. he stayed put, just like you asked.
that much is true.
right up until kafka casually mentioned, almost offhandedly, that she’d seen you with dan heng earlier.
does that explain why he was now stationed on the opposite side of the cafe you and dan heng were seated at?
maybe.
but it’s okay, he justifies to no one in particular. it's perfectly fine as long as you don’t notice him. he needs to make sure you are doing your job properly, is all.
from his hiding spot behind the wall, he sees you invite dan heng to tea under the pretense of a friendly conversation; wearing the guise of a traveling merchant, you chat enthusiastically with him about trivial matters, your tone disarmingly harmless as you subtly pried for information on the astral express.
“so the express usually stops by this area for repairs?” you ask, idly stirring your tea. “must be hard to maintain such a big train while traveling.”
he watches as dan heng hesitates before answering, clearly weighing how much to share.
your eyes lit up at his explanations, your head tilting in that familiar way, so similar to the expression you wear on the rare occasions blade speaks about his day.
blade folds his arms and leans against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. from this angle, he can see the way you smile patiently at dan heng, gently coaxing words out of him.
he knows this is all for the sake of the mission, but it still rubs him the wrong way to see you act so close with someone else, especially dan heng, of all people. (not like he’d ever admit that to you though.)
couldn’t you have chosen the trailblazer instead? why did it have to be dan heng? the more he thinks about it, the darker his expression grows, a faint scowl forming as his fingers dig into the rough surface of the wall—
“ah,” an elderly voice chuckles from behind him, amused. “admiring the young couple, are you? they certainly look good together.”
when blade gives no response, the old man follows his line of sight, glancing between you and dan heng. “you know them?”
“they’re my lover”, he wants to say; but he swallows the voice down, and stays fixed on the table by the window.
leaning forward across the table, you prop your chin on your hand, nodding along at dan heng occasionally. and as if he’s examining you under a microscope, blade’s eyes narrow slightly at your every movement.
it’s not anger, not quite—more of a slow, simmering displeasure. like the faint itch he feels after you bandage his wounds. not unbearable, but all the more aggravating and impossible to ignore.
as if to rub salt into said wound, you reach your hand out, thumb brushing lightly against the corner of dan heng’s mouth, wiping away the faint trace of tea from his lips. the gesture looks to be intimate from your boyfriend’s vantage point, though you probably have no idea.
dan heng freezes. his eyes flicker wide for a fraction of a second before he looks away, ears faintly tinted red. even the old man beside blade can’t hide his reaction, letting out a quiet whistle, “young love these days.”
…
so far, you’re doing well.
your soft smiles and carefully chosen words has dan heng lowering his guard, answering your questions more freely than before.
but he doesn’t like how well it’s working.
he doesn’t like that you’re laughing at dan heng’s unfunny remarks (are they even good jokes, or are you just humoring him? whatever it is, it can’t be that funny.)
seeing your fond expression aimed at him makes blade’s chest tighten unpleasantly, it irks him to the point that he blurts out—
“they don’t look good with him.” the comment slips out in a flat tone, directed to the old man’s previous harmless compliment.
blade imagines you standing beside him instead, fingers intertwined with his, every ounce of your attention focused on him and him alone.
“they look better with me,” he adds, more so muttering to himself.
the man laughs at his reaction, shaking his head. “ah, so you’ve got competition, then.”
his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. competition? what a joke. as if he’d ever allow anyone to take you from him.
“…do you feel like we’re being watched?” dan heng asks quietly.
you blink, taken aback by his question. “huh? by who?”
you follow his earlier line of sight, gaze drifting toward the wall at the end of the street. there’s nothing there—at least, nothing anyone else would notice.
but you know better.
the faint traces of spider lilies left behind essentially confirms your guess.
and you can’t stop the small, mischievous smile tugging at your lips.
the mission wraps up smoothly.
you’re the last to arrive at the gaming cafe, spotting blade leaning against the wall near the entrance while silver wolf is still inside, aggressively mashing buttons at a machine.
“took you long enough,” the latter mutters without looking away from her screen.
blade says nothing yet his gaze flicks over you once, making sure you’re fine.
normally, he’d turn away after confirming you’re unhurt. today, he doesn’t. he pushes off the wall and steps closer instead, close enough that his shadow falls over you.
“we’re meeting kafka and firefly at the shopping channel,” you say, stepping closer. “they’re finished too.”
silver wolf finally wins her round. “ugh fine. but i’m not carrying the bags.”
blade’s hand hovers at the small of your back—
“yo.” silver wolf leans over your shoulder, oblivious to what’s going on, her chin brushing your shoulder as she squints at whatever’s in your hands.
—before it drops back to his side.
silver wolf straightens. “you good?” she asks, tapping your arm lightly. “you froze for like, two seconds.”
“yup, im fine.”
you are absolutely not fine.
out of the corner of your eye, you see blade turn around a little too quickly, like he’s suddenly very interested in anything that isn’t you—conveniently avoiding silver wolf’s narrowing, suspicious stare.
he rubs the back of his neck, and now you can’t stop imagining what might’ve happened if silver wolf had shown up just two seconds later.
the street’s lively, bright lights reflecting off storefront glass. silver wolf skips ahead, hands stuffed in her pockets, rambling about her new console game while you trail behind with blade.
things are quiet between you two, which is unusual since you’re normally the talkative one. but your mind keeps drifting back to earlier; he rarely initiates kisses, so the thought of it now leaves you surprised and honestly, a little giddy.
he shifts slightly, and you notice him starting to take off his coat. “oh, i’m not cold—”
in one smooth motion, blade pulls off his coat and instead of draping it over your shoulders, it lands squarely over silver wolf’s head.
“—what the—?!”
you hear her exclaim in the background but your attention snaps back to your boyfriend almost instantly.
he uses the brief distraction to pull you close, one hand sliding to your waist, the other steady at your back. you barely get a word out before he leans down and kisses you.
“why is it dark—get this off—”
blade pulls back just enough to let you breathe, but his forehead stays pressed to yours.
“missed you,” he whispers.
people usually exaggerate this part in dramas, but somehow, you can actually feel your heart skip a beat.
the moment is abruptly broken when silver wolf finally wriggles free, gasping, half-annoyed. she stops dead in her tracks, staring at the two of you, before recoiling dramatically.
“ew!” she yelps, making an exaggerated gagging motion. “can’t you guys do that somewhere private?!”
you step back quickly, flustered at being caught by your colleague.
blade, however, seems completely unfazed. he takes his coat back from her and slings it over his shoulders with a casual shrug.
silver wolf groans, making another retching noise, and storms ahead. “i’m telling kafka!”
blade doesn’t even flinch at her half-hearted threat, which elicits a giggle out from you. he glances down and you catch the faintest hint of satisfaction lingering in his eyes.
this time, he doesn’t let too much distance form between you as you continue walking.
on your shared bed, your boyfriend lies flat on his back, and you settle yourself atop his lower abdomen.
“blade… i didn’t know you read,” you tease.
a rhetorical statement, of course—you’ve never seen this man pick up a book in his free time, not even once.
“why are you ignoring me?” you press, tilting your head and leaning just enough to peek over the top of his book. “aren’t you the one who said you missed me?”
you tap the edge of the book with your index finger, nudging it down toward him.
he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, and looks away; revealing the top of his ears just barely reddening under his hair.
“...are you done?”
you ignore his attempt to act indifferent, changing the topic.
“y'know… i have to say, you must be a real genius to make sense of all those words.”
before he can even ask what you mean by that, you reach over and flip the book upside down (or rather, right-side-up).
"really?"
"..."
it’s not like blade usually pulls stunts like this, you know he’s never been good at putting his feelings into words. but at least he makes them known to you. somewhat.
you’ve gotten good at reading his hints, though really… who could possibly miss them? he’s surprisingly so easy to fluster when it comes to you, even when he tries to hide it, it’s written all over him. only someone dense as a brick would fail to notice.
but you feign ignorance even now, its nice to hear him admit it himself once in a while.
“is this because you’re jealous of dan heng?”
for the briefest moment, he visibly stiffens. ah. so it is about earlier.
he blinks, gaze traveling slowly from your thighs straddling his lap to your face, taking in every detail as if savoring the view.
“and you still decide to mention his name?”
he doesn't miss the small tug of your lips at his admission. he continues, “then, did your hard work pay off?”
“actually… he already found out a while ago.”
“good,” he says immediately, a not-so-subtle satisfaction threading through his tone. “so he knows you’re mine.”
“yes yes, but that’s not really the point—”
he buries his head in your shoulder, almost nuzzling into your neck. and you can’t help but think he’s just like a black cat staking its claim on its owner.
“ahem, what i’m trying to say is… i got the info we needed in the end thanks to a source dan heng gave me.”
his hand slides along your side before his lips press against your neck, hair brushing softly against your skin.
you roll your eyes, fully aware he hasn’t been paying attention to your words at all.
instead, he seems far more interested in the way you react—how your shoulders tense when he decides to press a deep kiss under your ear, and how your breath hitches while you stubbornly bite your lip.
the book lies forgotten at the edge of the bed, its pages crumpled where it had been carelessly set aside.
whatever pretense he’d had of reading is long gone now as his fingers curl a little more firmly at your waist, thumb tracing idle patterns against the fabric there as though committing the shape of you to memory.
a faint, smug hum vibrates against your skin. so much for pretending the effect you have on him doesn't work just as well on you.
he still won’t admit it outright; but the little quirk of his lips, the subtle flush at his ears…
those will have to keep you satisfied for now.
obligatory smau section (click in for full screenshot)
dh pov once he finds out abt your relationship w blade:
(d*n h**g is like a trigger word for ur bf plz dont mention it around him again)
worry not my lord, allow me to unscrew that jar for you. i would not want for you to strain your hand or break a nail. alright. hmm. HMMMM. HNNNGRGHHHHHH. HNNGGHHHH HRRRRRGHHH. AAAAAARGHHHHHHH fucking. squire fetch me my grippy gloves
you and scara are in a long-term relationship, only a couple weeks away from your wedding. to protect your privacy, your agency works hard to keep your personal life out of the media, but while blessed with tremendous acting skills that the entire world praises, outside the set, you can’t lie to save your life, so you avoid scara in public in order to not cause dating allegations. as a result, your fans misunderstand and think you guys hate each other.
established relationship, secret relationship, actors au, one shot, fast pace
warnings: kys jokes, mentions of alcohol, suggestive content
scara, lumine, aether are actors. venti’s a singer and producer. yn’s in both industry and childe is childe!
image 15 references hot ones, written portion after image 20 (the call image), small timeskip after image 27
probably ooc sawry i havent played genshin in saur long
ignore timestamps or die
✎ᝰ.
Your phone emits a soft light, brightening up the dim room. Surprised by the sudden call, your phone vibrates in your hands with Scara’s name flashing on the screen.
“Aren’t you busy?”
“No, don’t worry,” he replies, but the distant crowd you hear from the other side of the screen fuels your doubt. Nevertheless, you feel warmth spread throughout your body, knowing he’d drop everything to keep you company—even on days like this.
You recount your day to him and tell him about your experience on the Hot Ones set, how you basically downed an entire gallon of milk after they shut off the cameras because you could still feel the heat burning your throat. He makes fun of you, of course, laughs when you get mad, and then he starts to tell you about his day.
Eventually, your responses dwindle into soft hums of acknowledgment, content to let him lead the conversation. He tells you about Childe raiding his interview in the morning and somehow making it all about him, Lumine and Aether visiting him on set and bringing the entire crew something to eat, and Venti sending him a demo of his new song.
Soon enough, your eyes start to feel heavy, lulled by the sweet sound of your lover’s voice. Your thoughts drift, and Scara’s voice grows distant until you eventually succumb to sleep.
The other end of the line grows quiet, perfectly in tune with you even when separated by a screen.
Scara smiles to himself before whispering sweet nothings into the steady breathing on the other end of the line—words he would’ve had trouble saying in his younger years, back when he first started dating you.
“Goodnight,” he quietly adds before ending the call, bracing himself to open the door back to the people he’d previously barked at to take a break—waiting for him.
✐ᝰ.
SOOO did yall like pls tell me if u did, this was in my drafts for days cus i was tew scared to post (and i couldnt come up w a title lmao)
inspired by the anna kendrick and blake lively drama but i havent even watched their movies yet
i wanted to add the profiles but i used up the 30 image limit accidentally rip. also ik the ending’s rushed nawt my fault i swear, i probably shouldve made this a two shot cus i had more planned for it but we yolo
idk how the film industry works forgive me if this is innacurate its js for funsies BUT IF U DO HMU cus i have another idea but i think theyll be actors again…
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.
haha hey bro cant help but notice that there are multiple supply caches and autosaves leading up to me entering your chamber for that quick chat you wanted. just a quick chat though right haha. just a quick chat right
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