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azen13 · 5 months ago

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hello hello! This is my first time doing this but uhh could you make a yandere Jing Yuan where reader is his spouse but disappears out of fucking nowhere (Did reader get isekai'd to Teyvat or something) for damn centuries— No matter how much time has passed, he is still waiting, and waiting, and waiting... And yea, and then reader randomly gets back on a tuesday afternoon who looks absolutely fucking tired btw

"I'm back my homie"

"Yippeee :3 I missed you!!"

Sorry if my English is bad, it's my 2nd language. Also have a great day!

CW: Yandere Themes, Non-Sexual Intimacy

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I love this idea Anon! I think that it genuinely works fantastically with Jing Yuan's character as a sort of inciting incident for his more possessive tendencies to emerge. Before you disappear, there are some glimpses of it: how he keeps you close to his chest at all times everywhere, from the bustling streets of Aurum Alley to the soothing sheets of the bed you share with him.

The scene was set so serenely. Lan THEMSELVES would have been enticed to lower THEIR bow and take in the fresh air. It was one of Jing Yuan's rare days of rest, when he could indulge in your presence more than he already did. A picnic in a garden, what could be more peaceful? Perhaps it was the way the air stilled when you simply snapped out of existence. There was no time for tearful goodbyes, no last words or final kisses. It was as though every atom in your body simply phased away, defying any natural principles. Jing Yuan wasn't able to even conceptualize it. The moment wasn't tragedy. Tragedy tightened the heartstrings so grief could play a mournful song. He knew tragedy well: Baiheng, Dan Feng, Yingxing, Jingliu, tragedy after tragedy.

But this feeling was not that. Instead, he felt his love—vast and radiant and bright—beginning to collapse upon itself. Without a center, it was simply a force pulling inward, until inward was outward and back again; eventually, every other feeling was lost in the implosion.

He tried to flee from its pull, reasoning that if he could find the center of his love again, it would restabilize. Fleets of Cloud Knights scoured the site of the disappearance, members of the Intelligentsia Guild were contacted. Jing Yuan even personally discussed the matter with several members of the Genius Society, desperate for any sort of purchase. Some explanation, however vague or improbable. Some way.

Try as he might, every road led back into that cool, weightless oblivion. He allowed himself to sink into a pool of it as the world went on. The Xianzhou Luofu needed its General, and this was nothing new. It was simply another loss, and after so many, they began to lose their meaning. It was as though Jing Yuan sat in a small glass tank. Each time he lost someone dear to his heart, the tank filled up to a certain point with water. By this point, he had already been drowning in desolation. But when you had wormed your way into his life, suddenly the walls had begun to crack. In little trickling streams, all his grief began to leave him. When you disappeared, the glass reformed, the tank refilled. Escape was impossible, he conjectured. This was his burden to carry as a Xianzhou General.

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Years later, Jing Yuan still can't sleep in his own bed. The sheets, once a delicate dark red, have now begun to go grey with how much dust they are collecting. His home has become a mausoleum of your spirit, a museum of the last remaining marks of your existence. A book on the table. A half-empty cup of coffee. The bedsheets are pushed back in such a way that if Jing Yuan tries hard enough, he can conjure your image, sleepily clambering out of bed. The mental hologram lurches to the bathroom; after a few minutes, they walk back out. Some days you would climb back into bed, other days you would start cooking breakfast.

He performs this ritual every night before going to bed on the couch, and tries to remember every detail as exact as possible. But memories only fade. They are ephemeral, like autumn leaves and evening light. Their existence can be prolonged, but never immortalized.

In the middle of the night, Jing Yuan stirs.

"...Yuan?"

"Jing Yuan? Why are you sleeping on the couch?"

You. For a moment, the realization is so powerful, of such high dimensionality, it doesn't fully register in Jing Yuan's mind. He can only comprehend sections and slices of it. You're here. You're here with him.

The rest of the night is spent on the couch, as you hold Jing Yuan close. He stays awake for hours, afraid that he might lose you again if he falls asleep. When he wakes up with you by his side, the tank shatters. But the hole in his heart remains. It cannot return to its original state, cannot expand outwards; it can only draw its center inwards, and keep it there.

For the first few days, you understand why Jing Yuan is so protective, why he doesn't let you leave him for even a moment. You have no recollection of suddenly disappearing. Your mind fabricated events: after your picnic, you went home and fell asleep. Then you woke up in the middle of the night. If you had lost Jing Yuan for years, you would certainly be clingy.

But time leaks by quicker and quicker, like a dam slowly breaching, before you realize it's been months and you've hardly left your home. You've gone on a few walks, but those have been only on sparse streets. Though, with the way Jing Yuan clutches you so tightly, you'd think you're in the middle of a battleground.

When you pose the question to Jing Yuan, he only smiles and waves off your concerns. He assumed that with how long you've been gone, you needed some time to get reacclimated to life. You remind him that to you, there was no period between your disappearance and reappearance. Jing Yuan hums and draws you closer, placing a hand on your cheek. His thumb reaches up to your lip, gently brushing against it.

"I understand, dearest. But in any case, you must understand how...alarming the situation was for me. I simply fear I may lose you again and wish to keep you safe. Will you let me do that, my love?"

Suddenly, you find your question ricocheting straight back to you. Jing Yuan's hand squeezes gently, his eyes gazing at you with such placid fondness. But beneath the static surface, you can see the turbulence in his soul. There is something different about your husband, something deeply wrong. What is challenging is that you can't find any loose threads in Jing Yuan's logic. You understand how difficult it must have been for him. That doesn't mean his overprotectiveness is right either.

Even so, you find yourself acquiescing.

"Good," Jing Yuan praises. His other hand reaches against your back, pushing you into him. "I'm glad you agree with me. I would hate to have to make you understand." Despite how his voice coos like a sparrow, his eyes are as sharp as a hawk's, ready to swoop down and catch its prey.

And so the days continue to pass by in an unchanging domesticity. Jing Yuan takes you on more walks and gives you more freedom, but despite how far you wander, you can always feel the gravity of his love, pulling you back into his orbit.

#sorry this took me so long asodgjsdg thank you so much for the ask!!#yandere jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #yandere hsr #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere imagine #yandere honkai star rail #hsr jing yuan #jing yuan x you #yandere jingyuan

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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HELP i think i got the amphoreus quest spoiled for me holy SHIT 😭😭😭

#im actually crying #like omfg #w #what

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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CW: Yandere Themes, Arranged Marriage, Stalking, Forced Kiss

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You had thought for years that the prophecy wouldn't be true. It hung over your head like a crimson moon, equal parts beautiful and haunting, words lingering on your lips like a young lover.

As decreed by the Mnestia long ago, Kephale would one day take up a lover who would wield witticisms and words as weapons forged in an ever-burning mind. At the time, it had seemed preposterous that a Titan, much less Kephale, would take up a lover. If not for a servant scribbling those utterances down and telling his children, who told their own children, who told their children, so on and so forth, the prophecy would have been lost to time.

If it had, would you still be in this predicament?

The first time you had heard of the prophecy when studying poets of old, you had brushed it aside as a simple legend. Kephale had already laid down a prophecy of his own by this time of how new heroes would soon conquer Coreflames to inherit the Titans' divinities, but you knew none of the Chrysos Heirs.

After a period of study, you soon began to craft your own verses. You much preferred the solitude of your home to the bustling crowds of the city, so you didn't hear how quickly your works began to gain popularity. Bards had a new repertoire to learn, and schemes and conceits never once imagined flowed through the air.

When one of the Chrysos Heirs himself began knocking on your door every day, demanding your attention, you realized your popularity had shattered any preconceived zeniths. Phainon was his name, he said, and from what he had heard of you, he was enchanted. The look in his eyes was such a hazy, skylit blue, it seemed like he truly had been the victim of some bizarre spell.

Every day he came and encroached more and more upon you and your home. At first, he stayed outside of your door, but eventually, he began to barge in, sitting at your table or searching amongst your shelves for any subjects he could strike a conversation with you on.

Despite his idiosyncrasies and his forthright behavior, despite the occasional memory igniting in your mind, reminding you of the prophecy, you didn't worry about it. Phainon had told you many times how he longed to take the Coreflame of Nikador, not Kephale. When word spread through Okhema over Nikador's defeat, whatever lingering doubts seemed to be extinguished. You were fine. The prophecy wasn't true, or perhaps it was meant for another Chrysos Heir, another poet.

Weeks later, you found yourself regretting your assuredness. It started, as many no-good things did, with a knock on your door. As you begrudgingly walked to open it, expecting to see perhaps a bard or a fool, you instead were greeted by Phainon. Despite the weariness in his eyes, his hands shot out and clenched your shoulders with such speed and strength, you nearly leapt out of your skin. His nose nuzzled into your neck, taking a deep breath. For what seemed like hours, he mumbled and babbled and blathered and prattled about Coreflames, Nikador, Kephale, and the prophecy. After his tirade, his grip tightened.

"But, at least you're mine now." The words seemed to shackle themselves around your wrists, binding you and your attention.

For a moment, you were so dumbfounded you couldn't find the words to express what you wanted to say. Had your situation been any less confounding, you would've found your speechlessness a wonderful little paradox. "Phainon, wha-what do you m-?"

Before you could finish your sentence, Phainon sealed away any remaining restraint he had with a brutally tender kiss. He seemed to push against your lips with the goal of wearing them down until they molded perfectly against his. The kiss itself seemed to metamorphosize with how long it lived; at first it was tender, like new shoots of life growing in spring, but as it grew in age, so did its greed. Phainon seemed intent on savoring every second as an eternity in its own right.

When he did break the kiss, he gazed at you with an otherworldly devotion. It was a look of such sweet softness that it could kill. "I might not have Kephale's Coreflame yet, but I will. I'll do it. Just for you." Though he said he didn't have a Coreflame, his eyes burned with passion brighter than the sun. It scorched your tender skin, branding you with illusory markings of possession. A declaration, almost, that you were, in fact, the subject of Mnestia's dreadful prophecy.

#yandere phainon #yandere hsr #phainon x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere imagine #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x you #yandere phainon x reader #i LOVE prophecies so much asodkgjsogj they're such a fun trope imo #especially when they're tragic like...YES we love #also so sorry if there are grammar errors? i promise im trying my best but i v much tend to flop when it comes to editing sobs

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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Same anon who asked for the yan!wrio hcs. I wanted to thank you for it! I loved it. And you’re absolurely right! I think you hit the nail on the head regarding how he will act as a yandere. I loved it so much I might as well ask for another fic, hehe 🤭

I wanted to ask if you take requests that include reader with x or y traits. If yes, I wanted to ask for this specific scenario: (if you dont mind, I’ve asked other genshin yandere writers to write this as well and I’m asking you too because I’m really curious on how you’d write this!) Yan!Wriothesley with an oblivious reader. Basically everyone knows wriothesley is infatuated with her, including the guards and inmates, and everyone knows he’s killed for her, except she herself. I wanted to see what you think Yan!Wriothesley would do if he was met with such a reader. It can be a HC or a fic, anything you’re comfortable with!

Thank you for your timee💕

Pensato

A/N: Hello again anon! Thank you so much for this ask. I love Yandere!Wriothesley and Wriothesley in general, so writing for him is such a treat. I think I may have gone a little bit off-track but I hope this will suffice! Thank you again for your ask!

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CW: Yandere Themes, Murder

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Though the weather was far from fair, this was certainly the most beautiful day Wriothesley had spent on the surface for a multitude of reasons. Rain pattered against stone in a wonderful little waltz, providing a soothing ambiance to the day’s activity–you had invited him on the surface to go shopping in Rue d’Arpont, an enchanting street in the Court of Fontaine full of little boutiques and bistros.

Being that Wriothesley lived in Meropide and didn’t deal with the fickle Fontainian weather on a regular basis, he didn’t have an umbrella, providing him with a convenient excuse to loop an arm around your shoulder and keep you slotted against his side. It was a certainty that by that evening, at least three tabloids would be printed regarding the mysterious Duke of Meropide’s unexpected relationship with one of Fontaine’s premier pianists. Neither you nor he seemed to mind the thought of that much–though, Wriothesley knew you had hardly thought of that happening when you happily offered to shelter him beneath your umbrella. You simply wanted to help a friend, and Wriothesly had taken the opportunity to mark you as property of Meropide in the process.

“I’m glad you invited me to join you.” Wriothesley’s voice broke through the quiet precipitation, the sound of every droplet of water bending to accompany the melody of his words. In the distance, murmurs lent another texture to the quiet building symphony. Just as Wriothesley took a breath, thunder called in the distance and lightning responded, smashing apart the tender composition. A line of electricity arced across the sky, fingers curling down from the clouds to try to grip Fontaine in its gnarled hand.

This wouldn’t do. With so little time together, Wriothesley longed to keep your attention firmly focused on him. Neither weather nor your naive whims would disrupt the tempo of life he had set for you, now and forever. “Seems like it’s getting really bad.” Wriothesley’s arm dropped from your shoulder, sliding down your side to grasp your waist. By the way your head turned back to him–eyes widening with such innocent surprise and your cheeks ripening to a gentle, flushed pink–he had your attention again, a fact that made his heart flourish. “Maybe we should find some place to get lunch? My treat.” His free hand pointed towards a small restaurant with what appeared to be a greenhouse by its side. Through the drenched window panes, rows of trellises full of little cream-colored flowers seemed to cover the walls. It almost seemed like something only a dendro vision holder could create, so ethereal and elegant.

A bashful smile shone across your face, as soft as the sun’s first kiss of light at dawn. “That’s very kind of you, Monsieur Wriothesley, but-”

“Ah-ah-ah, no ‘but’s. I insist.” Though your voice was as enchanting as a siren’s song, Wriothesley knew better than to indulge in your innocence. Your virtues became vices with how sharp they were, and Wriothesley knew that if he didn’t exploit them, someone with much more wicked schemes would. “Consider it a congratulations for your performance in Meropide.” As he steered you over to the entrance of the bistro, his mind meandered down streams of memories, tracing back to the roots of this desire to protect you.

A letter. One wedged between manila folders stuffed with forms and transcripts that was brought to his desk as part of his daily work. About two hours after beginning paperwork, his hand weary and barely grasping his pen–his preferred weapon of choice when battling the bureaucratic beasts the Maison Gestion conjured–he found his fingers lifting up a letter that was blissfully light. Upon opening it up though, he quickly realized he was in for a different sort of battle: every word on the page was written in cursive and wild and wispy as wind and waves, to the point where it was almost indecipherable. Fifteen minutes passed by as Wriothesley tried to decipher exactly what each letter meant. Eventually, he understood the message: a famous Fontainian pianist was requesting permission to come to Meropide to perform for the prisoners.

That was the seed that you had planted in his mind. The people of Fontaine held such revulsion for Meropide and its inhabitants, it seemed startling that someone–much less a figure as cultured as a musician–would want to come to Meropide on their own free will.

But you did.

He wrote back, not accepting your request just yet, but feigning suspicion. Further details would be required before he could approve of such an event, including the answers to several questions. Among them, a simple, unadorned “Why?”.

Your response came quick, written in the same mesmerizing slanted script. The way you wrote was conversational, as though you were simply talking to a well-known friend and not an imposing, powerful stranger like Wriothesley. The answers to Wriothesley’s more logistical questions were thorough and cooperative, though he could hardly care. He was willing to handle everything, from the moving of the piano to the security of the concert. If anything, your answers only confounded him more and more. Trust seemed to bloom from every sentence, the very paper reeking of benevolence. Since he had been a child, Wriothesley had never allowed such flowers to grow in the garden of his heart; instead, they withered into ash, leaving his body barren of such tenderness.

A warmth pooled in his chest, trickling steadily into each of his limbs. Briefly, Wriothesley wondered if this is what it would feel like to drink Sinthe.

His next letter was simple: a time, date, and place.

You arrived in Meropide minutes before his letter requested you come, not that Wriothesley minded. Preparations had been made well in advance so the day would proceed smoothly, and Wriothesley had spent many sleepless nights pouring over the list of procedures to make sure you wouldn’t have a bad time in Meropide. Wriothesley escorted you to his office, made you a cup of tea, and offered you a pastry before you went out to perform. While you sat, he noticed in your lap was a small burlap sack that one might use as a Mora pouch.

“You don’t need to tip me for letting you perform here, you know.” He elected to frame his question as a joke, adding in a teasing smile to make the picture he painted look more convincing.

Despite your career in the arts, you seemed to be no actor by the way that you squirmed in your seat. “A-aha, I was…shopping earlier.” As you spoke, your eyes seemed to ricochet in their sockets as they glanced at every corner of his office.

Wriothesley was ready to press further. By this point, he had ruminated on your letter for far too long, as though examining every stroke of every letter to glean some new facet to your intentions. The few minutes he had spent talking to you only confirmed many of his thoughts, reinforcing the budding desire to shield you from any potential criminals that could have done you harm. Even though he had a question ready on his lips, he decided to stay quiet. He planned to keep a close eye on you as you stayed in Meropide, so any suspicious behavior would be easy to observe. Plus, he trusted you. Not fully, but the seed you had planted in Wriothesley’s heart had taken root and sprouted.

When the clock in Wriothesley’s office struck noon, he escorted you out and towards the makeshift venue the prisoners and staff of Meropide had prepared for your performance. It was nothing extravagant, just a simple metal platform with a well-used baby grand piano, but the shoddy backdrop only made you stand out more as you took the stage and sat down. Your fingers slipped up towards the keyboard. As you began to play, Wriothesley had to lean in just to hear the faintest whispers of harmonies. Each note seemed to evaporate, congealing into airy clouds of sound that slowly moved across the room. The music crept towards a crescendo, your hands occasionally dropping into the lower registers of the piano as the auditory sky began to darken and rumble with thunder.

And then, just as it seemed you were ready to send lightning shooting across the crowd, you released the tension with a torrent of rain. Your hands fell up and down the keys in a blur, glissandoing one way before arpeggiating the other. Finally, as quick as the tempest began, it stopped. Birdsong filled the air, a gentle gust of wind tickling newborn leaves and making them rustle with laughter.

You hadn’t even released the keys, but Wriothesley wanted to ensure he was the first to congratulate you for your performance. After he began clapping, a rapturous applause echoed throughout the room. You may not have been a vision holder, but you were still capable of such otherworldly feats, conjuring images simply from the vibrations of strings.

While Wriothesley wished to congratulate you for your playing, many other prisoners had the same idea, rushing up to you eagerly. Some leaned in too close, others clapped a hand on your shoulders, all of them seemed to stoke some fervent flame deep in Wriothesley. He kept his lips shut and simply waited, though. None of them were breaking the rules of Meropide, after all.

The line shrunk at a snail’s pace, as it seemed that each new person wanted to talk to you longer than the last. By the time there was only one person ahead of Wriothesley in line, impatience flickered imprudently in his mind. When he saw how engaged you were with this prisoner, though, the flame of impatience quickly burnt itself out, and from the ashes rose a fire that burnt stronger. The prisoner was an old man in his forties or fifties from the looks of it. He wore such a dour expression it seemed as though he was a wax statue in a hot room. The words you spoke to him were furtive, your fingers reaching into the pocket of your pants. As deft as a magician, the Mora pouch Wriothesley had seen earlier slipped from your fingers to the prisoner’s, who quickly pocketed the money.

Before the prisoner could even turn around, Wriothesley had begun taking wide steps back to his office. If you called his name, he didn’t hear, nor did he care. The guards would escort you out when the time was right and take care of any other matters. His presence wasn’t required there. Instead, he had a much more pressing matter at hand. Walking in a ring around the room, Wriothesley flung open cabinet after cabinet in an agitato, ignoring how files shot out and fluttered to the floor. After each one had been revealed, he began to comb through every single form with surgical precision. There was a cancer in Meropide, and it would be removed with no delay.

The diagnosis was quick. After three or four cabinets, his hands opened a form and read a name he had memorized with such certainty, he didn’t even need to check your signature. As he read the case, his anger ebbed and flowed, constantly changing directions like a river over time. What once was jealousy quickly returned to its original course: protectiveness. Your father was a former merchant with a penchant for gambling. Eventually, he became so mired in debt that he had to turn to less savory business to make money. Namely, selling Sinthe.

You weren’t the issue. No, far from it. Instead, your father had weaponized your wholesome nature and pointed the tip of the blade at your heart. With how you carried yourself it seemed that it hadn’t pierced you yet, but that didn’t mean it had other effects. The form–which was quickly being crumpled by Wriothesley’s hands–contained a photograph of your father, still that same gloomy expression. Beneath the contours of your father’s face, Wriothesley saw his own adoptive parents take shape. He felt the familiar stab of betrayal, of trust razed and devastated.

Wriothesley believed in rehabilitation, but he also believed in justice. And in a place such as Meropide, where every rule was of his own design, justice would be enacted in accordance with Wriothesley’s wishes. When your father was summoned to Wriothesley’s office one day and never reappeared, everyone in Meropide knew what happened. Weeks later, when you were invited to return to Meropide for tea with Wriothesley, as you walked along the metal promenades of the prison, you noticed how the prisoners cast you strange glances, but couldn’t understand why. Week after week, you continued to return, allowing Wriothesley into your world.

All those meetings had led him to the surface, to a small bistro on a quaint street. The two of you were brought into the greenhouse, though the sight surprised both you and Wriothesley. Instead of real flowers and trellises, it was an optical illusion; someone had painted the image of a garden lining the walls of the building.

“Why are there no real…” your voice tapered off, but the waiter was quick to pick up on your question.

“We used to have real flowers, but too many people would pick them. Eventually, the cost of replacing them became too great, so we contacted an artist to paint them.” The waiter shrugged then left.

After pulling out your chair for you, Wriothesley sat down opposite to you and sighed. “What a shame. It looked pretty from the outside.” A few seconds of silence passed as you fiddled with the tablecloth. “Anyways. Say, have any performances planned? I’d love to hear you again.” At the sight of a gentle smile gracing your face, Wriothesley felt himself perk up a little with pride.

“Not at the moment. Sometimes I’m booked, other times I’ve got nothing, and right now…”

Sensing opportunity, Wriothesley quickly jumped back into the conversation. “Well, if you ever need anything, I’m here for you.” His hand slithered across the table and brushed against your palm, fingers full of barely-restrained greed. He could offer you an entire world of opulence and comfort, protect you from those that seek to undermine your innocence. A delicate wildflower such as yourself might wilt temporarily after being transplanted, but in the long run, a stable environment will allow you to flourish without all the threats of nature. You may be the musician of the keys, but Wriothesley has mastered the song of your heart. When he takes you for himself, all that will be left of you in this world is the silent echo of your sweet melody.

Your cheeks flushed, you smiled bashfully. “Thanks Wriothesley.”

#this is the kindest reblog i think i've ever received and i genuinely cried when i saw it #like genuinely im #im so thankful for all your kind words #and your INSIGHTS??? spot on.#i wish i had more to say but im just like LSHGSOIGHWOITHOIGHSODOHGSDHGSEIHGOWIEEHOIWEHOIHJ #yknow #but again thank u thank u thank u sm ur words are so kind!!! i hope u have a wonderful day <3

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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wriothesley is an old lover, i think. he’s tough and strong and oh-so-ruggedly handsome; he’s a gentle handler, a slow mover. it takes knowing someone a long time before he can either fall in love with them or, if he happened to fall fast and hard, get the guts to do something about it.

when he does something about it, it’s so romantic and genuine and sweet that you’ll want to metaphorically throw up. in a time where things move so fast—technology makes strides every day, engineers are speeding along the progress of society, and people become daily entangled in small trysts of passion, leaving fragments of themselves scattered—wriothesley moves deliciously slow.

it makes you feel so special, the way he practically courts you. he’s so god damn respectful of everything about you, it’s disgusting. the simple ways he shows affection for you are so beautiful and veneratingly intimate that it almost feels vulgar. wriothesley naturally creates a space around himself that is so safe and so quiet, you melt into vulnerability before you can even think. he makes it easy to be relaxed, and that can be scary when you are used to being on guard.

he is patient, and he’s kind. he’s certainly not perfect, as no one can be—he has his flaws, and he recognizes his own shortcomings. though easy to talk to, easy to get along with, wriothesley does guard his heart carefully, masking himself and his intentions until he’s gauged the trustworthiness of a companion. it can sometimes be difficult to bring the defenses down, even in the most trusted presence; he is used to being fully performative, fully vigilant. he can struggle to communicate in this stage, because he is uncertain of himself and others and, frankly, everything all at once. but once the wall comes down, he’s all authentic, coming as he is without the pre-painted mask.

i feel as if it takes a lot of mutual comfort and reassurance in that stage of scary vulnerability. it is somewhat grotesque to be seen as you are and then to watch someone choose to see more of you over and over and over. you are dying and you are living and it’s mortifying and really very wonderful.

after the initial knowing, there comes the valley where it feels as if your souls begin to intertwine, and the knowing becomes so much more intimate than you might have prepared yourself for. wriothesley wants to hide, and you might too. there are probably some bumps where he puts off replying to letters, or perhaps you procrastinate scheduling visits to the fortress, and you both act very silly, and you misunderstand and squabble a bit and make up. the silliness, however, is not unwarranted, as you both are very aware of how scary it can be to like someone and to be liked. and to watch and feel as the liking turns to loving, and knowing turns to becoming, and suddenly your hands and hearts are glued like crafts and it would be a dire mistake to unravel the lovely work of two loving souls—but moving forward is still, perhaps, so very uncomfortable. but you will, you will do it.

wriothesley likes you so much that he feels himself fall apart. the entirety of the strength he has built up within himself wavers under your soft gaze; your eyes rip him to shreds, but gently, lovingly. you reduce him to nothing but a lovestruck schmuck.

the depths of his adoration for you are, in a sense, biblical. if you have no religious background, you could call his love something sacred, something reverent. he’d never anticipated feeling this way for someone; now that he’s become so deeply entrenched in everything about you, wriothesley feels a deep need to protect and to provide. he is unsure what the future could look like due to his position as the duke of meropide, but he is certain that everything will fall into place if it is meant to be. whatever the case, he’s an absolute schmuck, hanging off your every word and footstep. 100% would follow you around like a lost puppy were he not duty-bound to his work.

for you, it’s really the fact that you could sit in his presence for hours, safely and peacefully, without having spoken a word. there could be no sound in his office but the time-dusted record playing and tea-crusted pages turning, and all would still be well. no guessing, nothing under the rug for you to worry your silly head about—it is just he and you and his work and your books, and the music and his breathing and your humming and embroidery. nothing has transpired but the work that has been done and the record that has played a dozen times over. you may pick up where you left off with him, only with a lighter chest and clearer mind.

sigewinne would oft find the duke passed out in his big red chair, his sweet little lover over on the couch gone to dreamland all the same. it was picturesque. she sometimes wished she could call her friend mamere to paint it, to capture in art whatever it was she could not with words. sigewinne was still learning about humans—and she could glean a lot just from watching you and the duke. but sometimes, like this domestic scene, she would find herself puzzled, unable to describe the feelings that emerged from seeing two humans so safe and comfortable with each other in this particular manner. sigewinne would tip-toe back down the stairs and out of the duke’s office, much to ponder, and much to ask monsieur neuvillette.

very self indulgent, but i finally wrote something 😵‍💫 it just came out like blaarrggh

#god i love fluff so muchhhhh #asdgsdgsdg and this is beautiful #op u write him so tender and im here for it #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #wriothesley x y/n #genshin x reader #drabble #genshin drabble #wriothesley drabble #genshin fluff #wriothesley fluff

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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Oh, to have the privilege of caressing Jing Yuan's soft locks... A girl can dream...!!

Imagine just sitting in his perfect green garden, the birds chirp around you as the general is sprawled across your lap, his lips formed into a lazy smile as he brings your hand closer to his scalp, beckoning you to pretty please touch him ... It's been such a long and hard day, nothing would make him happier than to be granted the luxury of your presence.

And you never fail to indulge him. Each and every time you give into the sneaky man's charm, his deep voice lulling you into submission, it's like a spell is cast on you.

What makes it worse is that you always seem to willingly step into his traps.

Day by day, he unveils just how little he has to do in order to have you wrapped around his pinky finger. A breezy touch, a soft peck here and there, the heat of his longing gaze - it's all so much for a single person to deal with. Every time you lock eyes, it's as if you're struck with an endless sea of pouring honey, the sweetness tainting your soul, the stickiness claiming you from top to bottom as you allow yourself to be nothing but his.

His. Jing Yuan's, his darling, his beloved, his.

Just when you think you've mustered up the courage to leave, that you have gathered enough strength to face him... You never fail to come crawling back.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yancore #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #hsr jing yuan #yandere jing yuan #yandere hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr jing yuan x reader

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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Thank you for your timee💕

Pensato

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CW: Yandere Themes, Murder

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A bashful smile shone across your face, as soft as the sun’s first kiss of light at dawn. “That’s very kind of you, Monsieur Wriothesley, but-”

But you did.

A warmth pooled in his chest, trickling steadily into each of his limbs. Briefly, Wriothesley wondered if this is what it would feel like to drink Sinthe.

His next letter was simple: a time, date, and place.

“You don’t need to tip me for letting you perform here, you know.” He elected to frame his question as a joke, adding in a teasing smile to make the picture he painted look more convincing.

“Why are there no real…” your voice tapered off, but the waiter was quick to pick up on your question.

“Not at the moment. Sometimes I’m booked, other times I’ve got nothing, and right now…”

Your cheeks flushed, you smiled bashfully. “Thanks Wriothesley.”

#yandere wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #genshin x you #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #wriothesley #wriothesley x you

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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woah um thank you all for 400 followers??? i feel like. i say this everytime i hit an important milestone but this means so much to me. i started writing in 5th grade on wattpad, and if 5th grade me saw how far i've come he'd be so proud and i'm also so proud that 400 of u guys like my writing enough to follow me sdlvisdgisjdg i'm rambling but just thank you all so much again!!! no fun special event for this milestone but i do have a wriothesley oneshot that i keep saying i'll post--and then don't--that i WILL post. by the end of january at least lolol ok bye

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azen13 · 5 months ago

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CW: Yandere Themes, Stalking, Bathing Together, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Spoilers for HSR 3.0 Main Story

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I've had some time to sit with 3.0, and so I wanted to just ramble a little bit about Yandere!Phainon! I loved him in-game and definitely hope to write about him as I get to know his character more.

He's not cruel. Far from it, his presence is like the kiss of sunlight on morning dew. Instead, he's protective to the point where he seems to bear down on you at every waking moment. You might simply be going for a walk in Marmoreal Market trying to buy some goods for dinner and you'll find yourself bumping into Phainon, his voice effulgent. But with light comes shadows, and you can feel his more possessive intentions lurking between the letters of his words. He exclaims what a wonderful coincidence this is, but you know better. A coincidence can only live for so long before it sheds its skin and reveals an artificial nature, and you can see right through every single one of Phainon's translucent excuses.

Even though he longs to wake up and fall asleep with you by his side, he does a good job of keeping the compulsion to take you home at bay for some time. His conveniently-timed coincidences allow him the opportunity to escort you from place-to-place and bask in your radiance. If he gets lucky, he can persuade you to let him accompany you to the baths. Even though it's against the rules, he enjoys bringing you to the Hero's Bath and taking his time washing your hair. His hands weave through your hair masterfully, his fingertips occasionally ghosting the skin of your shoulders. You may not let him be close to you, but he always finds a way to claim you as his own in public: a hand wrapped around your shoulders, or tousling your hair, or even reaching for your own hand. In his mind, you are a hero, the savior of a heart shattered beyond repair by countless losses. For that reason, he cannot let you go; no matter how wrong it may be in your eyes, perceptions can be easily changed, and he will do whatever it takes to show you that your life will be perfect with him. Spur, strike, scorn him as you'd like, you cannot escape his presence and power. It'd be a fool's errand to leave Okhema with the state Amphoreus is in, and Phainon isn't just some commoner with no public status who you can simply avoid. On the contrary, he has a multitude of tools at his disposal to help ensnare you in his control. And, if you still somehow fight against him, he can always plead with Aglaea for her to intertwine your fate with his.

No matter what you do, where you go, or how you fight him, Phainon will make himself the sun of your heart, pulling you into his orbit and never letting you go. Ever.

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