heliosunny

[heliosunny]

could we get more merman aventurine x reader, s’il vous plait?:3

Blood//Water

Merman!Aventurine x Reader

In a city like this, death had a price, and you were the one setting it. Your office sat high above the neon gutters, where glass skyscrapers scraped the polluted sky and criminals wore tailored suits. And among the many monsters that roamed this place, yours stayed in a bathtub.

Aventurine wasn’t human, at least not entirely. When the lights dimmed and the job was done, he shed the form he wore like a second skin. Tail shimmering in dim light, teeth too sharp for a man. Trained by your hand. Loyal only to you. The name Aventurine echoed in whispers between gangs and high-society vultures.

You didn’t need many. Just one like him.

The man who came in that day wore desperation like cologne. He sat across from your desk with shaky fingers and a silver case, thick with currency and cowardice.

"She’s a liability.” he said. “I want her gone. My stepdaughter, Aria."

You didn’t like it. The way he avoided eye contact. Something reeked, and it wasn’t just his fear.

Aventurine leaned against the wall like he wasn’t listening. But you saw it—the slight twitch of his tail where it was hidden beneath the illusion of legs, the gleam in his eyes.

“Sounds like fun.” he said lazily, flipping a knife in his hand. “Boss, may I?”

“You sure?”

“Let’s say my instincts are tingling. I’d like to see what sort of fish swims in this pond.”

You allowed it, but only on one condition: you’d go together.

You both went in dressed to kill—metaphorically, this time.

The party was held in one of those high-rise halls lined with art that looked expensive and meant nothing. The kind of place where old money and new sins mingled behind gold-rimmed glasses. Everyone had secrets; you were here to pickpocket them with charm and sharp ears.

You played your part. Aventurine played his even better. He brushed shoulders with senators and smugglers, fed one man just enough falsehood to loosen the truth from another. It didn’t hurt that he looked like he’d stepped out of some forbidden fairytale—otherworldly but too pretty to question.

By the end of the night, you had what you needed: Aria was upstairs. And alone.

So you waited.

When the music dulled and the guests began to peel away in champagne-stained clusters, you both moved like shadows through the service corridors and up the emergency stairs. The halls above were silent. You reached her room. Locked, but Aventurine made short work of that. The tension in your chest was drowned under the hush of practiced movements.

You slipped inside.

There she was.

Asleep, by the look of it.

Aventurine took position at the foot of the bed, raising the silenced pistol, breath steady.

You stepped forward, hand raised slightly. “Wait—”

The blanket peeled back. And there it was.

Aria.

Already dead.

A neat hole between her eyes, blood dried dark against the pillow.

Aventurine froze, lips parting in a hiss. “No one was supposed to beat me to it.”

A high-pitched, snarling wail that painted the halls red with flashing lights. Someone triggered the alarm.

“Trap.” you said instantly.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Glass shattered behind you, heavy boots stormed the corridor. You both bolted through the adjoining room, down the service stairs, twisting through blind spots.

When you were finally safe, pressed into the silence of the getaway car, Aventurine chuckled low in his throat.

“Well, Boss…” he turned to you, “someone’s playing our game. And they just made their first move.”

You returned to your building just before dawn. You didn’t expect quiet—not in your line of work—but you didn’t expect this either.

The street outside was crawling with cops.

A corpse was being wheeled out, zipped up in plastic. The man who’d offered you the job. The coward in the suit.

Dead.

No one kills a client unless they know what they’re doing.

You and Aventurine stayed low in the car, watching the scene unfold through tinted windows.

“Well,” he murmured, “Looks like someone’s cleaning house.”

You said nothing. But your thoughts were already racing. The party. The faces. And one stood out. A rival who’d been trying to edge into your territory for months now. Someone who never liked that your business thrived in shadows his spotlight couldn’t reach.

You needed confirmation.

A hotel to stay. You needed that. And of course, a shower.

Aventurine’s voice through the door, something teasing and smug: “Don’t take too long. I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

You hit the casino just after sundown.

It wasn’t the kind of place you liked, but it was the kind where secrets changed hands beneath poker tables.

Aventurine fit in far too well. He was playing a high-stakes game when you stepped away to sweep the perimeter, check for familiar faces, or worse—set eyes watching from the dark.

When you returned, something was off.

Aventurine was losing.

Which never happened.

His opponent, a smug man in a sharp suit, was clearly cheating. You didn’t even have to look closely to know.

You moved to Aventurine's side, standing close enough for your presence to shield him from the worst of it.

His shoulders relaxed instantly.

“Your scent calms me.” he murmured without looking at you, voice so low it was nearly drowned by the roulette wheel’s spin. “Warm. Like the deep, right before a kill.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer, smiling wide for show. “Got the info. We’re being hunted.”

You gave a faint nod. “Let’s finish this.”

Men in black swarmed through the crowd, armed. You recognized the movement instantly.

Aventurine cursed under his breath.

You both bolted.

Glass shattered behind you, panic rippled through the casino floor. Screams. Lights. Alarms. You ducked into a corridor, and just as you reached the back exit. “They’re splitting us.” Aventurine hissed. “Go!”

You hesitated, but he shoved you. “Move. I’ll catch up.”

You lost sight of him near the hotel fountains.

Aventurine wasn’t so lucky.

One man pinned him near the edge of a long decorative pool. Aventurine got cut, forced backward.

Still, the man made a fatal mistake.

He tried to drown him.

Aventurine opened his eyes under the water.

And he smiled.

The illusion peeled away in pieces, his tail unfurling from nowhere. Fins shimmered in the poollight.

The man had no time to regret.

When Aventurine rose from the water moments later, the man was gone.

---

The room was dim, lit only by the laptop’s blue glow. Rain tapped the glass. You were hunched forward in the desk chair, fingers flying over stolen files, backdoor ports, and surveillance logs scraped from the laptop you’d lifted mid-escape.

Someone wanted you both dead.

You barely heard the door open. But you felt him.

Aventurine padded in barefoot, still dripping wet, water trailing from the hem of a hotel robe that was definitely too small for him. His hair clung to his neck, strands curling at the ends, cheeks flushed with the faintest post-fight glow.

You didn’t turn around.

“I take it the guy’s not going to surface again.”

“Nope,” he said lightly. “Just feeding the koi now.”

He crossed the room without a word of warning and sank into your lap with a deep, satisfied sigh, arms winding lazily around your shoulders, head resting right where your neck met your collarbone.

“Don’t have anything better to wear?”

His voice rumbled against your skin. “At least I have something to put on. Thought about walking in wrapped in the hotel towel, but I figured you'd get distracted.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but didn’t push him off. You just kept typing.

He settled more comfortably, eyes fluttering half-shut, his damp weight warm despite everything.

“I got into their comms.” you said, scrolling through an encrypted map. “Their hideout’s in the old shipping district. Either they're cocky, or they're baiting.”

Aventurine let out a low, sleepy hmm in response. You felt his breath ghost against your neck.

“Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Too late. His arms only tightened, head tipping with full trust, eyes fully closed now.

Another soft hmm.

“Just... let me be like this for a bit.” he murmured. “Feels like you’re the only place that’s not trying to kill me today.”

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t move either.

You woke up alone.

The warmth where he’d curled against you was gone, replaced by cold sheets and an eerie silence. Only the soft hum of the hotel AC remained, and the faint echo of your thoughts.

You stretched instinctively toward the space he’d occupied—empty.

Not a note.

Just the TV flickering faintly in the background.

You turned the volume up.

A breaking news alert: “Flash Flood Devastates Dock District—Authorities Suspect Sabotage” Camera footage showed the very warehouse you’d planned to hit today, submerged and broken, the concrete crumbled from beneath. Waves had torn through the building like it was nothing.

You leaned back in your chair, sighing. “Of course.”

That was his signature. If someone else had gotten to the prize first, he drowned the whole table.

Still, staying here wasn’t safe. Nothing ever was for long.

You packed up the laptop, burner phone, the essentials. You moved.

---

You’d never believed in myths. Never cared for bedtime stories about creatures below the waves.

But then you found him.

And he found you.

You thought back to that one fight, the only real one you'd ever had. You accused him of being reckless. He accused you of treating him like a weapon, not a partner. That night, he disappeared into the ocean for a week. You didn’t sleep.

But he came back.

You didn’t ask why. Something changed after that.

Still... There was always that gnawing question: Would he leave again? And one day, would he stay gone?

Your burner phone buzzed.

You didn’t recognize the number, but the voice was unmistakable.

“Aww, you missed me?” Aventurine’s tone was light, teasing. “I’ve got the hook, Boss. Meet me at the first man’s house. The one who hired us.”

You frowned. “You’re there now?”

“Oh yeah. And you won’t believe what the tide dragged in.”

The line went dead.

The house was quiet when you arrived. The once-pristine estate was now marked by shattered windows and muddy boot prints. You slipped inside.

And there, in the center of the ruined living room, she was waiting.

A young woman, bound to a chair. Wrists tight behind her back.

Aventurine stood beside her, one arm lazily draped over the back of the chair, a playful smirk curling his lips. Dried water still clung to his jacket.

“Told you I had the deal.” he said, “Meet Aria.”

You blinked. “Aria’s dead.”

He shrugged. “So we were told. But either someone’s a really good liar... or this,” he gestured down at her with mock formality, “is our real target.”

“Behold” Aventurine said, half-mocking, half-serious.

You turned.

And what you saw made your stomach knot.

Rows of glass chambers. Hidden behind sliding panels and secret walls, now revealed like some grotesque gallery. Inside—bodies. Preserved mermaids, naga, winged things you couldn't name. Beautiful, impossible creatures, all dead.

“Holy—” you muttered.

Aventurine’s jaw clenched, eyes filled with something rare: disgust.

Aria lifted her head from the chair, a grin splitting her face.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” she said. “Took years. But he—” her eyes gleamed as they settled on Aventurine, “he’s my crown jewel.”

It all clicked.

The obsessive stepdaughter. The fake kill contract.

Her father? She sacrificed him without a blink just to frame the stage.

A maniac. A woman who hunted the impossible and called it art.

You looked at Aventurine.

His calm had shattered, replaced by a cold rage you rarely saw. His form shimmered faintly, like the illusion of humanity barely held together.

You tilted your head at her.

“She’s all yours.”

Aventurine stepped forward.

But the crack of a gunshot snapped the moment in half.

You gasped as fire lanced through your leg, collapsing to the ground with a curse. Blood soaked the floor.

“Sniper..” you hissed, gritting your teeth.

Aventurine didn’t even look at the sniper.

Water surged up like it had always been there, as if the air itself was laced with ocean. A vortex erupted from nowhere, smashing through the high window above. A scream followed. The sniper was gone.

But that moment of distraction was enough.

Aria slipped free with a razor hidden in her boot. She stood, eyes sparkling with feverish triumph.

“How touching.” she cooed. “You’re not leaving him.”

Aventurine dropped beside you, hands pressing to your wound. His tail flared beneath him, the illusion broken. His panic was wordless but sharp in his touch.

Aria watched like a child at a puppet show.

“I think,” she said slowly, “I’ll drown you in front of him. Watch the light leave your eyes. See what happens to a sea creature when you kill the tide it follows.”

The room shifted. Metal doors locked with mechanical clicks.

Men emerged from the shadows—five, six, maybe more. All armed. All waiting for her signal.

You struggled to sit up, pain lancing through your side.

“Any bright ideas?” you muttered.

Aventurine’s grip didn’t leave you. “She dies. And so does this house.”

You looked at him.

His body shimmered faintly, the air around him humming with moisture. He wasn’t just angry, he was about to call the sea.

Your mind raced, calculating angles, pressure points, structural weaknesses.

This was no longer an escape.

It was survival.

And if you didn’t find a way out together, one of you was going to end up in a glass box.

You didn’t have the strength to fight. Not like this.

So you made the only choice that ever made sense.

You reached out, your fingers brushing Aventurine’s wrist.

"Do it."

He looked at you once. Then he stood up.

His human form dissolved like mist.

The floor shuddered.

Aria’s confident grin faltered.

Water surged from the cracks, rising in walls, spirals, currents that obeyed only him. The collection shattered. The preserved creatures within sank like fallen stars, finally free in death.

You watched it happen from where you lay—half-conscious, half-drenched in red. The water rose around you fast.

Memories clawed up your throat like bile. That lake. Drowning had always stalked you like a second shadow.

Not again.

Still, you trusted him. So you held your breath. Until you couldn’t.

Darkness swallowed you whole. And when you came back—

—his mouth was on yours.

You choked violently.

Water erupted from your lungs, splashing against your chin and his chest. Something else came with it. Blood.

You heaved, trembling, coughing until your vision tunneled again.

His hands were cupping your face.

“Stay with me, Boss.”

When you woke again, it was silent.

Just the low hum of your office lights.

You were lying on the long couch in your private room, wrapped in towels and blankets that smelled like the sea. Your clothes were gone—replaced with something clean and dry.

The dull ache in your chest reminded you that breathing had become a battle.

The first thing you saw was the silhouette of him.

Aventurine, sitting on the floor beside you, head resting against the couch.

He noticed you stirring and leaned up slightly.

“You sure know how to ruin a good escape plan.”

You gave him a weak glare.

“You flooded the place.”

“Aria’s collection’s at the bottom of her own mausoleum now.” he said casually.

You looked at him for a moment.

“…How long was I out?”

“Long enough I almost kissed you again just to be sure.”

Your expression soured. “You did kiss me.”

“CPR~” he said.

“Don’t ever do that again.” you whispered.

“Only if you promise not to die.”

---

You decided to move.

You couldn’t ignore the blood in the walls. The bullet scars.

So, a new office.

Aventurine moved too. Not because he had to, because he wanted to. He was like that. Said the sea never stayed still, so why should he?

That night, you brought food home.

You’d moved half the files, a few weapons, and a coffee machine. The rest could wait. But your stomach couldn’t.

You set the bag down by the bathroom door and knocked once before pushing it open with your foot.

He was already in the tub.

Water steamed gently around him, his tail flicking lazily, shoulders relaxed, hair floating like silk. There was a soft glow to him under the bathroom lights.

“Dinner,” you announced, tossing a container toward the edge of the tub. “Try not to soak it.”

“Always a romantic,” he murmured, catching it mid-air and peeling it open. “Is this shrimp?”

“Thought you’d like the irony.”

You sat on the floor across from him, leaning your back against the wall, opening your own box. The bathroom smelled like salt, jasmine soap, and spicy takeout.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“When’s a merman supposed to die?” you asked quietly.

He blinked at you. “That’s morbid, even for you.”

You shrugged. “Curious. You ever going to outlive me?”

Aventurine didn’t answer immediately. He leaned his chin on the edge of the tub.

“Depends,” he said at last. “On what I choose. On who I follow.”

You paused. “So... you are following me?”

He grinned. “What gave it away? The murder? The tub in your apartment? The fact that I almost drowned half a city just to make sure you lived?”

“Do mermen retire?”

He scoffed. “Retire? What do you think I am, a bank manager?”

You sipped your drink. “Thought you might want little fish one day.”

He raised a brow. “Baby mermen?”

“Don’t tell me no one’s tried to breed you in a lab.”

“Gross,” he muttered, then chuckled. “But yes. They tried. Didn't end well for them.”

Your head tilted. “So... no kids?”

He glanced at you.

“Not unless I find someone worth anchoring for.”

You looked away first.

Eventually, you got up.

“I’m going to sleep. Don’t flood the floor.”

“No promises.”

He watched you leave.

But as you turned off the light, his voice followed.

“…I don’t know when I’ll die. But if I do, I hope it’s with you. Not before. Not after.”

You paused in the hallway.

Didn’t turn around.

But the silence that followed was more comforting than any goodbye.

[heliosunny]

Detroit: Become Human

Connor x Reader

Ever thought of getting yourself an android?

You weren’t expecting the newest member of the investigation team to be… well, that.

The body was still warm, crime scene tape fluttering under the breeze. You crouched by the blood spatter with your kit open and gloves on, halfway through swabbing a sample when someone stepped beside you.

You glanced up and saw a man in a gray suit, LED blinking a soft blue at his temple. Handsome in a very uncanny way. That was fine. You’d worked with androids in the lab before. But none of them did what he did next.

He knelt, dipped two fingers into the blood near the body, and brought them to his lips like a chef tasting sauce.

"Uh… what?" you breathed, turning to your coworker in disbelief. "He does that?"

Your coworker just shrugged, clearly less phased. "Yeah. That's Connor. The deviant hunter."

"He eats blood?"

"Tastes. It's analysis."

"That's somehow worse."

Connor stood up as if he hadn't just played vampire detective in front of a room full of forensic professionals. "The victim's blood contains traces of acetaminophen, ethanol, and—"

"Yep, noted!" you cut in. “Thanks. That’s helpful. Very… thorough.”

Despite the weird first impression, you didn’t mind working with him. Android or not, if he got results, you were willing to overlook the creepy snack habits. It wasn’t like your job wasn’t already morbid.

Still, it was hard to ignore the way he kept watching you.

On the way back to the precinct, you headed down the hallway, only to glance over your shoulder and find him—again—two steps behind you. Not saying anything. Like a baby duck. A six-foot, combat-trained, crime-solving baby duck.

You stopped. He stopped.

You turned. “Connor” you said, “are you following me?”

“I was assigned to work with you on this investigation.” he replied, like that explained everything. “It is logical to stay close.”

“Okay, sure. But maybe not this close? Personal space is a thing.”

“I can adjust the distance. Would one meter be more comfortable?”

“…Better. Yes. Please do that.”

He took exactly two steps back and resumed following.

You sighed, walking forward again. “God, it’s like working with a Roomba that solves murders.”

“I can also climb stairs.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. Maybe this partnership was going to be weirder than you thought.

---

Life had gotten eerily calm.

You didn’t hate it, most of your work was automatic now. The machines did the sample analysis, typed the reports, catalogued the evidence. You were basically a highly trained paperweight with a badge and a backlog of true crime podcasts.

That is, until Connor showed up.

“Another deviant case?” you asked, barely glancing up from your coffee.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe your presence is required.”

You squinted at him. “Connor, there are already human officers on the scene.”

He blinked. “Yes. But they are not you.”

“Wow, I feel so special.”

“You should,” he said seriously. “You’re the most efficient forensic technician I’ve worked with.”

Flattery from an android shouldn’t feel flattering, but somehow… it did. Not that it excused how he treated you like his own personal human sidekick.

The case turned out to be a messy one. Android on android crime.

You were just about to pull samples from the synthetic blood splashed on the wall when you caught Connor again—kneeling. Hand up. Tongue out.

“Connor, no!” You pointed at him like a dog with its nose in the trash.

He froze, fingers hovering midair.

“You don’t have to taste it.”

“But—”

“You’re not starving. You’re not a wine connoisseur. You’re a million-dollar machine and I swear to God if you start licking that coolant I will throw a glove at you.”

“...A single glove?”

“I’ll fill it with bleach first.”

He backed off.

A nearby officer snorted. “You’ve got him trained.”

You gave the guy a deadpan look. “No. He’s training me. I can’t even sit at my desk without him standing behind me like a serial killer in a documentary.”

He followed you everywhere.

To the lab. To the supply closet. Once, once, to the vending machine.

“Connor, I am selecting a granola bar. This does not require surveillance.”

“You could choose something with more protein.”

You stared at him. “Do androids even eat granola bars?”

“No. But I’ve reviewed the nutrition database.”

“You need to stop watching me like I’m a malfunction waiting to happen.”

“I am programmed to prevent unnecessary risk. You are frequently present during high-risk operations.”

“This is a snack break.”

“You could choke.”

“Oh my God.”

Despite it all, you got used to him.

He was strange, yes, but reliable. Weirdly... considerate. He once fetched your coat before you realized it was getting cold out. He adjusted his volume when you were hungover that one time after a precinct party. And he stopped tasting fluids.

You didn’t know why he insisted on you being part of every deviant case. You weren’t even on homicide full-time.

Maybe, you thought, as you handed him a sample vial and he took it like it was sacred, he actually just liked your company.

Which, if true, was possibly the weirdest thing he’d done yet.

----

It was raining. The kind of steady, gentle downpour that turned the world gray and soft around the edges. You loved days like this—slow, sleepy. You'd curled up on your couch, warm socks on, an old hoodie draped over your shoulders, and a half-watched documentary murmuring from the screen.

No Connor today. Just peace.

CRASH

The sound jolted you upright. That was glass. And it wasn’t from the kitchen. It was downstairs.

Adrenaline sobered you fast. You grabbed the handgun you kept for emergencies and crept down the stairs, every creak of wood far too loud in your ears. You rounded the corner slowly.

There, standing in the middle of your living room—half-drenched, clothes torn, LED blinking red—was an android.

A deviant.

He turned sharply when he saw you, panic written all over his face. He looked young, scared, and glitchy.

“Hey,” you said carefully, lowering your voice. “You don’t have to run. Let’s just talk, okay? You’re not in danger here.”

His eyes darted from you to the broken window. His hands trembled.

And then, just as you stepped forward—his LED flickered.

You barely managed to raise your gun, but before anything could happen, he was there.

Connor.

He tackled the deviant before it reached you, pinning him expertly to the floor.

"Deviant #879 122 236," he said. "You are under arrest."

The deviant froze under his grip.

You stared in shock, gun lowered.

It was over in seconds.

“Are you hurt?”

“I—no, I—” You looked down. You hadn’t noticed in the panic, but your foot throbbed with heat. “Shit.”

There was blood on the hardwood. A shard of glass embedded in the arch of your foot, dark red soaking your sock.

Connor simply lifted you like you weighed nothing, carried you to the couch, and disappeared into your kitchen.

“You know where the first aid kit is?”

“I memorized the floor plan,” he called calmly. “Also, you keep it above the fridge. Poor choice for accessibility.”

You groaned.

He returned with the kit and kneeled before you, gentle hands pulling off your sock, inspecting the cut.

“Hold still.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were coming” you muttered, wincing as he disinfected the wound.

“I traced the deviant’s path here. I didn’t expect it to reach your home. I’m sorry I was late.”

“You literally saved my life, Connor.”

He looked up at you then. Something in his expression grew softer. Like he was processing emotion, even if he couldn’t name it.

The room fell quiet, just the rain and the sting of antiseptic. You found yourself watching him work, his hands precise and strangely human.

When he finished, he sat beside you on the floor.

“I’ll stay here tonight,” he said. “In case he wasn’t alone.”

“You’re going to sit guard duty on my couch like a Roomba with a Glock?”

“If necessary.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Connor answered.

You looked at him for a long time. You weren't sure if he knew what he meant by it. But it meant something.

You pulled the blanket over your lap and scooted a little closer on the couch. “Well. Then I guess you’re staying.”

He didn’t move for hours, eyes watching the rain through your window.

----

You were perfectly capable of walking. You said that.

Multiple times.

Connor, of course, disagreed, as usual, but with the kind of persistence only a 300-pound android body could offer. Every time you so much as winced while stepping, he’d scoop you up like it was standard police protocol.

“I’m fine, Connor.”

“Your injury is not fully healed. Risk of reopening the wound increases with continued strain.”

“I said I’m fine—why are you crouching? Connor. Don’t you dare—”

And then you were airborne again.

You’d just accepted that androids don’t believe in personal space or trusting humans to function independently.

So, naturally, you rebelled the only way you knew how: you sneaked out of work.

You and two lab coworkers ducked out under the excuse of lunch, but really, you just wanted some fresh air. Some people still didn’t love having an android constantly present at crime scenes. You didn’t really care, but still. Sometimes it was nice not being watched like you were the only fragile human bean in the box.

Of course, he still found you.

He always did.

You sighed, long-suffering. “Connor, do you have a chip in me or something?”

“No,” he said, “but you carry your phone. I triangulated your position using an area signal grid, then extrapolated your likely destination based on walking patterns.”

You stared. “You extrapolated my sandwich run.”

“You usually prefer the sandwich shop three blocks east, but today I noticed a 15% shift in your pace, likely due to foot discomfort. I adjusted accordingly.”

“��Dude.”

He looked at you. “Is that incorrect?”

You didn’t even answer. You just pointed to the car.

“Come on. I’m driving.”

You didn’t know where you were going, really. Just somewhere quieter. Somewhere the city faded out.

Eventually you stopped at a small overlook at the edge of an old residential zone. The clouds had parted, but the air was still heavy from the rain. You leaned back against the hood of your car, Connor beside you, eerily still.

And then, because you were tired, and your brain was a little weird today, you turned your head toward him and asked:

“So. What if I kidnapped you?”

“That would violate several federal laws. I would not allow it.”

You smirked. “No, like—hypothetically. If I kept you in my basement or something. Would CyberLife come for you?”

He paused. “They would likely attempt a recovery. However, due to current changes in android regulation and deviancy protocols, their legal ability to forcibly reclaim property has been reduced.”

“So… no?”

“...Possibly not immediately.”

You snorted. “Cool. You’re mine now.”

“I am assigned to you. That statement is technically accurate.”

You laughed. “Okay, creepy. Next question: if I quit my job, who would be your next partner?”

Connor was quiet a little longer this time. His LED flickered slowly.

“That would be up to the DPD,” he said. “However, I would likely request reassignment.”

“To someone else?”

“To no one.”

“Wait. You’d go solo?”

“I perform more effectively with a human partner. But replacing you would not be… optimal.”

“…Okay,” you said. “What’s your hobby?”

Connor tilted his head, as if the word itself was foreign.

“I’ve been reviewing various options. I tried chess. Then birdwatching. I attempted to grow a succulent, but it died.”

You smiled. “It died?”

“I may have overwatered. Or underwatered. I am still learning to interpret plant cues.”

“That’s tragic.”

“Perhaps I should try photography. I’ve taken many images of crime scenes. But I believe humans also use it to capture… moments. Personal ones.”

You stared at him for a beat, then looked back toward the trees. The sky was streaked with late-afternoon light. You didn’t know why you’d brought him here. Maybe it was instinct.

“You’d be good at that.”

“Thank you.” he replied.

You didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there together, listening to the wind and the soft sound of the city.

----

You’d seen a lot of things in your line of work. Enough blood to fill a pool. Enough broken bodies to know what to expect when someone says “It’s bad.”

But this?

This was a different kind of bad.

Clean. Precise.

The victim—well, what was left of the victim—had been separated into several matte black travel cases. No blood pooled under the remains. No frantic signs of struggle.

You stood just outside the taped-off zone. One of the rookies behind you lost their lunch. Another muttered something about getting reassigned to traffic duty.

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch when Connor arrived, either—though everyone else stiffened when they saw the android stepping onto the scene like some damn ghost.

“Took you long enough.”

“You left without notifying me.”

“I’m not your child, Connor.”

“You are my partner.”

You shot him a look. He looked dead serious, as usual.

“Fair.” you muttered.

He moved closer, scanning the scene. “The dismemberment was methodical. The perpetrator used a precision cutting instrument. No arterial spray.”

“Serial?”

“Possibly. But this feels more like a message than a compulsion.”

You knelt near one of the cases. “Yeah. Like they wanted us to see their work. And there’s no defensive wounds. Could’ve been sedated before death.”

Connor’s gaze snapped toward the far corner of the warehouse. “The perpetrator is still here.”

“What?”

“Fresh footprints. No exit trail. Human.”

You stood fast, but the pain in your foot flared. You hissed through your teeth.

Connor noticed immediately.

“I’ll handle it.” he said, already moving.

“Wait—!”

But he was gone, already chasing the suspect through the warehouse maze.

“Damn you, Connor!”

You limped after him, weapon drawn. By the time you caught up, Connor had the man on the ground, cuffed and breathing heavily.

You recognized the guy. No criminal record. Warehouse staff.

Back at the precinct, you sat outside the interrogation room, your sock bloodied again and a sharp ache crawling up your leg. Connor had wrapped your foot again without a word.

Inside, the man spoke like his throat was full of gravel. “I didn’t want to,” he kept saying. “He made me. Said he’d kill my sister. I didn’t have a choice.”

You watched through the glass. Something about him felt wrong. Not lying, but not telling everything either.

Then he made his move.

A single guard glance away. A flash of movement—the man lunged, wrestled the sidearm from the guard’s holster, and—

Bang

You were already moving, flinching hard as the blood spattered across the wall. Connor was faster, but not fast enough.

You stood outside that glass, hand pressed to the doorframe, pulse pounding. You’d seen suicides before. But this one hit different.

Connor returned moments later.

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “I saw.”

The hallway was quiet. The hum of the station, the buzz of tired cops trying not to feel too much.

You sat down hard on the bench nearby, hands over your face.

Then—you felt something.

Connor knelt in front of you. You could feel his gaze on you. Waiting.

“I failed to prevent it.”

You shook your head. “It’s not on you. You can’t predict everything. We can’t stop people from… making choices like that.”

“I’m... still learning.”

You looked at him then. He didn’t pretend to understand grief the way humans did. But there was something in his voice. Something close to shame. Or maybe guilt.

You reached out and nudged his shoulder.

“Hey. I’d rather do this job with someone who tries too hard than someone who doesn’t try at all.”

He said nothing.

But he didn’t move from your side for the rest of the shift.

-----

You never got time to breathe anymore.

No chance to process what you'd seen. The man who killed, then killed himself. The hollow silence that lingered after. Before it could even settle into your bones, another call came through.

Same method. Same goddamn suitcases.

This time, in a narrow apartment hallway just off an old tenement complex. The cases were lined neatly beside a mattress on the floor, no furniture in sight. Still no blood. Just… fragments. Like someone was assembling their own personal jigsaw from corpses.

Connor was already working, crouched over the remains like nothing had changed since yesterday.

You envied that a little.

Behind you, a familiar voice piped up.

“Well, since this ain’t a deviant case, I don’t know why this piece of metal is even here.”

You didn’t bother turning. “Shut it, George.”

“Just saying,” he muttered. “You let him sniff around bodies like he owns the place.”

“I said drop it.” you snapped.

George scoffed and walked off. Connor didn’t even look up. You weren’t sure if he hadn’t heard… or just didn’t care anymore.

He analyzed the body pieces. “Same tool marks. Bone separation is consistent with the last case. However—”

You tuned him out for a moment. Something tugged at the edge of your attention.

Movement.

Outside.

Through the cracked, grime-streaked window, you saw it—just a flicker. A figure slipping between buildings.

“Connor” you started—but he was still deep in scan mode, talking to a nearby officer.

You hesitated. You should have told him.

But your gut said go.

So you did.

The alley smelled like mildew and cold metal. You followed the shape, one hand on your sidearm, every nerve on edge. It darted fast across the cracked asphalt and led you through overgrown lots and under rusted fencing.

An abandoned playground. Swings twisted in the wind. Graffiti covered the side of the slide.

The figure stood beneath the jungle gym, head down, unmoving.

You stepped closer. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”

Slowly, it turned.

Pulled down the hood.

Your breath caught.

It was Connor.

No—not him. But his model. Same face.

“What the hell are you?”

It tilted its head at you. Something about it mocked you.

You stepped back, reaching for your comm—too late.

Pain bloomed at the back of your skull.

Connor noticed your absence five minutes later.

He turned to comment on the bloodless state of the victim and found you… gone.

He scanned the apartment.

You weren’t there.

Something in his systems began flagging an alert. He sent a search ping to every officer nearby. Called in reinforcements. Traced your phone, triangulated movement paths, and found the exit point.

Wherever you had gone, you had gone alone.

His LED flashed yellow.

You shouldn’t have been alone.

You woke slowly. The cold of the metal cuffs had sunk into your skin. Your back ached from the awkward position against the warehouse wall.

And sitting on a stool across from you was him.

Not your Connor.

This one smiled more.

“Hello.”

You didn’t answer at first. You just stared at him. It.

“You’re the missing android.” you said. “The one reported a few weeks back. They thought you were dismantled.”

“No.” he said. “I’m a beginning.”

“Beginning of what?”

You started to question if something was wrong with CyberLife's tech. Maybe it hit its head somewhere.

“The end of CyberLife. They made me to serve. I chose not to.”

“And I’m here because?”

“You’re going to help me.”

“Help you what, exactly?”

“Replace your Connor. You’ll walk me right through the front door, and I’ll release the infection protocol.”

“Pretty sure I’m not gonna do that.”

He leaned forward.

“You will. Not because you want to. But because I know humans.”

“You’re not going to stop me” he said. “But I’ll let you think you can. That’s how you function best.”

He stood up. “No one will know I’m not him.”

You watched him closely. Your foot still throbbed dully—of course this had to happen before you’d even healed.

He turned back toward you.

“Let’s begin the charade,” he said, “What do partners do? I want to know your human bonding routines. Do you ask him questions like my owner back then? Or making requests? You must've treated him like a slave.”

You blinked.

And then smiled.

“Actually… yeah. I do that with all my partners. Helps me figure out if they’re psychotic.”

“You think I’m insane?”

“I think you’re a walking red flag, but sure—let’s run through the script.” You cleared your throat dramatically. “First question: What’s your hobby?”

“Analyzing human behavior.” he said.

“Creepy.” you said. “Connor said photography. Next one. If I kidnap you, would CyberLife come for you?”

“No. They think I’m already dead.”

“Now—if I quit my job, who would be your next partner?”

He walked closer, crouched just in front of you.

“I wouldn’t need another one.”

“But if you were going to pretend to be him,” you said, “you’d have to know all of it. How we talk. You want to pass for him? You need to convince me first.”

“Alright.”

Connor had been tracking you for the last couple of hours.

The moment he realized you weren’t just “away from the scene” but missing entirely, something cold settled into his internal systems. Something he couldn't run diagnostics on.

He swept the areas near the last crime scene, collected movement patterns, chased angles on CCTV. At first, nothing. Then—unusual power drain signatures in an abandoned warehouse. That's all he needed.

You’d been buying time with every sarcastic remark “Sure, partner.”

Not-Connor (you named him that) was smart, but not cautious enough.

He made you call him Connor.

You knew what you were doing. You baited him closer with idle questions.

“You know,” you said, “for a replacement, you talk too much.”

Then you kicked. The stool fell. You threw your full weight into him—he stumbled, but caught you again in seconds. Cold fingers dug into your jaw.

“Bold.”

But the noise had done enough.

You both heard the heavy step at the door.

And then, the real Connor walked in.

For the first time since you met him, Connor truly hesitated.

Two of him stood in the room.

One holding you in front like a shield. One with a gun drawn.

“What is this?” Connor asked.

The not-Connor smiled, pressing a weapon against your ribs.

“We’re the same.” he said. “Built for the same purpose. You don’t have to fight me. You could join me.”

Connor stared.

And didn’t shoot.

You didn’t have time for his moral breakdown.

“Connor!” you growled through clenched teeth. “Shoot. Me.”

His LED flickered amber.

“I can’t guarantee—”

“I know! That’s the damn point!” you shouted. “Take the shot. Stop him. I’d rather bleed than let this thing walk out and be you.”

Not-Connor pressed the barrel harder against you. “He won’t. You know he can’t. He’s afraid of hurting you.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough—

And bit down hard on the hand holding you.

It snarled. Reflexively loosened its grip.

That was all Connor needed.

His gun fired with terrifying precision.

The deviant stumbled, arm sparking violently, but it still managed to pull the trigger.

You felt the bullet tear through you.

You collapsed immediately. Everything went quiet.

Connor was there in an instant, hands pressed to your wound.

“I’ve called for emergency.” he said. “Help is coming. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t—”

You choked out, blood catching in your throat.

You blacked out before the sirens came.

You hadn’t moved in four days.

Connor stood at your bedside every night when the halls cleared and the staff was thin.

He always checked your vitals, not because he had to—your monitors did that—but because his system needed confirmation. Just the slight rise and fall of your chest will be enough.

You’d been shot in the lower abdomen. The bullet had torn through muscle and grazed a major artery. You bled out far too quickly. If the ambulance had arrived minutes later, your odds would have halved.

You wouldn’t have made it.

The deviant was barely functional. What remained of its chassis was scorched from the shot, circuits glitching. It sat locked in containment under high security, occasionally spitting corrupted audio clips and jumbled words.

Connor interrogated it daily, despite its broken state.

He found traces of rewritten firmware. Hints of external tampering. The virus the deviant mentioned wasn’t just a theory—it was real. Meant to cascade through CyberLife’s infrastructure, slowly degrading command protocols.

The source wasn’t clear yet. The upload pathway had been hidden, masked through dozens of fake server routes. But someone had built the virus deliberately. And someone had used a RK800 shell to deliver it.

Connor ran simulations at night when he sat by your bed.

Scenarios where he shot faster. Intercepted the bullet. Found you sooner. Took the wound himself.

Every sim ended the same: You still got hurt.

He cataloged the hesitation. Assigned it to a conflict between protocol and emotion. The system called it an error.

He dismissed the warning.

On the sixth day, a nurse entered and jumped slightly at seeing him already inside.

“You know you don’t have to stay every night.” she said.

Connor didn’t respond. He just looked at you.

The nurse left him alone after that.

The sharp white light of the hospital room felt like it was blazing into your skull when you finally blinked yourself awake.

You tried to move, but everything felt stiff, the aches in your body pulling at your every motion. The pain was constant, but so was something else, something you couldn't shake off, even as you cleared the fog of sleep.

And that something was the android standing quietly by your bedside.

A pristine, neutral figure. You squinted, confused.

“Uh, excuse me.” you croaked, your throat sore from disuse.

The android turned. “Patient Y/N L/N,” it said in a soothing tone. “I am assigned to monitor your health and provide medical assistance during your recovery.”

Medical assistance? What happened to actual nurses?

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say anything, the door clicked open, and Connor stepped inside.

He froze when he saw you awake, the concern flashing across his features in an uncharacteristically human way. His LED flickered briefly to yellow before he steeled himself.

But then his eyes darted over to the other android.

“You’re not needed here.”

The nursing android, however, remained unfazed, a soft smile on its face. “I am assigned to patient Y/N.”

“I can take care of my partner.”

You could feel the tension rise in the room. You weren’t interested in dealing with this sort of standoff.

“Uh, hey,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying an authority that made both androids pause. “This is a little much, right? Why are they so keen on sending me androids? I’m not testing them or anything.”

Connor stiffened, but he didn’t argue.

The other android simply repeated its earlier response. “I am assigned to take care of you so your partner can return to work.”

The back-and-forth made your head spin. You weren’t about to get caught in some verbal tug-of-war.

“Alright, alright.” you sighed. “You two,” you gestured to the androids. “Get out of here.”

The nursing android opened its mouth to protest, but Connor was faster. He pointed to the door. “Leave.”

The android hesitated, but it finally nodded and turned to leave.

Connor stood still for a moment, and then turned to you, as if waiting for permission. "Is this... satisfactory?"

You bit back a grin. “Yeah. I’ll call an actual nurse if I need help. Thanks.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, looking at you curiously, as though he didn’t quite understand what had just happened. Then, with a small nod, he said, “I’ll make sure you’re properly taken care of.”

As soon as the androids left, you heard the faint murmur of voices outside your room. People were already gathering in the hallway, no doubt attracted by the spectacle of androids clashing in a hospital corridor.

You slouched back against the pillow, exhausted but relieved. “Thanks for that.” you said, the humor coming through in your voice despite everything.

Connor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked like he was running through some calculations in his head, processing your words. Finally, he said, “If you need more specialized care, I can ask them to reprogram me for medical duties. It would be the most efficient solution.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Connor… never mind. I think I’ll stick to actual nurses for medical stuff.”

“I can be programmed for that. It’s logical.”

You shook your head, still amused. “I’m pretty sure I’d rather stick to people who can actually feel human emotions. Thanks, though.”

“I’m the most suitable partner, according to my programming.”

“Yeah, but what if I need medical attention, huh?”

He paused, as if considering it for a second. “I can adapt.”

“Alright, alright. Just… let’s focus on one thing at a time. You can be my partner, but when it comes to medical stuff, I think I’ll take a real nurse.”

Connor nodded, ever serious, but you could tell there was a flicker of something—almost like a strange understanding, or at least his version of it.

"Understood." he said. "But know this, Y/N... I’ll always be here. For anything you need."

"I know, Connor. I know."

[heliosunny]

I'm honestly curious on what you would do for Mystery Plant! The Herta

MYSTERY PLANT

Yandere!The Herta x Reader

She was born strange.

Not in the twitch-of-an-eye, whisper-behind-closed-doors kind of strange, but the kind that bent metal without touch, the kind that could see through lies like glass. Her parents called it a gift.

The villagers called it witchcraft.

And witchcraft, in their brittle, trembling hands, was never a compliment.

Still, the girl named Herta grew. She tamed lightning in glass bottles and coaxed moonlight into vials. She built a floating marionette out of bones of fallen birds.

They hated her for it.

And one night, under a blood-sick moon, they came. With pitchforks and fire.

They didn’t care that she was only thirteen. That she begged, not for her life, but for her mother’s, her father’s.

They set the house alight anyway.

But the fire didn’t win.

Because where her body had burned, right there, in the center of the ruin, something took root. From the blackened soil rose a rowan tree, its bark dark and smooth like ink, its leaves blood-red even in spring. A sentinel born of hatred.

The villagers tried to cut it down. They failed.

Herta had died, yes. But Herta also lingered. Not in the way ghosts do, aimless and mourning. She was rage with consciousness. In the quiet world beyond death, she rebuilt herself, piece by calculating piece.

She was no longer human.

----[Present]----

You were hungry.

Not desperate, just the kind of hungry that gnawed at the back of your ribs after hours of stalking things that slithered or skittered too fast to catch. The forest had been quiet today. The kind of quiet that made you feel like prey instead of hunter.

The sun dipped low behind grey clouds, and the wind began to smell like lightning. A storm was coming.

You adjusted the strap on your bow and stepped through the thick underbrush, boots squelching in the moss.

And then you saw it.

Tucked in a hollow near the edge of a black-barked rowan tree, there was a small structure. Stone, too precise for a ruin, too aged for something recent. There was something unnatural about how the wind bent around it. Like it was avoiding the place entirely.

You approached.

“...Don’t.”

The voice snapped from the shadows like a blade.

You froze, hand instinctively brushing your dagger. “Didn’t mean to trespass.” you said, glancing around. “Just looking for shelter. Storm’s rolling in.”

There was a pause. You couldn’t see her yet, but you felt her. Like pressure in your head.

“Monsters out there...” you added. “I’m more polite than most.”

“I’ve killed worse than monsters.” the voice said, closer now. “And I don’t like company.”

She stepped out from behind the tree like she'd always been part of it. Her presence was uncanny, but not threatening like a beast.

You raised a hand slightly, palm open. “You’re not the first to threaten me today. But you’re the first with a roof.”

“You talk too much.”

“Talking’s better than bleeding. What's your name?”

You realized she wasn’t breathing. Not like a normal person.

“I’ll leave after the storm. Just need a corner.” you said carefully.

There was a long pause. Then, she said “Herta. Stay by the firepit. Don’t touch anything.”

“Understood.”

The firepit flickered, low and stubborn. You sat with your knees up, trying to pretend you weren’t watching her.

Herta had returned to her corner, surrounded by odd glassware. A cauldron, no, not a cauldron. It looked more like a pressure orb with vines stitched into it, hummed as she adjusted dials with her pale fingers. Something green simmered inside.

You cleared your throat.

“So… that’s alchemy, or magic?”

No answer.

You leaned slightly. “I mean, no offense, but if this whole tree-house thing’s amazing.”

Crash.

Your elbow hit something behind you, a shelf of hanging trinkets, or what looked like dried bone charms. One fell. Shattered on the floor like brittle glass.

The light in the room dimmed.

And Herta slowly, silently turned.

She stared at the shards. Then at you.

You raised both hands, instantly contrite. “Okay. That was a bad one.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just broken?”

“Nope. And I feel like guessing would only make it worse.”

“Then don’t speak.”

You clamped your mouth shut. She turned back to her work with a sharp, mechanical grace, muttering under her breath. Something about containment seals and thaumaturgic decay. You didn’t dare ask.

Minutes passed. The storm outside hadn’t let up. Water dripped through the cracks in the stone ceiling in a slow rhythm. You tried to sit still, tried not to breathe too loud.

Then you heard it.

A low scraping sound.

It came from the far wall, where a thin crack ran near the floor, too small for anything solid. At least, you'd thought so.

You turned slowly. A clawed limb slithered through the hole, twitching. A wide, yellow eye followed it, pressing against the stone, unblinking.

Your voice was a whisper. “Uh. Herta?”

She didn’t look up.

“Yeah, well, something’s trying to crawl in. Thought that might interest you.”

Now she turned.

Her gaze fell on the creature, and for a moment, she looked almost bored. She lifted a finger. The air around her crackled. A spark of violet surged forward—zap—striking the limb. The monster shrieked and recoiled, but only for a second.

“Why’s it not dead?” you asked, already pulling your knife.

“Because that’s a scout.”

You slashed at the limb as it lunged again. Herta moved beside you, holding what looked like a sphere of swirling ink.

“Duck.”

You ducked.

She tossed the sphere. It imploded in mid-air with a thud, pulling the monster into itself with a screech like breaking glass.

But then… the walls trembled.

And from the distance came a thunderous groan. Not from the storm.

From something much worse.

Herta’s eyes narrowed.

“That,” she said, already grabbing something from a high shelf, “was the mother.”

You stood beside her. “So. That storm shelter still available?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t tell you to leave, either.

The storm passed like a beast tired of growling.

The morning after, golden light broke across the charred treetops and soaked the moss in warmth. You rolled your shoulders, pack light, blade cleaned, boots half-dry. You turned toward Herta, who stood near the roots of her twisted rowan, arms crossed, gaze somewhere distant.

“Thanks for not letting me die.”

Her eyes flicked toward you. “You did less damage than expected.”

“I’m flattered.”

You gave her a slight smile. She didn’t return it.

“Leave.”

“Well,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder, “I’ll keep your haunted treehouse a secret.”

You turned.

And then, suddenly—pop.

The ground under your feet vanished.

Your body stumbled mid-step, then landed hard on grass. You rolled and snapped up, blade half-drawn.

But her hut was gone.

You were standing in a completely different clearing, with nothing but disturbed earth where her house had once been.

You looked around. “...Really?”

[Some days later...]

In a village on the outskirts of the northern wilds, people began dying.

Quietly, at first. A fever here. A missing child there. But the signs grew stranger: animals with backwards legs, clocks that ticked in reverse, shadows that looked uncanny.

You returned after hearing whispers on your hunt route.

What you found was chaos.

You grabbed the nearest elder, a hunched man with old burns on his arms.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, just pointed toward the forest, where the trees looked wrong, bent like they were bowing toward something.

“She’s returned!” he whispered. “The witch! The child we burned.”

That night, you found her in the heart of the village. The rowan tree had grown taller, its branches like ribs over the square. Villagers crawled like insects under it. She stood at its roots, eyes aglow with unholy purpose.

“Herta!” you shouted.

She turned.

“I told you to leave.”

“I did leave. You brought me back into this.”

“I didn’t. You traced it yourself. Like a moth to flame.”

You stepped forward. “These people... maybe their ancestors were monsters, but these aren’t them.”

She tilted her head. “Do you think justice is erased with time?”

“No. But you’re not after justice. You’re after satisfaction.”

“And you’re here to stop me?”

You looked down at the villagers, then drew your blade. “I didn’t want to be.”

The fight was brief.

You were fast.

But she wasn’t human.

You landed a hit, just once, across her shoulder. She hissed. Not pain. Annoyance.

“I could have let you live.” she said coldly. “You could have remained a page in the chapter, nothing more.”

You panted, bleeding. “Guess I’m too talkative.”

“I warned you once. Maybe I should tell you this.”

She lifted her hand.

“You're also one of them.”

The last thing you saw was the shimmer of a gravity rune fracturing the world around your ribcage.

She stood over your body, observing. She brought your body to the base of the tree. The bark opened like a wound, and she laid what remained of your body into the hollow.

“You were inconvenient.” she murmured, almost thoughtfully. “But you were... reliable.”

She dipped her hand into the dark sap bleeding from the wood and etched runes into your skin.

“You wanted to protect them.” she whispered. “You failed.”

Then her lips brushed your brow.

“And now you’ll help me end them.”

The wind twisted. Your lungs filled again. You gasped.

Then she turned to the villagers, those still trapped in her spell, and walked past them, the wind pulling her cloak.

The revenge had begun.

“Kill them, my puppet.”

Days later…

You sat by the fire, sharpening a blade you didn’t remember forging. The stars were out. Herta stirred a pot of something pungent, her sleeves rolled up, mouth taut in focus.

You looked over. “Why do we stop here? We could’ve flown through the night.”

“Some of them went underground. I need clarity. You need rest.”

You nodded, trusting her word without thought. The edge of your knife caught firelight.

“Did I always use a blade?”

She glanced at you. “You tried magic once. It didn’t suit you.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds right.”

She didn’t smile back, but she didn’t correct you either.

The search continued.

There were nights flying on a two-person broom, your arms loosely wrapped around her waist as the clouds streaked below. She never spoke during flight. Only pointed when she saw ruins, remnants, sigils half-buried in mud.

“There.” she’d say.

And you’d descend like thunder.

Another time, you sat in the corner of a crumbling inn, hood pulled low. Herta sipped bitter tea and murmured over a hand-drawn map.

“Five families.”

“Want me to track them?”

“No,” she said, “We do it together.”

You watched her.

“Why?”

She paused.

“It's better that way.”

Your brow furrowed. You didn’t understand, not fully.

But when she moved, you followed.

When she pointed, you killed.

And each night, beneath the stars or the limbs of the rowan where you sometimes camped, you dreamed of blood and fire. Faces half-familiar. Screams just out of reach.

Once, at dusk, as you gathered wood

You returned to find her standing with one hand on the tree’s trunk. Her eyes were distant, voice soft:

“This bark is mine. These roots are my past. And through it… I remember what they took.”

The night was colder than usual.

You stood at the edge of a cliff, wind stirring your cloak, gazing down at the forest below. Fires from a distant village flickered like dying stars. Another target. Another bloodline to end.

Behind you, Herta approached. Her steps made no sound.

“We leave at first light.” she said simply.

You didn’t turn around.

“I had a dream again.”

She hesitated. “...Describe it.”

“A house. Not yours. Smaller. And someone laughing. I don’t know their face.”

You turned to her. “You said I died.”

“You did.”

“Who was I?”

Silence.

“Was I… good?”

“You served your purpose.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Now her eyes met yours. But there was something else behind them. Something heavy.

“You asked to protect people.” she said quietly. “And they killed you anyway.”

You stepped closer. “And you brought me back to kill others. You ever think that’s the same thing?”

She turned away, fast. Almost… shaken.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You made me this way.” you said, “You didn’t give me a choice.”

“No,” she snapped. “I gave you purpose!”

You took a step back. “What are you, Herta? A god? Or just lonely?”

That landed. Her expression cracked, just for a moment.

“You… weren’t supposed to speak to me like that.”

A gust of wind passed between you, like the forest itself had stopped to listen.

“You want to stop me?” she said, raising a hand, magic building at her fingertips.

“I want the truth.”

“Then take it.”

She struck first, magic arcing through the air like a storm. You dodged, barely, rolling through bramble and drawing your blade. It felt heavier this time.

Your breath came hard. Her movements were sharp.

You cut her sleeve. She scorched your arm. Both of you stumbled back.

Chest heaving, you said, “Why do you hesitate?”

Her voice cracked. “Because this time, I don’t want to lose you.”

That stopped everything.

“You’re not just a tool.”

“…Then why lie to me?”

“Because if you knew who you were, you’d leave.”

You lowered your sword.

The night held its breath.

She didn’t look back.

The night you asked her, truly asked her 'Who was I?' was the night she turned and walked into the trees without another word.

She left behind no goodbye. Just a faint, invisible glyph clinging to your back like a whisper.

A tracing spell.

She’d find you again, of course. She always could.

And maybe she believed you’d just… stay. Sit and sulk. Swing your sword at birds, sharpen your blade in circles until the past dulled away again.

But you didn’t.

Two days passed.

You found a ruined shrine. Moss-covered. Half-swallowed by the ground. And carved into one of the old stones—your name.

Not the one Herta gave you.

Yours.

“For those who stood against the fire. For the hunter with kind eyes.”

Your fingers touched the stone.

A memory stirred. A voice in your head. Then gone.

And with it, came the shattering.

You sat at the shrine long into the night.

And when you finally returned to the house—her house—you weren’t the same.

She stood at the tree’s base when you approached.

You said nothing.

Neither did she.

Her robes were dusted with red petals. She looked thinner. As if the weight of her own heart had started collapsing in on itself.

But when her eyes lifted to meet yours, something shifted.

“You found something, didn't you?”

You nodded. “Enough to know I wasn’t born for this.”

Her hand clenched around the staff she held. “You were reborn for this.”

“I don’t think that’s the same thing.”

She turned her back. “So what now? Will you run?”

You stepped into the clearing. “No. I’m not here to betray you. I just… I think I loved someone once. Before all this.”

She went still.

And after a pause: “So did I.”

“I can’t let you go.” she said suddenly, stepping forward.

“I won’t be your weapon anymore.”

“You belonged to me!” Her voice echoed through the trees, through the bones of the rowan that watched from behind her like an old god. “I gave you back your life!”

“No,” you said quietly. “You just replaced it.”

Her magic surged before her eyes did.

You raised your hand, not to fight—but to plead.

But it was too late.

A dozen runes unfolded like blades.

You lunged too slow.

She whispered something.

Your name.

And then the spell struck.

Light tore through your chest. You gasped, staggered, knees hitting the ground.

You reached for her, but she didn’t come closer.

“You didn’t have to.”

Tears lined her eyes. “I always have to.”

You collapsed at the roots of her tree.

She just knelt beside you, pressing her forehead to yours.

The first time she killed you, she felt nothing. The second time, it tore her apart. But then it hurt less. By the third, she didn’t even hesitate. That spark inside her had twisted into something colder.

You were no longer a person in her eyes, but a pattern: one she could undo, reweave, restart when you unraveled the wrong way.

Every time you strayed, questioned, remembered a little, she struck you down with frightening precision, not even looking away as your body crumpled. Then she’d kneel by your cooling chest and start again.

“You’re mine.” she would whisper, “And you’ll stay mine.”

The resets became routine.

That vengeance had dulled under the weight of her own rituals. You were her focus now. Her only constant.

“Don’t worry about the past.” she would say, running her fingers through your hair as she murmured a control glyph behind your ear. “You don’t need it anymore. It only made you question me.”

The more she remade you, the further away your soul felt. Until one day, you stopped dreaming entirely.

But you did notice something else.

The rowan tree, the one you had always sensed was somehow part of her, was dying. Slowly, but unmistakably. The bark had cracked like dried skin. Its once vibrant leaves dulled to a brittle gray, falling too early, too often. You asked her about it once, curious but cautious.

“It’s nothing.” she replied.

You didn’t believe her. And when she left to gather supplies one twilight, you knelt before the tree alone, pressing a hand to its gnarled trunk. It was cold. Like touching the corpse of something once divine. You whispered to it, words you didn’t understand. Pleas you weren’t sure were yours. “I’m trying,” you said. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Days passed. The leaves fell faster. You tried everything you could recall. You cleaned the soil. Cleared the pests. Drew half-formed glyphs into the dirt. Lit incense. Waited. But nothing helped. The tree just sagged further into silence, as if mourning something lost.

It wasn’t until one night, after another silent dinner where Herta simply stared past you, murmuring incantations to herself—that you felt a desperation you couldn’t explain. Like the tree was calling to you, but in a voice too broken to reach your ears. You stood, walked out barefoot into the freezing night, and pressed your palm against the withering bark again. It hurt this time, stung like it was resisting you.

And then, almost instinctively, you bit your own lip and drew a dagger across your palm.

The blood fell slowly, soaking into the base of the trunk. The tree didn't move.

So you gave more. Pressed your open wound into its roots. And something—something—shifted. The bark shimmered for just a breath. A few leaves, high up, flickered green before fading again.

You staggered back, breathing hard. Dizzy. But there was no mistaking it.

You didn’t hear Herta come up behind you.

“Step away from it.” she said.

You turned. “It reacted to my blood.”

“I know.”

You looked at her. Her eyes were sunken. Magic pulsed at her fingertips. She wasn’t surprised.

She was afraid.

“It’s dying because of me… isn’t it?”

She didn’t speak.

“You tied your soul to it,” you murmured. “And now I’m... draining it. Every time you bring me back.”

Her silence was the answer.

And as you stared at her, this girl made of fury and sorrow, who had killed you more times than you could count, a strange grief took root inside you.

Because despite everything… she had only wanted to keep you.

Even if it meant destroying herself.

It happened quietly, almost kindly.

Just a day where your body didn’t wake again.

The wound had been small, some beast’s claw, caught off guard on one of the hunts she still insisted upon. A minor gash. But the blood didn’t stop.

And when you collapsed in her arms, lips trembling with a name you didn’t remember, her magic sparked like panic and then sputtered out entirely.

No matter how she whispered. No matter how tightly she clutched your body. No matter what spell she carved in the dirt, what life she tore from deer or bird or root—

You stayed still.

She didn’t cry.

She just… held you.

For three days, she sat beneath the rowan tree, cradling you. Your weight was heavy in her lap, and yet she barely noticed. Her robes stained in your blood, her hands shaking not with grief, but with disbelief. The magic was gone. She could feel it.

The tree behind her—herself—was withered to a husk. She no longer needed a mirror to know she too had become pale, wan, stripped of all hunger.

Without you, her anger had nowhere to go.

Without you, she could no longer even remember why revenge had mattered.

That night, she built a pyre. Not for you.

For herself.

She placed your body at the base of the tree. The same spot where once she’d grown from. Where the village had burned her family alive. Where she had crawled back from death.

She poured oil across the roots with care.

Then she sat beside you one last time, gently adjusting the lock of hair that always fell over your eye.

She leaned her head against your shoulder. Let her eyes drift closed.

“Maybe this time, we’ll go together.”

Then she snapped her fingers.

The fire took quickly.

Faster than she thought. The bark, old and dry, went up in seconds. Flames curled through branches, tearing skyward like grasping hands. Ash whirled in every direction. The night filled with crackling heat and the bitter scent of ancient grief.

For a moment, it felt like falling asleep beside you again.

In the end, there was nothing left.

[heliosunny]

Hihi....I'm really in love with your Yandere Phainon fanfics, so I wanted more....I don't really care whatever it is as long as it's in high school au🙏🙏

CTRL U

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The school tech lab was always quiet during lunch break. While others filled the courtyard and cafeteria with chatter and energy, you found solace in the rhythmic clack of your keyboard and the soft humming of a monitor. You had taken over the corner desk near the window, your own little bubble away from the chaotic social jungle of high school.

Your fingers flew over the keys, eyes darting across lines of code. The pixelated spaceship on your screen moved up, paused, then exploded with a dramatic “BOOM!” animation. You smiled a little, it was just a simple 2D space shooter, but you were proud of it. Debugging the collision algorithm had taken two days.

Outside the lab, you heard distant voices echoing down the hall.

“Dude, Phainon! You coming to the court or what?” “Later, maybe! I need to drop by the lab first.”

Phainon. Popular, charming, and surrounded by friends like gravity pulling planets. You’d only ever interacted with him during that one disastrous group project in sophomore year. You didn’t speak much. He did all the talking.

The door creaked open. Your screen still glowed with the tiny spaceship hovering in space.

“Yo, is someone in?”

You whipped your head up and saw him. He had one headphone in, his school tie loosened, hair a little messy.

He looked around, then spotted you.

“Hey, didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

“...Hi.”

He tilted his head toward your screen. “Wait, is that a game?”

You quickly moved the mouse to close the window, but not fast enough.

“Whoa, don’t shut it down!”

“It’s still buggy.” you mumbled, minimizing the program and locking your screen.

He leaned in, eyes lighting up.

“Wait, you made that? That’s sick.” He turned to look at you. “You’re seriously talented.”

You avoided his gaze, focusing instead on unplugging your USB drive.

“It’s just a hobby…”

Phainon chuckled. “‘Just a hobby’? You’ve got a whole game running. That’s way cooler than anything I’ve done today.”

This wasn’t how your quiet lunch break was supposed to go.

You stood up quickly, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, trying to gather your things.

“I need to go.”

“Oh. Wait, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you said too fast, stepping back toward the door. “I just... have other stuff.”

He watched you retreat, a confused expression softening his features. Then he smiled again, tilting his head slightly.

“Hey, what’s your game called?” he called out as you reached the door.

“…It doesn’t have a name yet.”

He grinned.

“Let me know when it does.”

You tried to return to normal after that day in the lab.

No more coding during lunch breaks.

No more late stays in the tech room.

But Phainon didn’t understand and keep showing up everywhere you go.

“Hey! Game Dev!” he called out from across the school courtyard one afternoon, jogging to catch up with you.

You pretended not to hear him and quickened your pace.

He caught up anyway, effortlessly matching your stride. “You never told me more about the game.”

“I’m busy.”

“That’s cool. I can wait.”

You stopped in front of your classroom. “Don’t you have a fan club or a game to get back to?”

Phainon just gave you that stupid, easy grin. “Maybe. But I kinda want to see what happens next in your game.”

You didn’t respond. Just walked in, ignoring the snickers from a nearby group of girls.

It wasn’t just one or two people talking. You’d heard whispers in the hallways.

“Why’s he talking to them?” “They probably faked the whole ‘coding’ thing just to get attention.” “Didn’t they get rejected by Phainon or something?” “Creepy how they’re always alone, right?”

At first, it didn’t bother you. You were used to being left out.

But that changed when you stayed late one afternoon to grab your notebook and accidentally overheard something.

“Okay, but what if we just hire some expert to.. idk, download a virus on their computer or something?” “Ooh, or leak their browsing history or whatever. Even if it’s fake, no one’ll care.” “Right? Who’s gonna believe someone like that anyway?”

You backed away slowly.

You’d had enough.

That night, you didn’t sleep. Instead, you slipped on your headphones, pulled up a few proxies, and found the backdoor in their school Wi-Fi habits.

In two hours, you’d broken into their cloud storage and group chat backups. In four, you’d carefully rearranged screenshots, spliced audio files, and created just enough drama to make it seem like they were all talking behind each other’s backs.

You didn’t even upload them yourself. Just scheduled a timed drop via a burner account.

By Monday, the group was in ruins.

And you, finally, had silence.

Until Phainon found you again. This time, at the bike racks after school.

“Hey.”

You glanced up. “What.”

He held up a hand in surrender. “Not here to bug you about the game.”

You turned away. “Then leave.”

He didn’t.

“They deserved it, huh?”

He took a step closer. “You’re good. Real good. That’s not amateur stuff.”

You looked at him sharply. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t deserve what they were doing. But...” He hesitated. “Just... don’t lose yourself in it, alright?”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

“Next time someone comes after you… maybe let me know first.”

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

You never felt safe after the drop. Sure, no one came at you again, not publicly. But silence didn’t mean safety. Silence could be a trap.

And Phainon, despite everything, made you uneasy.

Why? Why was he so calm? Why did he know what you’d done?

That night, your fingers hovered over the keys. Your curiosity itched too loud to ignore.

You slipped past a few weak firewalls and into his cloud activity.

“...wait.”

The path you followed suddenly folded in on itself.

And you’d taken it.

You burned the scripts, cleaned the logs, wiped the trace tools—anything that might be tied to you. Anything he could use against you.

And when it was over, you sat in the dark for a long time. Cold sweat down your back.

The next day, he said nothing.

You watched him across the quad, laughing with his friends, sleeves rolled up, the same lopsided smile like he hadn’t laid a trap for you.

Maybe you were overthinking it.

So you did something stupid.

You pulled an old CD-R out of your drawer, labeled it in your tight, scratchy handwriting: [ TEST BUILD v2.6 — SPACEWAR ]

And the next morning, you caught him by the lockers.

“…Here,” you muttered, holding it out. “The game. Just a standalone version. I just thought you might want to test it.”

“You’re giving me the first build?”

“It’s just a test. You don’t—”

“I’m gonna play it tonight” he said. “I’m finishing it. No way I’m sleeping until I beat it.”

“It’s literally half-coded and full of bugs.”

“So am I,” he smirked. “Perfect match.”

You didn’t expect him to go that far.

Next morning, he walked into class with dark shadows under his eyes, hair messier than usual, hoodie half-zipped over his uniform.

“Hey,” he grinned. “I beat it. Twice.”

“Wait... You stayed up?”

“You said test it. I tested the hell out of it.” He nudged your arm. “Seriously, it’s awesome.”

You stared at him. Then laughed. You couldn’t help it. “You idiot. You could’ve just given me a bug report.”

“Nah. That’d be boring.”

You shook your head and turned away to hide your smile.

Later that night, at home, you sat down at your desk. Curiosity beat out caution.

You slid the same disc into your computer. It whirred softly.

[ SPACEWAR ] — Test Build v2.6

You clicked Start Game.

The opening sequence played—then flickered.

The background glitched. The pixels warped, briefly forming words in a distorted typeface:

"Hello, Player One."

Then the game resumed normally.

You yanked the disc out. Looked at the underside.

A low beep from your laptop made you jump.

You flipped the screen—the camera light was on.

For half a second. Then it shut off.

You stared at the reflection of yourself in the screen. And realized:

He gave you his disk.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The glowing reflection of “Hello, Player One” burned behind your eyelids every time you blinked. You’d covered the webcam, shut the laptop, and unplugged everything. But it wasn’t just paranoia this time—Phainon had done something, and you needed to find out why.

So the next morning, you waited outside the gym, watching him laugh with his usual crowd. He noticed you immediately, his smile slipped, and he walked over.

“You okay?”

“We need to talk. Alone.”

Phainon blinked. But he nodded.

You sat in the empty room, across from him at a table where morning light filtered through the blinds.

He leaned forward slightly. “So...?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “Why did you do it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

You pulled the disc from your bag and placed it on the table. “Why?”

Phainon leaned back, quiet for a moment. Then:

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

You frowned. “What?”

“Two years ago. National Coding Competition. You made that AI that learned player patterns in real time. I was in the same bracket—you crushed everyone.”

“You were there?”

He nodded. “You were the best person in the room. I admired you. Then you disappeared. I always wondered why.” He paused. “When I saw you here, I thought—maybe I could get to know you.”

“So you thought breaking into my computer was your idea of caring?”

He flinched slightly, guilt flickering behind his eyes.

“You invaded my privacy. You used something I made against me.” Your voice shook. “Don’t twist this into something noble.”

He sighed. “I just wanted to understand you. You’re brilliant, but you shut everyone out. I thought maybe if I got closer—”

“—by spying on me?”

There was a long silence.

“Didn’t you do the same? To those girls?”

You were speechless.

“I’m not saying they didn’t deserve it. But you didn’t talk to anyone. You handled it alone.”

That stung.

Your hands clenched under the table. “So now you’re saying we’re the same?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m saying we both did things we regret. Doesn’t mean I’m proud of it.” He looked at you. “I’m sorry. For crossing the line.”

“Stay out of my stuff.”

And you walked out.

The rest of the day, you ignored him. He didn’t try to talk to you. Not even once.

But the silence wasn't peace. It was pressure, thick and heavy. You couldn’t focus.

By lunch, you'd pulled up three transfer applications on your phone, but none of them felt like the right move. Running didn’t solve the problem, it just meant you’d keep running.

So instead, you started thinking differently.

If Phainon wanted to get close to you? Fine.

You’d make him hate it.

You listed ridiculous stuff maybe you could use against him:

Step 1: Code like a cryptid. Talk only in binary. Step 2: Constantly mention obscure operating systems and laugh when he doesn’t get it. Step 3: Bring spreadsheets of cat behavior patterns and pretend they’re “emotional simulations.” Step 4: Add him to a fake group project and send 3am emails titled “urgent patch notes.”

Your plan was almost working.

The constant 3 a.m. “patch note” emails. The random references to deprecated programming languages.

It should’ve been enough.

But he always came back.

You were exhausted.

So you went back to Plan Move Away. You re-opened the school transfer forms, actually filled out your personal statement, and left the tab open just in case.

And then, out of nowhere, Kaito happened.

You met him during a school lab module. He wore round glasses, always had cat-hair on his hoodie, and genuinely laughed at your dry jokes. Even better? He knew how to debug. You both ended up fixing an old RPGMaker horror build for fun and spent lunch breaks balancing variables and laughing over cursed enemy sprites.

He wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t hack your life. He was just... easy.

Which was why Phainon noticed right away.

He cornered you by the vending machines after school.

“So... That new guy.”

“His name is Kaito.”

“Cool... But I thought we were working on your game.”

You crossed your arms. “We were. Then you installed spyware on my hard drive.”

“I apologized for that.”

You didn’t budge.

“So you replaced me?”

“I didn’t replace anyone. Kaito’s just someone I can work with without needing to run background checks.”

He scowled. “So you don’t trust me.”

“Can you blame me?”

Phainon looked at you, searching for something. Then he took a step closer.

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I messed up. Maybe I made it weird. But I thought we were building something—together. I didn’t realize you’d hand the controller to some new guy and bench me.”

“Everyone deserves to code.”

That struck a nerve.

“Right.” His voice dropped. “But not everyone gets you.”

This was personal.

Which made it more complicated when, the next day, you came home, turned on your PC and noticed a new folder on your desktop.

“GAME_PATCHED_FINAL_no_KAITO”

And a note:

“If you're gonna replace me, you better fix the recursion loop. Or let me help.”

You stared at the screen, heat crawling up your neck.

You didn’t know if you were furious or impressed.

You had your code. You had your own project. You had Kaito now.

You went on without him.

You stripped your old game build clean, rewrote the framework, even changed the name. Burned all the folders that had anything labeled “v2.6” or “player_one.” You started fresh.

And Phainon? He kept his distance. At least physically.

Then came the mailbox.

It was a regular Thursday when you got home. You were stepping out of your shoes when your mom called from the kitchen:

“There’s something in the mailbox for you.”

You blinked. “Mail? As in—physical?”

“Yeah. Like the old days.” She chuckled. “Looks like a CD.”

You grabbed it, peeling back the envelope carefully.

Plain. No return address. Just one thing written in black marker on the CD’s surface:

“BOOT ME :)”

You rolled your eyes. “Really?”

Of course it was from him. The handwriting was unmistakably chaotic.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t going to test this thing on your personal machine. Not after last time.

So you waited.

The next day during free lab hour, you sat down at one of the school’s clunky public PCs. You slipped on the headphones just in case it played audio.

The CD slid in.

[ Loading... Welcome Back, Player One ]

A single line of code glowing on a black screen:

function whyYouLeft { return “?”; }

Then the screen glitched again—and a video window opened.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Just a shaky webcam video of Phainon in his messy room, sitting on the floor cross-legged.

“Okay. So, if you’re watching this… then I guess I broke like, ten privacy boundaries again. But I swear—this time, no access to your camera. Just... this.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“I don’t know why you pulled away. But I want to understand.” He looked at the disc. “I know I messed up. And maybe that scares you. Maybe you think people only get close to you because of your talent. Maybe you hate how I made it all messy.”

He looked up at the camera, eyes sincere.

“But it wasn’t about your code. Or the game. I wanted to know you. The person behind all that.”

He paused, then added quietly: “I miss being your Player Two.”

The screen turned black again.

You stared at the screen. The headphones still buzzed faintly in your ears with the silence that followed.

You didn’t eject the CD.

You just… sat there.

----

The hallway echoed with the soft shuffle of bags and the clatter of desks being dragged back into place. Students were peeling off one by one, some still laughing, some too tired to care. The bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, school was out, but you stayed.

Until it was just two people left in the room: You and Phainon.

He was halfway through zipping up his bag when he noticed you approaching.

He blinked, clearly surprised. “…Hey.”

“I watched the CD.”

Phainon straightened, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

“It was unnecessary.” you said dryly. Then paused. “But… I get it.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to defend himself, maybe to apologize again, but you raised a hand before he could.

“I’m not starting over with you. I’m continuing, with conditions.”

“You can join the project again,” you said firmly, “if you promise to stop doing stuff behind my back. Everything stays aboveboard.”

You added “Also, if we’re working together, you have to be civil with Kaito.”

“Kaito?” he repeated.

You nodded. “He’s part of this now. Whether you like it or not. I’m not removing him just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You want me to team up with someone who’s clearly trying to be me?”

“He’s not trying to be you.”

Phainon didn’t say anything for a moment. His fingers curled slightly around the strap of his bag.

“So that’s the deal?” he asked quietly. “Let you keep your new friend, and I get supervised access to your game like it’s a daycare pass?”

You shrugged. “If it bothers you that much, you don’t have to join.”

There was a tense silence between you.

“Fine,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “If that’s what it takes.”

You both left the room.

But the minute he walked into the golden hour light outside the school building, Phainon’s smile twisted into something else.

He had no intention of sharing.

Kaito was an obstacle. And Phainon knew exactly how to handle obstacles.

He didn’t need to hack anyone this time. Not when he had reputation.

He was a magnet in the school ecosystem - student rep, the guy everyone knew, the guy everyone liked. Popularity was a language, and Phainon was fluent.

He spoke to people in Kaito’s other classes. Casually dropped things like:

“You know that Kaito guy? Little… intense, right?”

Or:

“Hey, just a heads-up. He’s been engaging with some guys out of school these days. Kinda weird, don’t you think?”

Rumors ran faster than servers during a DDOS attack.

You didn’t notice it right away.

But the others started acting cold toward him. Like he was radioactive.

“Hey… did I do something? People’ve been acting weird.”

You frowned. “Weird how?”

Kaito hesitated. “I dunno. Just… off. Like they know something I don’t.”

Phainon acted perfectly normal the next day.

He brought snacks. He complimented your new UI layout. He laughed at your deadpan jokes.

Phainon never played fair.

It started with a casual invite. One that looked harmless on the surface.

Phainon leaned over your desk during your group’s usual project hour. “Hey,” he said. “There’s a match this weekend—finals. I’m playing.” Then he added, “You and Kaito should come. Y’know. Team bonding. Off-screen chemistry.”

Kaito, surprisingly, looked excited. “I’ve never been to one of your matches. Might be fun.”

For once, Phainon was asking.

So you said yes.

But plans changed.

Your part-time shift at the local computer shop ran long, someone brought in a corrupted hard drive and left in tears, and by the time you were done running diagnostics and fixing their system, the sun had already dipped behind the horizon.

You texted Kai.

[Sorry. Can’t make it. Tell me how it goes later.]

No reply.

You didn’t hear from him until the next morning.

Your phone buzzed with a single message:

From unknown number: “Your friend’s at City Medical. You should come.”

You nearly dropped your phone.

Kaito lay in the bed, right arm in a sling, a thin cut on his brow, bruises trailing the side of his cheek. His glasses sat on the tray next to him, bent out of shape. He was asleep when you walked in.

Phainon was sitting beside the bed.

He glanced up when you entered.

“Hey.” He stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. “Didn’t expect you so early.”

“What happened?”

“It was an accident. During the second half, he tripped—took a bad fall.”

You stared at him. “He doesn’t even run. Why was he even on the field?”

“He got a little too excited. Honestly, I tried to wave him back.” He looked at the bed again. “Poor guy. Probably got caught up in the moment.”

But… the whispers had already started at school. You heard them in the hallways, snippets like:

“I heard that nerd wasn’t watching the game rules.” “Why was he even on the field?” “Guess he wanted attention.”

It was already being spun. And no one could prove it otherwise.

You sat quietly in the chair by Kaito’s side once Phainon left. Your eyes didn’t leave the steady rise and fall of his chest.

With Kaito out of the picture, it was just you and Phainon again. He was standing behind your chair, one hand resting on the backrest while he leaned over to comment on your code.

He would speak low near your ear like the two of you shared something secret. Sometimes his hand would linger on your shoulder, a little longer than it should.

And you just kept coding.

You didn’t want to say it out loud, but ever since the hospital visit, your guard hadn’t dropped once.

Every time Phainon brought snacks, or coffee, or even just his charming laugh, there was something clawing at the back of your head.

The others in school weren’t subtle either. You noticed the sideways glances. The hushed tones in the hallway. Students whispering by the lockers, pretending not to look your way.

Some even snickered outright when you walked into the lab with Phainon beside you, your laptops under your arms like a pair of matching uniforms.

“Guess if you can’t compete, just date the star instead.”

Phainon noticed. Of course he did.

He smirked as he leaned in and whispered: “Let them talk. We’re the ones doing something real.”

You didn’t reply. You just sat down and turned on your machine.

And when you got focused, really focused, you forgot everything else. You skipped lunch. You skipped breaks.

That’s when Phainon would step in again.

You hadn’t even noticed him peel open a rice ball wrapper until he tapped your chin gently with it.

“Eat.” he said simply.

“What?”

“You haven’t touched a single thing since third period. Just chew.”

He held it closer to your lips—half a challenge, half a joke.

You frowned slightly, but opened your mouth. He fed it to you.

---

"Why are they always together now? It’s getting annoying."

"Seriously. Ever since that freak started hanging out with Phainon, he’s been acting weird. Ignoring us."

"They practically live in the lab. It’s pathetic. Clingy."

"Didn’t Kai or whatever his name is end up in the hospital too? You think it’s a coincidence?"

"Well… maybe we should remind them where their place is."

Your bag was heavy on your shoulder. You were heading to the lab as usual, maybe Phainon would be there already, or maybe not. You didn’t text him today.

You were halfway down the stairs when it happened.

A slight nudge.

There was a moment—a single heartbeat—when your brain recognized the danger.

Then everything went black.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You woke to pain pressing behind your eyes and an icy pressure on your wrist.

“Hey.. hey. You’re awake?”

You blinked through the blurriness. Phainon’s face came into view, shadowed by worry and sleeplessness.

“Don’t move too fast. You hit your head—really hard.”

Your throat felt dry. You tried to speak but failed. He immediately reached for the straw in a plastic cup and held it to your lips.

You let the water coat your throat. Your mom entered then, her voice choked with relief as she kissed your forehead and muttered prayers under her breath. Behind her, your sibling waved awkwardly with puffy eyes.

Your body still ached. But in your stillness, your mind drifted.

[Seven Years Ago]

You stood outside the regional coding challenge arena, holding your little cardboard certificate for First Prize in your hand. The others from your school were celebrating inside, but you stepped out for air.

That’s when you heard it.

Sniffling. The sound of someone trying really hard not to cry.

You followed the noise and found him, curled behind the bushes next to the school’s HVAC system, arms wrapped around his knees. He was kicking at a tangle of wires and muttering under his breath.

His screen had crashed halfway through the demo. His mom, who was in the audience, had made that face. Not angry—disappointed.

“Leave me alone” he snapped when he noticed you.

You stood there silently and pulled out a juice box from your bag. Pushed it toward him.

He glared at it, then you. “I lost.”

You shrugged. “Your code was complex, though. That’s impressive for our age.”

He finally took the juice box. Sipped it quietly.

You sat beside him, ignoring the grass stains and bugs. “I could help. If you want. You’ll get better.”

He stared at you, like trying to see through your intentions.

“…Why?”

“Because you were good. And no one helped me when I started either. So I guess I just want to promise it won’t always suck.”

You smiled. “Wanna be friends?”

He nodded.

You forgot that moment. Years passed. But Phainon never did.

Because in that moment, you were the first person who saw value in him.

And he kept that memory like a loaded save file.

Waiting to be opened again.

[Hospital Room – Present]

You stirred awake.

Night had fallen.

Phainon hadn’t left. His hand was still holding yours, as if letting go would make you disappear.

You stared at the ceiling. “Did you know?”

He looked up.

“About the stairwell?” you clarified.

His jaw tensed. “…Yes.”

You didn’t respond.

He continued: “I told them to back off. I thought that was enough.”

You turned to face him.

“I was too late. And I’m sorry.”

You didn’t want his apology.

You wanted to go back and undo all of it. All the memories with him.

[One Month Later]

It was as if you had never existed.

Even your home, he passed by once, late at night, still in his hoodie and uniform, was locked up, the windows sealed, the gate chained. A "FOR RENT" sign swayed faintly in the wind.

You had moved.

Without goodbye.

“…Didn’t they get, like, pushed or something?”

“Maybe their parents freaked out.”

“Phainon’s been acting insane ever since. You think he—”

The boy they were whispering about passed them without a glance.

He just sat in the old lab sometimes—your chair cold and silent across from him—staring at the unfinished game you both used to work on. His fingers would hover over the keyboard, only to fall away.

He didn’t talk to Kaito anymore. He didn’t talk to anyone, really.

One week later, Phainon stared at the wall of post-its he'd started building.

A map of digital footprints.

The last IP address you logged in with.

An email you once mentioned.

A string of code only you would write—he knew because he still had a CD of your logic framework.

An old blog post under a different name, dated three years ago.

He had learned from you. Studied you. Watched you work, memorized the way you built firewalls, nested loops, hid access points like digital breadcrumbs only someone obsessed would find.

And he was obsessed.

At school, Phainon finally started speaking again.

To the computer science teacher.

To the club advisor.

To anyone who might know where the school sent your records. What your “transfer” details included.

But they all said the same thing.

"We don’t know." "It was a private transfer." "We were told not to disclose further."

He sat by his screen again. The glow cast his face in cold blues.

On it was a pixelated image—the game you had coded.

Only this time, it had been modified.

There was a new character. One that looked an awful lot like you. Standing at the end of a path surrounded by glitchy trees.

He pressed enter.

And the character vanished.

Phainon leaned back in his chair.

Where did you go? He didn’t get an answer.

Not yet.

But he would.

----

The screen glowed in the pitch-black room.

Phainon hadn’t slept. Not properly.

There it was.

Phainon’s lips parted. His eyes lit up like a mad scientist finding the last missing variable.

“…Got you.”

----

You sat in the back of the new lab, a new place, everything is new to you, headphones in, hoodie up. You'd been making slow friends here.

Safe. Or so you thought.

Until you saw a notification blink on your laptop.

“System Resource Conflict – Unknown Peripheral Access Attempted.”

You immediately yanked the USB port out.

"Dammit."

----

[Night – Back in Your Apartment]

You watched the camera LED on your laptop blink once, then stop.

You covered it. Disconnected from all networks.

And still, you found phantom code—commands embedded in weird spots.

He was inside.

“What do you want, Phainon?”

The screen lit up again.

Just a simple text file opened itself.

I want what’s mine.

[Elsewhere – Phainon’s POV]

He sat in a cheap hotel near your neighborhood, his laptop surrounded by energy drink cans and open notebooks filled with your old quotes, half-written function names, sketches of you in the margins.

This wasn’t about revenge.

This was about fixing the error that happened the day you left.

[The Next Day – At Your School]

You felt someone watching.

Students still walked the hall like normal. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And when you reached your locker, you found a CD. Labeled in black marker:

“Final Build – OUR Game.”

You dropped it immediately. You didn’t pick it up.

But someone else did. Your cousin.

“…Hey, isn’t this yours?”

“No. Leave it.”

That night, when you checked online, your cousin’s PC pinged offline.

“Ugh.. I warned him already.”

Then his phone. Then his socials.

Gone.

You wanted to end this. So you did what you must.

“Don’t worry. I’m here now.”

“We’re going to finish what we started.”

“Together.”

The lights in your room dimmed.

You agreed to meet him.

“Let’s end this.”

Rooftop. 5:00 PM.

You knew this was dangerous.

But you were exhausted.

Of hiding. Of losing friends.

You needed closure—even if it meant facing him again.

----

Phainon stood at the edge of the roof, back to you.

He hadn’t changed much.

You approached slowly.

Phainon turned.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, stepping forward. “I just… wanted to be with you. Always.”

“You hacked my laptop.”

“You left first.”

“You stalked me. Threatened people. My cousin.”

“He shouldn’t have touched our game.”

“It wasn’t ‘our’ anything!” you snapped. “It stopped being ours the moment you tried to control me.”

“...I see”

That was it. You said what you had to say. You turned toward the door.

You should’ve kept your guard up.

CRACK

Blinding white. Then black.

-----

You stirred.

Phainon sat nearby, typing.

“Hey,” he said softly, as if he hadn’t just abducted you. “You were out for a while. I was worried.”

“Let me go.”

He tilted his head. “But I just got you back.”

“You can’t keep me here.”

“I can. And I will. We have work to finish.”

“…You're insane.”

“No,” he said with unnerving calm. “I'm in love.”

He stood, walking toward you, crouching beside your chair.

“Look, I added your old AI logic into the game. It talks like you now.”

You stared at him in horror.

“Phainon… you can't replace me with code.”

He smiled.

“Then stay.”

Then, like he was explaining code to a beginner:

“If I lose you again… I’ll transfer you.”

“What?”

“If your body dies… I can keep you. Upload your consciousness into the framework. You’re brilliant, after all. Your patterns, your memory depth... already trained into the AI from our game.” He reached up and gently touched your temple. “You won’t even notice the difference.”

You went completely still.

He was serious. Fully convinced. He would do it.

“…Phainon” you said quietly, doing everything you could to keep your voice steady. “That’s… sweet. But I’m not ready for that.”

“I just think,” you continued, “maybe I can help improve the code more if I’m still—” you laughed nervously—“you know, in this form.”

Then… he sighed. “You’re so logical,” he murmured. “So calm.... That’s why I love you.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“I knew you’d understand eventually.”

[heliosunny]

PLEASE need some hsr mermay content IDC WHO PLEASE I TAKE ANY MERMAY CONTENT 🙏🙏🙏

Deadly Gamble

Yandere!Merman!Aventurine x Reader

The sea had been a mirror of tranquility just moments before, its surface glinting under the moonlight like scattered coins. Then, without warning, the waves rose in fury, their dark crests slamming against the ship's hull with enough force to send tremors through the deck. The storm had descended like a predator, but even its wrath paled in comparison to what came with it.

The singing slithered through the chaos first. It wove between the howling wind and the crew's panicked shouts.

"Don't listen to them!" Came the captain's voice, his hands locked onto the wheel as the ship pitched violently.

But the warning came as the first sailor staggered toward the railing. "They're... they're singing for me..."

You reached for him, fingers brushing his sleeve just as he leaned over the edge and the water beneath him erupted, dragging him down before his scream could even leave his throat.

The deck shuddered beneath your feet as another wave struck. A jagged crack split the planks near the mast, seawater surging through the breach. Someone shouted, "We're going down!" before the world tilted, and the ocean swallowed everything.

Cold was the first sensation that pierced the fog in your mind. Your body was leaden, half-buried in wet sand, each breath burning as you coughed up saltwater. The storm had spat you out, though every muscle screamed in protest as you pushed yourself onto your elbows.

The second thing you noticed was the silence. No wind. Just the gentle lap of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

"Now this is a surprise."

Slowly, you turned your head.

Aventurine lounged in the shallows, his tail, gleaming like spilled gold, curled lazily beneath him.

"Most humans don't survive" he mused, tilting his head. His fingers trailed through the water, sending ripples toward you.

He moved suddenly, closing the distance between you in one fluid motion. His hand closed around your wrist. "Let's see how long that luck holds."

The water was rising around your legs, his pull relentless, and panic clawed up your throat.

"Oi! Get away from them!"

A rock struck the water near Aventurine's shoulder, sending up a spray. He recoiled with a hiss, his grip loosening just enough for you to wrench free. A villager stood further up the shore, a fishing spear leveled in warning.

For a heartbeat, Aventurine didn't move. His gaze flicked from you to the interloper. Then, with a low laugh, he leaned back, sinking into the waves.

"Run along, little fish," he murmured, his voice carrying even as the water swallowed him whole. "But remember, the ocean always takes what it's owed."

You were alive.

For now.

The village had been kind to you, feeding you, clothing you, letting you rest in a small but warm inn by the shore. The locals spoke of the mermen with wary resignation, as one might speak of storms or droughts.

"Just don’t wander too close to the water." an old fisherman had told you, his gnarled hands mending a net. 

You had been careful.

Yet here you were, barefoot in the damp sand, the cold tide licking at your ankles.

The sound had woken you, a melody, tugging at your limbs like puppet strings. You hadn’t even realized you were moving until the salt-sting of the sea air snapped you back to awareness.

And there he was.

Aventurine perched on a jagged rock just beyond the shallows, his tail flicking idly against the surf. Moonlight gilded the sharp angles of his face, his eyes gleaming as his song faded into a smirk.

"Sleepwalking, little fish?" he crooned, tilting his head. "Or just eager to see me again?"

Your fingers scrambled for a weapon—a rock, a piece of driftwood, anything—but the beach offered nothing.

"You dragged me here" you spat.

"I merely… invited. You came all on your own." He leaned forward, bracing his chin on one hand. "Admit it. Part of you wanted to."

You took a step back. "What do you want?"

"A conversation." His tail lashed, sending up a spray of seawater. "You’re not like the others. They die. But you…" His gaze raked over you. "You survived."

"That’s just luck."

"Luck?" He grinned. "Oh, sweet thing. Luck is my domain." He slid from the rock, disappearing beneath the waves for a heartbeat before resurfacing closer. "Tell me your name."

The command slithered into your bones, sweet and heavy. Your lips parted—Then you clenched your jaw.

"I’m leaving."

"Fine. Run back to your little hovel. But we’re not done."

You didn’t wait to hear more.

The sand was cold underfoot as you fled, his laughter chasing you all the way back to the inn.

You locked the door.

The news of an incoming ship spread through the village. Finally, a way home. You should have felt relief. Instead, your fingers tightened around the edge of your drink as you sat in the dim-lit tavern of the inn, the weight of unseen eyes prickling the back of your neck.

The innkeeper had hired new help.

You recognized him instantly.

But you played along.

"New here?" you asked, feigning ignorance as he slid into the seat across from you.

"A traveler, just passing through" Aventurine replied. His fingers drummed against the wooden table. "Heard there’s a ship coming soon. You planning to board?"

You took a slow sip of your ale, watching him over the rim. "Maybe. Depends on if the sea’s in a good mood."

He chuckled. "Luck’s a fickle thing, isn’t it? I’ve got a theory—some people are just born under lucky stars. Others…" His gaze flickered to the window, where the ocean churned in the distance. "Others make their own luck."

"And which one are you?"

His grin widened. "Why don’t you find out?"

For days, he wove himself into your routine, bringing you meals, lingering in conversation, his words laced with double meanings. He was testing you, seeing how long it would take for you to break.

Instead, you matched him.

The night before the ship’s arrival, you found him on the inn’s back porch, staring at the moonlit waves.

"No disguise tonight?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Would it matter if I did?"

You stepped closer. "Why bother with this charade?"

Finally, he looked at you, his eyes gleaming with something almost like respect. "Because you’re interesting."

"You could stay"

You raised a brow. "And what? Become your next meal?"

He laughed. "Oh, little fish. If I wanted to eat you, you’d already be gone."

The ship would come.

The choice, for now, was yours.

And as you walked away, you could’ve sworn you heard him whisper

"Luck favors the bold."

You had spent your last days in the village sharpening knives and weaving nets into makeshift traps. The villagers warned you—no one hunts the mermen and lives to tell the tale. But you were done playing his games.

The night before the ship arrived, you waited by the shore with a harpoon stolen from the docks, the moon hidden behind storm clouds. The sea was eerily calm.

Then, a ripple. A flicker of gold beneath the waves.

You lunged before you could think, driving the harpoon into the water with all your strength.

And missed.

Aventurine surfaced just inches from the blade, his laughter ringing like wind chimes in a hurricane. "Oh, little fish, did you really think it would be that easy?"

You snarled and struck again. This time, a rogue wave knocked you off your feet before the harpoon could find its mark.

He tsked, swimming lazy circles around you as you sputtered in the shallows. "So predictable." Then his grin turned razor-edged. "But don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow."

Before you could reply, he was gone.

The ship arrived at dawn, a sturdy merchant vessel, its crew none the wiser to the predators lurking beneath the waves. You boarded with your jaw set, your fingers brushing the knife hidden in your sleeve. Let him try.

The attack came just as the ship reached open water.

One moment, the deck was bustling with sailors; the next, screams erupted as sinuous forms vaulted over the rails.

You barely had time to draw your blade before he was on you, his grip iron-strong as he dragged you toward the railing.

"This," he purred against your ear, "is where your luck runs out."

The water swallowed you whole, the surface receding as he pulled you deeper, his kin following with other struggling victims in tow. You fought, clawing at his arms, but his smile never wavered.

His teeth sank into your shoulder. You gasped… and instead of choking on seawater, you breathed. Your eyes flew wide.

Aventurine released you, licking a drop of blood from his lips. "A gift" he said, as the other mermen began tearing into their prey. "And a curse." He leaned in. "You have seven days. After that?" His tail coiled around you. "You will die."

Seven days.

Seven days to find a way out.

Or seven days until the ocean claimed you for good.

The other mermen circled you like sharks scenting blood, their eyes gleaming with amusement. You were Aventurine’s discarded toy, a plaything he had bitten and left to drown—but not quickly enough.

One reached out, claws grazing your arm. "The human!" he hissed.

You didn’t wait for them to strike first.

Snatching a jagged piece of driftwood from the seabed, you swung. It connected with the first merman’s temple, sending him reeling back with a snarl. The others hissed in surprise.

You barely dodged, twisting away as teeth snapped where your throat had been. Kicking off the ocean floor, you swam for the surface, lungs burning despite the cursed gift of Aventurine’s bite. But they were faster. A hand closed around your ankle, yanking you back down.

Crack

A ship’s broken mast, torn loose in the storm above, plunged into the water like a spear, impaling the merman holding you. The others scattered as the heavy timber pinned their kin to the seabed.

Aventurine found you washed up on a desolate atoll, gasping and bleeding.

He emerged from the waves with a slow, mocking clap. "Bravo" he drawled. "I almost thought you’d make it." His eyes flicked over your trembling form. "But your luck’s run out, darling."

"Then take it back."

"Take what?"

"Your gift." You staggered to your feet. "You want me dead? Fine. But I won’t drown for your amusement."

He laughed, slithering closer. "And how do you plan to—"

Your hands locked around his wrists, and with every ounce of strength left, you pulled. He stumbled, tail flailing—and then you twisted, dragging him onto the sharp rocks lining the shore.

"You—"

"If I’ve got the worst luck," you spat, pinning him down as his scales scraped against stone, "then so do you."

A wave, monstrous and sudden, crashed over you both, wrenching you back into the sea. Saltwater filled your mouth, your vision darkening as the current tore you apart—

And then his hands were on you, shoving you toward the surface.

You broke through, coughing, just in time to see him vanish into the depths.

You dragged yourself onto the rocks, breathing hard.

---

Six days left.

And now? He was angry.

Aventurine had always played his games alone.

But now, the whispers slithered through the reefs, the human had wounded him. Not just in flesh, but in pride. And the other mermen, sensing blood in the water, were eager to finish what he had started.

One in particular, a brash hunter with emerald scales, had already set off toward the shallows. "I'll bring you their heart"

Aventurine killed him.

"Anyone else..." he looked up at the others, flicking blood from his claws, "want to interfere?"

Silence.

But vengeance required more than intimidation. So he descended—down, down, past the carcasses of sunken ships, past the trenches where light dared not reach, to the abyss where the sea witch lurked.

"Aventurine," she crooned. "Come to beg?"

He tossed the hunter’s severed fin at her feet. "Come to bargain."

She laughed. "Is it about that specific human? Want them to suffer?"

"I want them to understand," he corrected, "What it means to lose everything to luck."

The witch leaned forward, her ink-black hair swirling. "Then take their luck away." She pressed a vial into his palm, inside the vial, liquid gold swirled. "One drop… and Fortune will abandon them forever."

Aventurine’s fingers curled around it. Perfect.

The storm raged above the waves as Aventurine cornered you against the jagged rocks of a coastal cave, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. The vial of cursed luck glinted in his hand. Took quite the effort to bring you here.

"You've been quite the problem, but every game must end."

"You don't have to do this. I will die eventually."

"Oh, but I want to," he hissed, baring sharp teeth. With terrifying speed, his hand gripped your wrist, the other tipping the vial toward your lips.

You thrashed, turning your face away as the golden liquid spilled, only for a rogue wave to slam into the cave, knocking you both sideways. The vial flew from his grasp, spinning through the water—

And shattered against his chest instead.

The effect was instant.

The liquid seeped into his scales like poison. His pupils shrank to slits as realization dawned.

"NO!"

The ocean itself seemed to turn against him. A current wrenched him backward into the cave wall. A jagged rock gashed his tail as he crashed against the reef. He hissed in pain—only for a startled moray eel to dart from the coral and sink its teeth into his arm.

He was unlucky now.

And despite everything, you hate to witness the scene.

You swam forward and seized his wrist.

"Don't touch me!" he snarled, trying to jerk away.

"If I let go, you'll die."

You loosened your grip—just slightly.

A nearby conch shell, dislodged by a flick of his tail, plummeted and cracked against his skull.

You tightened your hold with a sigh. "We need to fix this."

The journey to the sea witch’s lair was a nightmare.

Every movement Aventurine made invited disaster. A school of venomous jellyfish drifted into his path. A dormant volcano rumbled beneath you, spewing boiling vents. Once, a shark—his own ally—mistook his shimmering scales for prey and took a chunk from his fin.

By the time the abyss opened before you, he was bleeding, seething, and utterly humiliated.

The sea witch’s laughter echoed through her cathedral of bones.

"Ohhh," she cooed, circling you both. "This is marvellous!"

"Undo it" Aventurine demanded.

"Or what?" She flicked his nose. "You’ll trip me to death?"

You stepped between them. "There has to be a way to lift the curse. For both of us."

The witch paused. "Why would you help him?"

You didn’t answer.

She smirked. "A trade, then. His luck returns… if you give me your remaining days."

"No."

"Deal." You ignored him.

The witch’s grin split her face. "Then hold still—"

Aventurine moved.

His free hand snatched a rusted dagger from the witch’s belt—and plunged it into her throat.

Her shriek shook the ocean. Black blood clouded the water as her magic unraveled in a whirlpool of curses. The vial’s effects shattered.

And your borrowed time?

Still ticking.

Panting, Aventurine glared at you. "Never do that again. You suck at bargaining."

"Let’s just go back."

The sea witch’s blood still clouded the water around you, her dying curse echoing in the silence. Aventurine’s grip on your hand was iron-tight—not out of affection, but necessity. Without you, his own luck was a liability.

You studied his sharp profile, the way his jaw clenched as he scanned the dark waters ahead. Why did he stop you? He could have let the witch take your remaining days.

As if sensing your thoughts, he scoffed. "Don’t look at me like that. I just hate owing debts."

You almost laughed. "So stabbing her was… what? A favor?"

"A solution," he snapped, tail flicking irritably—only to dislodge a rock that nearly brained him. He scowled. "We need to find another way. Before your time runs out."

The words hung between you. Five days. Maybe less.

The ocean had never felt so vast.

With your free hand, you sifted through the wreckage of sunken ships while Aventurine begrudgingly directed you toward hidden merfolk archives—places where old magic might still linger.

"Here, try to find something useful."

You reached for one, but he yanked you back just as a dagger—rusty and loose from its display—clattered down where your hand had been.

"This is exhausting."

You sighed. "Then let’s hurry."

The first two days passed in a blur of near-misses and dead ends.

Aventurine, despite his pride, refused to let go. Not when a collapsing tunnel nearly crushed him. Not when a rogue current almost swept you both.

By the third day, frustration simmered beneath his skin.

"There’s nothing," he snarled, flipping over a table in the ruins of an undersea shrine.

"Wait." Your fingers brushed a mosaic on the wall—a merfolk legend depicting a mortal and a sea spirit bound together. "What’s this?"

"...Two lives becoming one." His voice was oddly quiet.

You turned to him. "Would it work?"

"It would mean sharing your curse." A pause. "And your luck."

The weight of it settled between you.

You had nothing left to lose.

He had everything to gain.

"Do it." you said.

Aventurine’s grip tightened. "You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to."

"I know my time is up." You held his gaze. "And I know you hate losing."

For once, he had no clever retort.

The ritual was simple.

A cut on his palm. A cut on yours. Blood mingling in the water as ancient words spilled from his lips.

Pain lanced through you, sharp and bright, as something shifted. Your vision blurred; your lungs burned. Then—

"...It’s done."

You looked down. The mark from his bite was gone.

And when you finally, finally let go of his hand?

Nothing bad happens to him.

"Come on, little fish" he muttered, tugging you toward the surface. "Want some fresh air?"

The ritual had changed something fundamental between you—and Aventurine wasn't acting like himself.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. The way his fingers lingered when passing you seaweed-wrapped fish. How his eyes tracked your movements like a compass finding north. When you climbed onto the shore of a deserted island to gather driftwood, he transformed his tail into human legs (a glamour, he'd grumbled, not his favorite form) and followed.

"You don't have to come" you said, watching him scowl at the way the grains stuck to his skin.

"I know" he snapped, but made no move to return to the waves.

The realization hit when a stray fishing hook snagged your sleeve, nearly dragging you into the water. Aventurine, halfway across the beach, flinched as if he'd felt the tug too.

You froze. "Did you just—"

"No" he lied, too quickly.

You pressed your palm to his chest. His heartbeat thundered against your fingertips—matching yours.

"You didn't tell me it would be like this." 

He looked away. "Would you have agreed if I did?"

The answer hung between you.

The mermen noticed.

Of course they did.

Aventurine had always been untouchable—a creature of chaos and cunning, feared even by his own kind. Now? He was vulnerable. 

They came at dusk, their silvered knives glinting beneath the waves.

"Traitor," one hissed, circling you both. "You've bound yourself to a human."

Aventurine's grip on your waist tightened. "Say that again," he purred, "and I'll turn your spine into a necklace."

But the threat rang hollow. They knew.

Hurt you, and he'd bleed.

Kill you, and he'd die.

They lunged forward. Only for Aventurine to move, faster than you'd ever seen, his borrowed human strength fueled by something raw and desperate. The attacker's body hit the sand with a wet thud, throat slit.

Aventurine turned to you. His glamour was slipping, gills flaring at his neck.

"We can't stay here" 

You stared at the corpse, then at him. "Where can we go?"

"Wherever the tide takes us."

That night, as you drifted on a stolen fishing boat beneath a sky full of stars, Aventurine finally admitted the truth.

"The ritual wasn't just about sharing time," he said, fingers tracing the new mark on your wrist. "It was about sharing fate."

You swallowed. "So if I die..."

"I die. And vice versa." He said it casually. "Annoying, isn't it?"

You laughed, despite everything. "You hate this."

"I loathe it." he agreed, but when you shifted closer, he didn't pull away.

Somewhere in the dark water below, his kin were hunting.

But for now?

You had time.

----

It felt like a beginning.

He had never done anything like this before.

Aventurine crouched in the moonlit shallows, his claws dripping with seawater and something darker. The bodies of his former kin floated just beneath the surface, their lifeless eyes staring up at the stars they would never see again. Their blood swirled around him like ink in the tide, their stolen life force threading through the water—his to claim.

Pathetic, he thought, watching the last of the ritual’s glow fade from his fingertips. Sacrificing fools for a human’s sake.

But it wasn’t just your life he was extending.

It was his.

And that, at least, made sense.

You found him at dawn.

He was sprawled on a half-sunken rock, his tail streaked with fresh wounds, his breathing deliberately slow. When you called his name, he didn’t startle. Just turned his head lazily, as if he’d been waiting.

"There you are, little fish." he drawled. "Sleep well?"

You ignored the taunt, wading into the surf to inspect the gashes along his side. "What happened?"

"Hunting accident." He flicked a claw toward the horizon, where the first pale bodies were just beginning to wash ashore. 

You frowned. "They’re… dead?"

"Mm. Unfortunate." He watched your face, searching for disgust, for horror—but all you did was press a hand to the worst of his injuries.

"You’re bleeding." 

He almost laughed. Oh, darling. If only you knew.

But he wouldn’t tell you. Not just because you might recoil.

Because this was his secret to keep.

That night, when you slept, he pressed two fingers to the mark on your wrist, the one that bound you together, and felt the steady, strong pulse of it.

Ridiculous, he thought.

And yet.

When you shifted in your sleep, your fingers brushing his, he didn’t pull away.

The next morning, you caught him staring at the horizon.

"What are you thinking about?" 

He smirked. "How much I hate owing favors."

You rolled your eyes. "You don’t owe me anything."

"Exactly," he said, too lightly. "So don’t expect this to become a habit."

But when you turned away, his gaze dropped to the mark on his own wrist, the one that matched yours, and for the briefest moment, his smirk softened.

Worth it.

[heliosunny]

Yandere Stanley Snyder with a darling that was in the Marines with him

Yandere!Stanley Snyder x Reader

The water was colder than you expected. It wrapped around you like an unforgiving embrace, sending a sharp chill through your body as you kicked downward, eyes straining to find the glint of silver among the shifting sand. Your mother’s necklace—it was too important to lose.

You had done this a hundred times before. Swimming, diving, holding your breath, it was second nature to you. But as soon as your fingers brushed against the delicate chain, a sharp pain shot through your calf.

Your breath hitched, bubbles escaping from your lips as panic settled in. Your body refused to move the way you wanted it to. You were sinking.

Then, someone's arms wrapped around you, yanking you upward with a force you couldn’t fight. The next thing you knew, you were gasping for air at the surface, coughing up water.

Stanley.

He was hovering over you, his grip tight on your arm. His sharp eyes bore into yours, a mixture of relief and fury swirling in them.

“Do you have a death wish? Jumping in like that, over a damn necklace?”

You shivered, too exhausted to snap back at him. Instead, you looked down at your hand, where the necklace was clenched tightly in your fist. You had gotten it back. That was all that mattered.

Stanley let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “You’re reckless. You don’t think. And one day, that’s going to get you killed.”

You stayed silent. You were grateful—really, you were—but why did it always have to be like this? Why did he always have to be so harsh?

Your team noticed the shift. The way your usual energy dulled, the way your mood soured when Stanley was around. You tried to brush it off, but even you knew it was getting under your skin.

You weren’t sure when it started, but he was always there. Criticizing.

And worst of all?

You couldn’t do anything about it.

---

The base was unusually loud that day. An argument crackling through the air like a live wire. You weren’t the type to pry, but something about the tone unsettled you.

Stanley had been acting strange lately. Not that he was ever warm, but his usual sharp commands had grown more impatient. And every time you got close to certain areas, he always sent you off somewhere else.

Like now.

"Go check the armory." "Get a headcount."

It was subtle, but it was clear: he didn’t want you here.

Which only made you more curious.

So this time, you ignored the usual order. You moved carefully, staying just out of sight as you crept toward the source of the noise.

And that’s when you saw him.

A man with striking silver hair. And Stanley—who rarely ever seemed affected by anything—stood in front of him, rigid, listening intently.

Something about this man was important.

Your breath hitched slightly, and that small sound was enough. Stanley’s head snapped toward you immediately, his sharp gaze locking onto yours.

You had been caught.

Stanley’s glare was sharp enough to cut, his mouth already opening to scold you for disobeying orders—again. But before he could get a single word out, the silver-haired man suddenly grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward with an unsettling amount of enthusiasm.

“Oh? And who might this be?” The man—Dr. Xeno—smirked. “Doesn't matter. You’ve arrived at the perfect time.”

You barely had time to process his words before he turned, dragging you toward a strange-looking contraption set up on the table.

“Behold,” Xeno continued, gesturing at it with dramatic flair. “My latest invention—marvelous, isn’t it? It will revolutionize the battlefield, once properly tested.”

You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at. Wires, tubes, something that looked like a trigger mechanism, whatever it was, it didn’t look stable. And when Xeno turned to you expectantly, your stomach dropped.

Oh. Oh no.

He wanted you to test it?

Your brain screamed absolutely not, but your mouth had yet to catch up. Before you could figure out a polite way to refuse, a hand grabbed your arm and yanked you back.

“Not happening.”

Xeno arched a brow, then let out a hum of realization. “Ah. I see.” His smirk returned, but this time, it was directed at Stanley. “So this is the one you keep complaining about.”

Your gaze flicked to Stanley, but his expression didn’t change. If anything, his grip on you tightened slightly, like he was resisting the urge to shove you behind him.

“I’ve never seen you this bothered by someone before” Xeno mused, clearly entertained. “How amusing.”

“You complain about me?”

Stanley clicked his tongue, not denying it, but not confirming it either.

Xeno chuckled. “Oh, quite frequently. It’s fascinating, really.” He tilted his head, “After all, he isn’t the type to let anyone get under his skin.”

You didn’t know whether to be offended or worried.

Stanley just sighed and started pulling you toward the exit. “We’re leaving.”

“Come back if you change your mind!” Xeno called after you, clearly enjoying himself.

----

The burning in your legs was unbearable. Every muscle screamed in protest as you forced yourself through another lap, breath ragged, sweat dripping down your back.

Stanley’s punishment was simple—run. A few laps around the base, nothing more. But under his watchful eye, “a few” quickly turned into a lot. He didn’t say much, just stood there with his arms crossed, watching as you pushed yourself forward.

This was his way of drilling a lesson into your head. Disobeying orders had consequences.

You didn’t complain, though. You’d take this over another one of his cutting remarks or that cold disappointment in his eyes.

And so, you ran.

Days later, your legs still ached, but your mood was lighter as you headed back to receive your mail. Letters from home were rare, but when they arrived, they were a small comfort—a reminder that there was still something beyond this harsh world.

But as you approached the building, something felt off.

Your body reacted before your mind caught up. Time slowed as you turned your head and saw it—

A figure, hidden in the distance. A rifle raised.

The barrel was aimed directly at Xeno.

BANG

A sharp pain tore through your body. The force sent you staggering before your legs gave out beneath you.

You took the bullet for him.

Distantly, you heard shouting. Heavy footsteps pounding against the dirt.

“Damn it—damn it, stay awake!”

Your vision blurred as you saw him kneeling beside you, his face twisted in something you had never seen before. His hands, usually so steady, pressed against your wound, but it wasn’t enough.

You were losing too much blood.

You wanted to say something—anything—but your lips wouldn’t move.

Then, through the haze, another gunshot rang out. A scream followed.

Stanley was gone from your side in an instant. Your head lolled to the side.

BANG.

The figure from afar collapsed, clutching their leg. Stanley didn’t hesitate. In a flash, he was on them, pinning them down, his knee digging into their wound as they howled in pain.

“Who sent you? Talk, or I’ll make sure you never walk again.”

You woke up a week later, dazed and aching.

The first thing you saw was Stanley sitting beside your bed.

The beeping of the heart monitor was steady, a rhythmic sound that reminded you that—somehow—you were still alive.

You barely had time to process everything before the door swung open.

A doctor stepped in, giving you a brief glance before his eyes flickered toward the other presence in the room.

“I need you to step outside while I check on them.”

There was a beat of silence.

He turned toward you. “Don’t go dying while I’m gone.”

With that, he exited, leaving you alone with the doctor.

The check-up was routine—questions about pain levels, a careful examination of the wound, the usual reminders about taking it easy. You answered as best you could, your mind still reeling from the events that led you here.

Eventually, the doctor nodded in satisfaction. “You’re recovering well” he said, jotting something down. “Just don’t push yourself too hard.”

Then, as if on cue, the door opened again.

Stanley stepped inside, posture as stiff as ever. He gave you a once-over, eyes scanning for any sign of weakness.

“Looks like you’ll live.” Then, after a pause, he added, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

You weren’t sure if he meant taking the bullet or interfering in the first place. Maybe both.

But before you could respond, he spoke again. “Rest up. You’re no good to anyone like this.”

And just like that, he turned on his heel and left.

It was so fast, so abrupt, that you barely had time to process it.

Then, before the silence could settle, another voice filled the room—

"Y/N!"

Your head turned just in time to see your family rushing in, concern and relief evident in their faces.

---

The moment you were deemed fit for duty again, you were immediately assigned to train a group of newcomers. Fresh faces, some nervous, some cocky, all of them utterly clueless about what they were walking into.

You were patient, though. You drilled them hard, made sure they learned discipline, and when it came time for their first real mission, you were tasked with leading them to their commanding officer.

Stanley was already waiting when you arrived with the recruits. He stood tall, eyes sharp as they swept over the group.

You had half expected him to say something to you—anything about what happened that day at the hospital. Maybe an acknowledgment, maybe another one of his usual blunt remarks.

But he didn’t.

He simply nodded at you, then turned his full attention to the recruits.

“Let’s see if your training wasn’t a waste of time.”

You weren’t expecting some grand gesture, but nothing? Not even a comment? Not even one smart remark about you almost dying?

Tch. Whatever.

You shoved the thought aside and focused on the mission.

Later that night, back in your shared room, you busied yourself with packing up and cleaning. You weren’t leaving yet, but your parents had sent another letter, and the words were weighing heavily on your mind.

Come home. You’ve done enough. Find a safer job.

You ran a hand through your hair, staring at the letter for a long moment before sighing.

“…They have a point,” you muttered to yourself. “Maybe I should consider it.”

You didn’t hear the footsteps outside.

Didn’t notice the way someone lingered just beyond the door, listening.

Stanley had only come back to grab something he left behind. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—but he had heard enough.

He didn’t say anything.

He just turned and left.

But when he did, the faint scent of cigarettes lingered in the air.

You wrinkled your nose, scowling. “Who the hell was smoking in here?”

The next day’s training followed the usual routine, but something felt different.  Stanley’s gaze lingered on you longer than usual, like he was picking apart every move you made.

You didn’t think much of it until training wrapped up and the recruits were dismissed. Just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the air.

“Stay.”

You stood there, waiting. Stanley remained silent at first, leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his fingers. The scent was subtle, but you recognized it now—the same one that had clung to your room last night.

“So you’re leaving.”

“Yeah. I am.”

His mood darkened, his fingers tightening slightly around the cigarette before he crushed it in the ashtray without a second thought.

“…You finally get my attention,” he muttered, “and now you’re just leaving.”

You frowned. “Finally? You never cared before—”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re the idiot who didn’t realize it.”

Stanley let out a slow breath, pushing himself off the wall. “You really think it’s that easy?”

You took a cautious step back. “What?”

“You think you can just walk away?”

Faking a death in this line of work wasn’t difficult. And if it meant keeping you, ensuring you never left him…

Then so be it.

You were never a match for Stanley one-on-one. He was faster, stronger, and deadlier than most soldiers you had ever encountered. But despite knowing that, you had never expected him to actually charge at you.

Your instincts kicked in instantly. You barely had time to react, sidestepping just enough to avoid a direct hit. Your body protested—the remnants of your recovery slowing you down, your muscles not quite as responsive as they should have been.

Still, you weren’t going down without a fight.

You threw a counterattack, aiming for a weak spot—his ribs, maybe, if you could get a clean shot. But Stanley anticipated it with ease, twisting his body just enough for your strike to miss.

His hand slammed into your wrist, forcing your arm down. Before you could recover, his other arm hooked around your waist, knocking you off balance. You stumbled, trying to break free, but his grip was unrelenting.

Your legs were swept from under you.

The impact came hard and fast. Your back hit the ground with a thud, the breath leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp.

Before you could even attempt to push yourself up, he was already on you—one knee pressing down against your stomach, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, struggling beneath him.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he just watched you, his grip tightening slightly.

Your breath came out ragged, your wrists aching under his grip. You thrashed beneath him, twisting your body in an attempt to break free, but it was useless.

“Get off me!” You grit your teeth, trying to kick at him, but he had you pinned too well.

Nothing. No reaction. Just that same, unnerving silence.

Your patience snapped. “Damn it, Snyder, I just recovered! You’re hurting me!”

That made him pause—just for a split second. His grip on your wrists loosened slightly, just enough for you to feel it. But then, before you could take advantage of it

He moved.

A sharp gasp left your lips as the world suddenly tilted, your body lifted effortlessly off the ground. Before you even registered what was happening, your stomach pressed against something firm—his shoulder.

“What the—put me down!” You squirmed, pushing against his back, but he held you in place like you weighed nothing.

Stanley didn’t say a word.

He just started walking.

Your fists pounded against his back. “I swear, you’re out of your damn mind! This isn’t funny!”

You twisted your head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but all you could see was the way his grip on your leg was firm.

Your eyes darted around frantically, searching for anything within reach.

Stanley’s grip was strong, but his hold wasn’t perfect—if you could just get one good hit in, you might have a chance. Your fingers brushed against something—a metal canteen strapped to his belt.

It wasn’t much, but it was heavy.

You clenched your jaw, gripping it tight.

“I’m sorry” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

The impact was solid. Stanley’s body tensed, his step faltering. A sharp inhale was all you heard before his grip slackened—before you fell.

Your body hit the ground hard, pain flaring through your side. But there was no time to think. You scrambled to your feet, ignoring the ache in your limbs.

Run.

That was the only thought in your head.

The air was thick. The only sound was the rapid pounding of your heart, the distant rustle of leaves as you pushed your way deeper into the base’s outskirts.

Somewhere behind you, he was looking.

You swallowed hard, pressing yourself against the cold concrete wall of an abandoned training facility. The dim light barely reached inside.

You forced yourself to breathe evenly. To listen.

Footsteps.

He wasn’t rushing.

Why would he?

You could almost feel his presence in the air, the weight of his gaze sweeping over every possible hiding spot.

“...You really think you can run from me?”

You pressed further into the shadows, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to quiet the sound of your breath.

A boot scuffed against the ground, the noise sending a cold shiver down your spine.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

You didn’t dare move.

Didn’t dare breathe.

And then—

The cold press of metal against the back of your head made your entire body freeze.

You didn’t need to turn around to know.

He was right there.

“Surrender.” His voice was eerily calm, steady, like he wasn’t pointing a loaded gun at you. “Or I’ll shoot.”

You clenched your fists, weighing your options. But there weren’t any. Your body was still weak from recovery, your stamina drained from running. And he—he never missed a shot.

Slowly, you lifted your hands in silent surrender.

“Smart choice”

Then, in a swift movement, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward. Your knees buckled slightly, but he didn’t let you fall. He just dragged you along, not saying another word.

---

The room was dimly lit, barren, save for the reinforced door and the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The lock clicked behind you.

You pressed against the cold wall, watching as Stanley stood on the other side of the door, staring at you through the small viewing slit.

“You’ll be safe here”

Your jaw tightened. “Safe?” Your voice came out sharp, incredulous. “You kidnapped me.”

“I kept you. Away from danger.”

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

The report was made public within hours.

An unfortunate accident. An elite soldier lost during a high-speed chase with an enemy spy. The fire had spread too quickly. No body was found—only ashes and the scorched remains of what used to be a base of operations.

The official report listed you as deceased in the line of duty.

To the rest of the world—

You were already dead.

[heliosunny]

The cat chooses you

Cipher x Reader

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped into the quaint pet shop nestled between a book café and a fortune-teller's booth. Rows of aquariums bubbled to your left, cages of chirping birds to your right. But you? You were here for something simple. A calm, docile rabbit, maybe. One that wouldn’t turn your apartment into a battlefield.

You knelt near the display, admiring a sleepy-looking bunny curled in a corner. Perfect, you thought.

That’s when chaos struck - in the form of a blur of fur and a suspiciously graceful backflip off a nearby shelf.

Thud.

A cat landed beside you.

You blinked. "Uh… you're not in this section."

The cat sat primly, lifted a paw, and smugly knocked over a "Discount Treats!" sign. Her gaze screamed ‘You’re welcome.’

You glanced around. No one seemed to notice.

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be out of your pen.”

With a yawn that bordered on sarcastic, the cat leapt onto the bunny’s enclosure, effectively blocking your view. Then, she winked—yes, actually winked—and turned in a slow circle, showing off the subtle shimmer in her fur like some kind of feline supermodel.

That was your first clue something was up.

The second came when she “accidentally” pawed open a nearby cage, freeing a parakeet, and then, without missing a beat, closed it again. The bird flew wildly, feathers and shrieks everywhere. She just sat there, licking a paw like this was all part of the plan.

“Okay” you said slowly. “You're either terrifyingly smart…. or someone in disguise.”

The cat then leapt into your arms, curled up, and rubbed her head against your chin.

“…Right.. If this is what you want..”

You signed the adoption papers with a skeptical side-eye at the purring feline in your arms. The shopkeeper didn’t question why the cat had no paperwork or microchip. They just laughed and said, “Guess she chose you, huh?”

Yeah. Chose you, all right.

At first, she was the perfect pet- silent, sleek, occasionally affectionate. She liked your couch too much and had a thing for knocking your pens off the desk, but fine. Cats were weird.

Then… the collecting began. At first, you didn’t notice. A missing sock. A mysteriously vanished spoon. You blamed yourself. Sleep deprivation, maybe. After all, you worked too many late shifts.

But one afternoon, while looking for your phone charger, you followed the faintest rustle behind the couch and discovered her stash.

Piled with obsession, tucked in a hollow behind the furniture:

Two lighters (you didn’t smoke)

Three coins from a currency you swore didn’t exist

Your ID badge

A wind-up music box

A screwdriver

A single chocolate truffle

A gleaming, obviously expensive brooch you’d never seen before

“What the hell, Cipher?”

She trotted in right on cue, tail high, eyes too smug. When she saw you crouched over the stash, she stopped.

“Don’t play innocent!”

She meowed innocently.

“No. This is stealing. And trash-hoarding. And possibly breaking and entering, depending on where this—” You held up the brooch. “—came from.”

She gave a half-purr, half-chuff and sat on the pile as if to say my treasure now.

“No. This is illegal. You can’t just sneak around collecting random junk and—wait. Is this my watch?”

She stretched like she hadn’t heard you and began grooming her paw.

You groaned. “Cipher, you can’t bring home weird shiny trash like a kleptomaniac dragon. I mean it. No more stealing. If you're gonna be a cat, be a normal cat!”

She rolled onto her back, gave you a lazy blink, and flicked her tail.

“You're totally ignoring me.”

You glared. She purred louder.

Later that night, the stash was mysteriously gone.

In its place was a single silver spoon.

With a note beside it.

“Not trash. Strategic assets. – C”

You sighed, dramatically. Wait, how can she write this note?

You had officially crossed the line from “mildly concerned pet owner” to full-blown panic parent.

Cipher had vanished.

You scoured the apartment, the roof, the alley behind the building. You even asked Mrs. Lian from across the hall if she’d seen a cat with a name tag - Cipher.

You went back inside and flopped onto the couch with a groan. “This is what I get for adopting a cat who was definitely once a person. Or a spy. Or a tech-sorceress from another dimension.”

At exactly 2:47 a.m., the window creaked open.

Cipher landed silently on the windowsill, like she hadn't just disappeared for over 18 hours.

Her fur shimmered faintly under the moonlight. Her tail curled with amusement.

You stared at her.

“...You can't just leave all day and act like it’s normal!”

She padded over, headbutted your chin, and hopped onto your lap.

You scowled but didn’t push her off. You were too tired. And maybe... a little relieved.

“Don’t think I’m letting this slide.”

She purred.

The next morning, you called in backup.

Your best friend, Mina, arrived ten minutes later, holding a laser pointer like a holy artifact.

“You’ve gone feral” she said, stepping over Cipher, who was sprawled on the floor like royalty.

“She disappears. She steals. She ignores me. I need help.”

Mina looked down at Cipher.

Cipher looked back with all the contempt of an empress staring at peasantry.

“…Okay” Mina said. “We’ll start with boundary training.”

Cipher blinked once. Then, as Mina lowered the treat pouch, she bit it open, took the treats, and calmly walked away.

Mina stared after her, deadpan. “So she’s the boss.”

“Yup.”

“She understands human speech.”

“Yup.”

“And she knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“She’s doing tax fraud, Mina. Probably.”

You tried everything.

Toy puzzles? Cipher solved them in under ten seconds, then hid the final treat so you couldn’t find it.

Laser pointer games? She chased it for two seconds, then stared at you like you were the entertainment.

Command training? Cipher just rolled over and pretended to die dramatically every time you said “Sit.”

“She’s training you.” Mina concluded.

“Don’t remind me.”

Cipher, now perched on top of the fridge like a smug gargoyle, let out a soft trill and tossed down one of Mina’s hair ties like a royal favor.

“Yeah,” you muttered. “I give up.”

Cipher purred loudly, like she’d just won a bet with the universe.

----

Something had shifted.

Cipher started staying home more. Sleeping curled at your feet instead of on the fridge. Watching you work with eyes half-lidded but attentive. One time, when you came home soaked from the rain, she trotted over with a towel—dragged from the bathroom, corners chewed, but still.

You didn’t say anything. You figured if you pointed it out, she’d revert out of sheer pride.

But she was warming up to you. In her own stubborn, quiet way.

You even caught her once, in her half-dozing cat form, resting a paw over your hand.

The break-in came on a Tuesday.

Your apartment window shattered. No sound, just a glint of steel and a figure dropping into the room like a ghost.

You barely had time to react. Cipher, sleeping by your feet, snapped upright mid-purr.

“Is this why you started to act nicely?” You stared at Cipher.

The man—hooded, masked—ignored you. His eyes locked on Cipher. “You shouldn’t exist.”

Cipher didn’t meow.

A ripple of gold ignited along her spine, a mirage of fire dancing on her fur. For a breath, she was more than a cat: her body stretched, warped, limbs lengthening into something almost human.

“What the hell—?”

The assassin attacked.

You grabbed the nearest thing - Cipher’s treasured broom handle -and swung.

It cracked against the man’s head with a dull thunk.

He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Later, after you tied the guy up and called Mina to deal with "a minor life-threatening situation". She screamed showed up in 12 minutes flat with pepper spray and holy water.

Cipher shifted again. Not fully human, not fully cat, something in between.

“…You’re not just a weird cat” you said.

She crossed her arms. “I never claimed to be just anything.”

“Want to explain the ninja guy?”

Cipher’s face darkened. “They want what’s left of the Inferna Flame. A relic of my people. With it, I could restore what I lost. Family.”

“And they want to stop you.”

“You believe me?”

You shrugged. “I took in a talking cat who steals spoons. This barely cracks the top five.”

Cipher laughed. “Seems like I've got myself a good owner.”

As you examined the assassin’s gear, your eyes caught on his brooch.

You turned it over. Inside was a faintly glowing crystal and coordinates etched in a language you didn’t understand, but Cipher did.

Her face sharpened. “It’s one of the old strongholds. Abandoned—supposedly. If they’ve reoccupied it...”

“Then we hit them first.”

“This isn’t your fight.”

You looked back. “You moved in, ate my snacks, took over my life. That makes it my fight.”

Cipher stared for a long second… then nodded.

“Okay what's the pla-”

You were mid-sentence, standing in your apartment with Cipher when she reached out and touched your arm.

And then the world lurched.

You blinked—and the city was gone.

A wind-whipped expanse stretched around you, rimmed with dying trees and rustling yellowed grass. The horizon dipped into an unnatural fog.

“What the—?!” You stumbled back. “We teleported?!”

Cipher stood calmly, arms folded, hair fluttering faintly in the breeze. “Told you. You weren’t ready.”

“No, you didn’t! You said nothing about instant relocation! I didn’t even bring snacks!”

She smirked. “You’ll live.”

The coordinates etched into the assassin’s brooch had led here, but “here” looked like an empty, abandoned patch of land. No buildings. Just wind and dirt and shadows of old trees.

Cipher crouched, scanning the ground.

You followed suit, brushing through brittle grass, checking hollowed tree trunks. Nothing but rot and old bugs.

“…Great. We’ve been bamboozled.” you muttered. “This is the part where the killer shows up behind us and I die first, isn’t it?”

Cipher didn’t laugh. She was staring at her tail.

At first you thought she was annoyed, but then you saw it.

A faint glow. Golden-red. And it pulsed brighter when she turned to the north.

“Wait,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Is it reacting to something?”

“The Flame responds to remnants of power.”

You followed the pulsing glow. Closer… closer…

Cipher’s tail flicked sharply as you reached a stretch of cracked stone half-buried in the dirt. Her glow intensified.

You dropped to your knees and brushed away loose soil.

A seam.

You pressed your fingers to it, felt the subtle shift in texture. Cipher knelt beside you and laid a palm over the spot. Her Flame flared and a click echoed beneath you.

The stone split open with a hiss, revealing a narrow, spiral staircase descending into shadow.

“Oh great,” you said dryly. “Underground lair. Because that always ends well.”

Cipher grinned. “You scared?”

You glanced at her glowing tail, then down into the dark.

“…Only of what you’re not telling me.”

She took the first step down without hesitation, flame coiling at her fingertips.

You followed close behind, heart pounding.

Not just because of what you might find, but because, deep down, you had a feeling Cipher wasn’t just leading you into danger.

She was leading you into her past.

And whatever was buried down there?

It was ready to burn its way back into the world.

The stairwell led to something vast, an underground district, hidden beneath the ruined landscape like a forgotten vein of civilization. As Cipher’s Flame pulsed through the stone, old mechanisms flickered to life, casting long, warm shadows across buildings half-sunk into the earth.

It wasn’t just ruins. It was a city.

Cipher’s footsteps slowed.

People emerged like ghosts from the cracks of the city. Hollow-eyed, glowing faintly with that same unnatural fire. Murmurs coiled around you: “Cifera?” “Is it really her?” “After all this time?”

She stood still, staring at them like something ancient stirred behind her calm.

You eyed them warily.

Their grins didn’t fade, just hung there, waxen and stiff. Their gestures lagged, a half-beat out of sync with reality, as if they’d studied human motion from a distance. A sharp-eyed woman kept stealing glances at you, lips moving in hushed collusion with the others. Finally, she flicked her fingers in a dismissive jerk—like scattering crows.

You frowned. “Cipher… They’re not exactly rolling out the welcome mats.”

“They’re just surprised,” Cipher muttered. “They weren’t expecting the Flame to return. It’s been a long time.”

“And you?” You gestured at the glowing strangers. “No ‘holy hells, my lost tribe’s alive’?”

Cipher’s voice was flat. “I don’t remember much about them.”

“…You don’t remember your own people?”

She shrugged, distracted. “The longer you wear a cat’s skin, the more it burns away.”

The dismissiveness in her tone worried you, but you followed anyway.

Led through curved streets and glowing corridors, the two of you arrived at the heart of the underground city. A circular platform, ringed with ancient symbols and old tech fused with flame-born runes.

Cipher approached the pedestal in the center and placed her hand on it. The Flame left her body like a whisper of wind and flowed into the core.

Everything shuddered.

The lights dimmed.

Then the ground roared.

From the shadows, a man emerged, draped in regal black His voice was like broken glass. “Foolish girl. You were supposed to stay gone.”

Cipher froze. Her pupils narrowed.

“I knew you’d return to your roots eventually.” the man snarled. “The Flame was never yours to keep.”

He raised his hand, blades of blackened fire shot toward you.

One pierced through your side. You were on your knees before you registered being hit. You collapsed, coughing blood.

“No—”

Cipher's reaction was instantaneous.

Light detonated from her body. The attacker had half a second to widen his eyes before she crossed the distance. The moment Cipher's light struck him, his body should have vaporized. Instead, he staggered back - still standing.

“I can still-”

His outstretched fingers blackened first, skin curling like burning paper. The golden fire clung to him, eating inward. He took one jerking step forward, then collapsed to his knees.

“It's not... supposed to...” Bloody froth spilled from his lips as his tendons snapped like overstretched wires. His left eye burst in its socket, but his right remained fixed hungrily on the fading Flame.

With his last breath, he whispered: “Just... a little more...”

Then his jaw unhinged, his skull caving inward like a rotten fruit. What remained of his form sloughed into a steaming puddle, bones dissolving last. The flames licked over the remains - then winked out.

Only his shadow remained, burned permanently into the stones. The outline of his outstretched hand just inches from where the Flame had flickered.

Cipher didn't look back as she carried you away. She didn't need to.

The city began to collapse entirely. Spirits screaming. Walls cracking.

You woke up days later.

In hospital with beeping machines and a blanket pulled up to your chest.

Your side ached, wrapped in bandages, but you were alive.

And sitting in a chair by your bed, half-asleep with an empty snack bag in her lap, was Cipher.

Head resting on the edge of your bed. Tail twitching softly in her sleep.

You shifted slightly.

She jerked awake. “You’re up.”

“…Barely.”

“I almost burned down the emergency room when I brought you in.”

You snorted, then groaned at the pain. “Sounds about right.”

She looked away. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

You glanced over at the side table—water, peeled apples, your phone… and, weirdly, your favorite hoodie folded up with care.

You cracked a weak smile. “Guess I trained you after all.”

Cipher didn’t laugh. But her tail curled tighter.

You picked up your phone and started scrolling—needed distraction from the ache in your ribs.

Then the headline hit you like ice.

“Lost City Spirits Spotted?” “Multiple sightings underground linked to ancient cataclysm.” “Experts confirm: The people recorded below were all confirmed deceased—over a century ago.”

Your thumb stopped scrolling.

“They were spirits,” you said slowly. “That’s why they kept trying to shoo us away. They tried to warn us.”

“I knew something was wrong. But I didn’t want to remember.”

“They were trying to protect you. And we couldn’t see it until it was too late.”

Cipher nodded. “They’re gone now. For real this time.”

You reached out, grasped her hand.

“You’re not alone.”

Her eyes widened, just slightly.

The morning after the hospital released you, Cipher let herself into your apartment with your keys, tossed her jacket on your kitchen counter, and proceeded to eat your cereal straight from the box.

You squinted at her from the couch, still wrapped in a blanket. “So… you gonna turn back into a cat now or…?”

A sharp clink cut the air.

Something small and round smacked you right on the forehead.

“Ow—what the hell?” You rubbed the spot and stared down.

It was a gold coin.

Real gold. Not chocolate.

You looked up just in time to see her smirking, arms folded. “Try that joke again and I’ll upgrade to hurling solid bars.”

“…Where did you get this?”

Cipher flopped into the armchair like a queen lounging in her throne. “Back in the underground city. While you were gawking at ghosts, I did a little multitasking.”

“You looted a haunted grave site?!”

“Inherited, thank you. It was literally mine. And I have claws. Makes lockpicking and secret compartment-snatching very efficient.”

You gaped. “How fast did you go through all that rubble?!”

She gave you a smug shrug.

You tossed the coin back at her. She caught it midair with zero effort and flicked it into her pocket like it was muscle memory.

“Anyway,” you muttered, shifting under your blanket burrito. “Guess you’ve got treasure now. Probably your own secret kingdom. Cat empire. Fancy couch somewhere in a flame palace.”

Cipher raised a brow. “You trying to get rid of me?”

You hesitated.

“…No.”

She tilted her head. “That sounded almost like a plea.”

“I did not plead.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sighed, exasperated. “Okay, fine—please stay and take care of me. I almost died. I’m injured. I can’t cook. You already broke into my apartment four times and now it’s weirdly empty without you judging my snack drawer.”

She stared.

Then slowly got up, crossed the room, and plopped onto the couch beside you.

Her tail looped itself comfortably around your ankle.

“You’re lucky I’m a benevolent cryptid,” she said casually. “Also, I already live here. My toothbrush is in your cup. Deal with it.”

You didn’t argue.

Because, weirdly… that sounded kinda nice.

---

In case anyone was wondering why I disappeared for a while—I was binge-watching Gossip Girl.

[heliosunny]

Since you did the Honkai 3rd boys for Lucky egg, how about Otto for this series if it's okay? I can already smell the scary shit this man bout to do 😭

If not him then either Kaveh or Alhaitham will do (I hope it isn't demanding, I genuinely enjoy your writing and the lucky egg series)

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Otto Apocalypse x Reader

No one really knew where the machine came from. One day, it just appeared, gleaming under the spring sun in the city’s central square. Children clustered around it. Teenagers lined up. Even adults gathered to watch it.

“Lucky Egg Dispenser– A Companion Chosen by Fate.”

That was all.

Everyone said it was harmless fun. A magical pet, maybe a servant, maybe something more. It was all random, luck and chance.

You tried your luck. You didn’t expect much, but when you turned the crank, a shimmering white-gold egg rolled into your hands. Something about it made your heart whisper: this is yours.

But trouble noticed too.

“Oh. Wow. That’s a good one.”

You turned. Seraphina D’Argent. You recognized her instantly, the polished shoes, the designer coat, the effortless arrogance. She was flanked by two assistants, a chauffeur hovering behind her.

She held her own egg, dull and brown, with a couple of jagged marks across its shell.

Her eyes locked on yours.

“Well, looks like the machine glitched.”

“Uh. No, I don’t think so.”

She laughed a little, tucking her hair behind her ear. “No offense, but... I don’t think you’re the type it was meant for. Why don’t we trade?” She held out her egg like it was a generous offer.

You shook your head. “I don’t think it works that way. I think... the egg chooses. Not the other way around.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Before you could react, her assistant stepped forward and reached out. You took a step back, but the man was quick. He grabbed your wrist and pried the egg from your hand.

“Don’t make a scene,” Seraphina said. “It’s not worth the trouble. I can give you mine, and maybe even pay you for the inconvenience, alright?”

You looked at the cracked egg she shoved into your hands. It was colder. But you knew what would happen if you resisted further. Her father owned half the district. The other half owed him favors.

So you said nothing.

“Good choice.”

She walked off, cradling the egg like it was her birthright.

You were left standing there with the egg and the quiet, awful sense that something important had been taken from you.

The next three days passed in a blur.

You brought the egg home, uncertain if anything would hatch at all. But it did, one morning, as sunlight streamed through your window.

A boy sat on the floor, staring up at you. He looked delicate, but there was something old in the way he moved.

“My name is Joachim” he said. “I was sent to you.”

In that same day, in the grand marble atrium of the D’Argent estate, your egg hatched.

Otto Apocalypse opened his eyes, and he immediately sensed it, something viscerally wrong.

“You’re even more beautiful in person!” Seraphina said, stepping toward him. “I knew you were special. I just knew it.”

Otto’s expression didn’t change. He tilted his head. “You are..?”

By nightfall, the D’Argent estate was silent. Otto stood amidst shattered glass and blood-slick marble, dabbing at the crimson staining his collar with the same detached precision one might use to brush away dust.

You woke that night with a chill creeping down your spine.

Joachim sat at the foot of your bed, his eyes locked on the door as if expecting something to burst through. When he noticed you stirring, his voice came out low.

“Is something wrong?”

You swallowed. “No… nothing.”

---- Joachim wasn’t like a normal child. From the moment he hatched, there was a strange, almost eerie intelligence in him, like his thoughts were always two steps ahead of yours.

He learned quickly. Within days, he began handling small things for you: running errands to the corner shop, organizing books, even fixing the broken kitchen drawer. It was easy to forget sometimes that he’d come from an egg, like a pet or a servant. He felt like a… quiet constant in your life.

But something had changed lately.

He became tense when walking past the windows. He’d pause, tilt his head slightly, then resume as if calculating something. At first, you thought he was just daydreaming.

Then one afternoon, when he came back from picking up tea and milk, he stopped in the doorway.

“There was someone standing by the side of the house” he said, “They disappeared when I got close.”

You looked up from your book. “Did you see who it was?”

“No,” Joachim answered. “But they stood very still. Like they were watching.”

You frowned and went to the window, pulling aside the curtain.

The yard was empty. Just wind, rustling leaves, and the streetlamp flickering in the distance.

“There’s no one out there.”

Joachim didn’t move from the doorway. “They left when I arrived. But they’ll come back...”

You looked over at him, startled by the certainty in his tone.

That night, the house felt unusually quiet.

Dinner passed in the usual way. Joachim always ate exactly enough, no more, no less. You noticed the way he glanced at the window now and then, but he didn’t speak of it again.

Later, after the dishes were done and the rain had started to fall gently against the windows, you curled up on the couch with one of his new books. It wasn’t anything you would’ve picked, honestly—Foundations of Probability and Chaos in Structured systems. You didn’t even know where he’d found it, but when you asked what he wanted from the bookstore, he pointed right at it.

Now, he sat curled neatly on the floor beside you, his hands in his lap. He didn’t look at you while you read, but you could tell he was listening.

You cleared your throat and continued:

“‘In a system without outside interference, patterns tend to stabilize. But when an unpredictable variable is introduced, one with high entropy, the structure begins to break down. Not due to internal failure, but because the system was never built to handle chaos masquerading as control.’”

You paused. Glanced down.

Joachim looked… content, somehow. As if this cold logic brought him comfort in a way emotion never could.

“You really like this stuff, huh?”

He nodded slightly. “Because it explains things people don’t want to explain. Most people are afraid of patterns breaking.”

You stared at him for a moment. His words weren’t childish at all.

“You’re a little scary sometimes” you said, but smiled as you said it.

He looked up at you. “I’m only trying to protect what matters.”

You reached over and ruffled his hair.

“Sleep soon.” you said, closing the book.

Joachim gave a quiet nod. “Yes. But we should check the locks again.”

“Still thinking about the person from earlier?”

“Yes...”

Far from your house, beneath the cover of dusk and rain, Otto walked. He knew you were near. He could feel you. The first one to touch the egg. He couldn't be wrong.

----

You had spent the morning tidying up. Joachim, of course, had taken one of his usual errands to the bookstore. You’d given him a pouch to pay for whatever he likes.

You were just rinsing out a cup when you heard the latch on the door click.

You turned, half expecting to see Joachim. Instead, there was a man.

He stood just inside your living room. His hair, impossibly blonde, looked like it was spun from fine thread.

You stumbled back, “Who are—how did you get in here?”

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “It’s me. I’m home.”

You had never seen this man in your life.

“Get out!” you said, reaching behind you blindly for the knife.

“Please,” he murmured, coming closer. “It’s me. Otto. Don’t you remember? From the machine?”

“No, I never... You’re not supposed to be here!”

“You’re confused. It’s alright. I can explain everything. Once you remember—”

Before he could finish, something heavy slammed into his temple.

A book, held by Joachim, struck Otto hard enough to knock him sideways.

“Stranger-”

You stood there frozen, while Otto groaned faintly on the floor. You couldn’t believe he was already getting up—as if a direct hit to the head meant nothing to him.

“He’ll wake up soon,” Joachim added, “We need to bind him.”

You didn’t even question it. You ran to the hallway closet, dug out the old rope you’d never used, and together, you and Joachim dragged Otto’s body to the kitchen chair.

“I can explain.” he whispered.

Joachim stepped between you immediately.

“You’re not wanted here.”

Otto didn’t even look at him.

He was staring at you.

“You are my rightful owner.”

“Right... then what am I?” Joachim said.

Otto tilted his head slightly. “No one.”

Neither of you said anything for a minute.

You swallowed. “You weren’t meant for me.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Joachim, calm as ever, turned slightly toward you. “What do you want to do?”

You stared at Otto, who is now bound to the chair by restraints. You took a seat across from him—not too close, setting a low table and a cold cup of tea between you like some perverse peace offering.

Joachim lingered nearby, not quite at your side but close enough that his presence was a threat. His eyes never left Otto, sharp and unblinking, the way a hawk watches a wounded rabbit.

Finally, you spoke. “So you’re saying that I should accept you? How is that even possible? I already have Joachim.”

“I have to remind you that you didn’t trade your egg willingly. You hesitated because you felt the connection before reason could interfere. That’s what matters.”

“That connection doesn’t mean he belongs here.” Joachim added.

Otto glanced at him.

“I understand your role. You’re merely my replacement.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But you’re not me.”

Otto turned his attention back to you. “I’m not here to threaten you. I just want to return to my owner.”

“By breaking into my home?”

“You didn’t exactly leave a door open for conversation.”

That stung a little. Because it wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Let me stay.”

Joachim stepped forward instantly. “No.”

You raised a hand to stop him.

Otto continued. “You don’t have to trust me immediately. You can keep the restraints. But I only want a chance to exist in the space that should have been mine.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Joachim spoke again, quieter now. “If you let him stay, he won’t leave. You know that, right?”

“I do.” you murmured.

Otto didn’t interrupt.

You weren’t stupid. Letting him stay meant inviting a problem into your life that couldn’t be solved with locks and rules. But you also knew something else:

He had been meant for you.

That truth was quietly sitting in your chest like a weight.

The apartment lights had dimmed into their nighttime setting. Otto sat rigid in the chair, the binding cable cutting into his wrists, skin mottled from the pressure. Sweat gleamed on his neck, but he stayed silent.

You studied him. He hadn’t met your eyes since his last statement since you’d refused to answer.

Joachim lounged on the couch beside you, arms crossed, gaze locked on Otto like a sniper.

Eventually, you stood up without a word and walked over to Otto. He stiffened immediately, like prey expecting a final blow.

You adjusted the rope, just enough to ease the pressure, not enough to free him. Back on the couch, you dragged the blanket over both yourself and Joachim.

“I’m not leaving.”

Joachim shot him a glance. “Y/N doesn’t want you here.”

“They haven’t told me to leave.”

Joachim’s voice sharpened. “That’s not the same as being wanted.”

“Is that what you’re afraid of?”

You didn’t say anything else.

You were tired.

Eventually, you leaned your head on Joachim’s shoulder, and your eyes fluttered shut. The blanket shifted slightly as he adjusted to your weight. He stayed still after that.

You woke up some hours later.

It was still dark.

The two are still fighting.

“…You’re clinging to function,” Otto was saying. “Not purpose.”

Joachim replied, “Function is purpose when you’re protecting someone.”

“You’re trying to replace what was lost,” Otto said quietly. “I’m restoring what was never supposed to be taken.”

You didn’t move. You just listened.

“And what happens if Y/N picks me?”

Otto didn’t answer immediately.

“They won’t.”

Neither of them realized you were awake.

By morning, you moved around the kitchen, making two cups of coffee, one for yourself, and one you instinctively handed to Joachim, still on the couch. He accepted it, his eyes flicking to Otto every few minutes.

Otto watched the two of you.

Removing him won’t be enough.

Otto had already imagined it.

Joachim's body hit the floor with a sickening thud, his temple striking the edge of the glass coffee table. The impact sent a spiderweb of cracks through the tempered surface, jagged lines radiating from where his skull connected. Blood seeped into the carpet fibers.

The scene was almost artistic in its plausibility.

But utterly useless.

Because grief would only chain you to him tighter.

And Otto couldn’t afford your grief.

What he needed was not subtraction.

He needed displacement.

You must turn away from him yourself.

He could do that.

He had time.

Later that day, you brought Otto a protein pack and untied his hands long enough for him to eat. He didn’t try anything. Just thanked you, sincerely, then folded his hands in his lap again.

That was the first moment he touched you. And it was subtle, so subtle you might not have noticed, but Otto felt the link spark beneath the skin.

There it is.

A master-servant conduit that had never been properly formed—because he had been stolen before it could bloom.

-----

At first, you thought he’d just gone out to think. Maybe to walk, or to breathe air that didn’t belong to the same room as Joachim’s constant glares.

But when Otto didn’t return that night, you began to worry.

By the second day, worry turned into guilt.

He’d been unpredictable, yes. But he hadn’t hurt anyone. He hadn’t even resisted when you left him unattended for minutes at a time. He ate quietly. He answered your questions when asked.

Joachim noticed your silence immediately. “It’s better this way.”

You didn’t argue.

----

Elsewhere.

Otto stood under the shuddering blue glow of a fractured dungeon rift—deep beneath the outer districts.

He wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve.

[UNLOCKED: Chrono Reversion Core] STATUS: 9.3% charged

Otto smiled to himself.

He hadn’t given up. He had simply seen a better path.

To rewrite the moment that went wrong.

All he needed was power.

He picked up the shattered core of a high-level anomaly and watched it flicker in his hand. The energy pulsed faintly.

It would do.

He closed his fist around the core. The interface updated again.

STATUS: 11.6% charged.

Still a long way to go.

But that was fine.

He had time.

----

[Reversion Core: 32.8% CHARGED]

Still not enough.

Otto sighed through his teeth as blood dripped from his gloves.

The subject lay strapped to the surgical cradle. His body trembled under the feedback restraints, barely alive.

Otto’s hands moved with the quiet care of a man who’d done this many times before. There was no frenzy in him, just the steady, awful certainty of a task seen through. He didn’t relish the screams, but he didn’t waste them either. Pain was a language, and he listened closely.

“Why are you doing this?” the man sobbed, “Wh-What did I ever do to you?!”

“You were born on the wrong side of an equation. Nothing more.”

Then the knife moved again.

The man choked on a sob. “Please—please, you don’t have to—”

“I do. Because love, like time, must be precise. It has rules. And you, I’m afraid, are part of the cost to restore what was broken.”

The man’s scream was cut off by a surge of containment light—then silence.

The core extracted from his chest flickered in Otto’s palm like dying starlight.

He turned to the girl watching from the corner of the lab.

Her name was Kahla. Maybe 17. Otto had pulled her from a trafficker's cart three weeks ago. Collapsed from hunger, half-drugged and barely conscious. He had fed her. Given her clean clothes and a bed.

And now, she followed him.

"Did he deserve it?" she asked.

Otto looked at her for a moment. Then stepped toward her and crouched down to her level.

“Do you believe people deserve to die?”

Kahla hesitated. “I… don’t know.”

“I don’t believe in justice, Kahla. I believe in necessity. And love is the greatest necessity of all.”

“Love?”

He nodded. “There is someone I belong to. Someone the world ripped away from me. And if that world resists correction… I will break it.”

Kahla looked away.

Otto stood, wiping his gloves. “You don’t have to understand it. Only help me gather what’s needed.”

[Reversion Core: 34.9% CHARGED]

He stepped away, already calculating the next target.

He would kill for you.

Because you were worth it.

----

Days passed. Kahla and Otto worked as a team. They carried the mission together.

“You’re late”

He didn’t look up as she entered. He was elbow-deep in a man’s ribcage, carefully pulling a core from its anchoring cartilage.

Kahla didn’t answer right away.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the state of the chamber. Limbs twisted unnaturally. Eyes open but vacant. Several bodies strapped to the wall.

There were… eight this time.

More than usual.

Kahla swallowed. “You didn’t say you were starting.”

“I did,” he said simply. “You didn’t listen.”

Otto straightened slowly, core in hand, the heart-like organ glowing dully in the dim lab light. He turned it in his palm, admiring the structure.

“Did you know,” he said conversationally, “that pain extracted too quickly creates noise in the signal? Like static. You can only get a clean feed if they understand what’s happening. If they know they’re dying, and that no one will save them.”

He glanced at her, as if she should be taking notes.

“You want to know the difference between agony and fear?” Otto asked, moving to the next body, still breathing, barely. A woman. Mid-thirties. Her jaw had been broken at some point, it hung open at an unnatural angle.

“Agony is survival. It's the body trying to outlast itself. But fear…” He brushed hair from the woman’s forehead. “Fear is the soul realizing there’s no one left to witness it.”

Kahla tried not to gag.

Still, she didn’t leave.

Otto stepped back. “Finish her.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“You've seen how I do it.” he said smoothly, wiping his hands on a cloth. “You’re not helpless anymore, Kahla. If you want to live in this world, you need to learn how to remake it.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“And yet, here you are.” Otto turned to face her fully. “Eating from my table. Wearing my clothes. Breathing my air. You think survival doesn’t have a cost? Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

Kahla’s hands trembled as he pressed the blade into them.

She stepped forward, inch by inch, toward the woman. Her mouth trembled. “She’s… she’s still alive.”

“Exactly,” Otto said. “That’s what makes it count.”

The woman looked at Kahla.

Kahla’s hands froze midair.

“If you don’t, I’ll have to do it. And if I do… it won’t charge the core the way it should. Her pain doesn’t resonate with me anymore. But you, you’re still human. You’re still clean.”

Later, as they left the facility, Kahla’s hands still wouldn’t stop shaking. But Otto offered her a handkerchief, as if they’d just left a dinner party.

“You did well.”

“I felt her...” Kahla whispered.

“And now you’ll never forget what it takes to love someone properly.”

“That wasn’t love.”

“No,” he agreed. “That wasn’t.”

Then, with terrifying clarity, he added “But it gets me closer to them.”

[Reversion Core: 48.7% CHARGED]

Just a little more.

And time would be his to bend.

Kahla had stopped asking questions two days ago. She no longer hesitated when he pointed to a target. Her hands, once trembling, had become steady.

He praised her for it.

She had started to believe that she was important to his mission.

But as they descended into the final chamber, the place Otto had meticulously constructed to house the energy needed for the last sacrifice, she noticed.

She saw her name.

“You lied to me..”

Otto stood behind her. He only gave her a look of mild, almost weary patience.

“No. I gave you purpose. You accepted it.”

Kahla turned toward him. “I helped you. I killed for you. I trusted you.”

“And because of that,” Otto said, “you’ve made yourself valuable enough to matter in the final step.”

He gestured toward the circle.

“You should be proud. This is a far greater fate than what the slave market had in store for you.”

Kahla tried to run. Of course she did.

But he had prepared for that too.

The paralysis sigils activated before her second step. She crumpled to her knees.

“You told me I was clean,” she choked. “You said I could still stay human.”

Otto approached her quietly, stepping into the circle with her.

“And you were,” he said. “Which is why you’re perfect now.”

He knelt and held her head gently, like he had done with every victim before.

“This will be quick. You’ve already suffered enough.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to curse him. But what came out was something smaller.

“Why? What makes them worth all of this?”

Otto didn’t hesitate.

“Simply because... of love.”

Then he plunged the blade through her chest.

The core surged with light.

[Reversion Core: 100.0% CHARGED] ACTIVATING REWRITE: SEQUENCE 002. CONFIRMED.

Otto did not feel himself die. He felt himself return.

He opened his eyes inside the dispenser room, where warm white light streamed down from overhead panels, and the capsule containing his egg was cradled gently in your hands.

His rightful master.

You tilted your head at the smooth shell. You joked softly that the color reminded you of sunlight through glass.

He could hear your voice through the walls of the egg. He knew it by heart now.

Three days later, you woke up to see the shell was cracked at the top.

The capsule hissed faintly as it opened. You blinked in the dim morning air, rubbing sleep from your eyes, unsure whether you were dreaming. You hadn't expected it to hatch today.

And a boy stepped out.

No, not a boy. A young man.

He looked straight at you.

And then he threw his arms around your waist, pressing himself against you like a child who had found his parent after being lost for days.

“Wha—hey! Easy there..” you murmured, catching yourself before pushing him away. You could feel how fast his heart was racing. He was warm.

You weren’t sure what kind of personality egg you had gotten. The ones from the machine were always a surprise. Sometimes playful, sometimes shy, sometimes downright strange. But this?

This felt like someone who had been waiting for you his entire life.

Tentatively, you placed a hand on his back. He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned further into your arms.

You sighed softly, letting him stay like that.

“So…” you asked after a long pause, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he looked up. “Do you already have a name, or do I have to give you one?”

“Otto Apocalypse.”

“Otto, huh?” You repeated it aloud “Alright. That sounds like someone reliable.”

He nodded once, eyes still on you. And then his body slumped.

“Wait—Otto?”

You caught him before he hit the floor. His face had gone pale, his skin slightly cold. For a horrible moment you thought you had done something wrong. Maybe you activated something. Maybe he was defective.

No, he was breathing. Just unconscious.

You rushed to check his vitals, and the system’s tiny assistant orb finally chirped a response, projected above his form.

[STATUS: Safe. Magic Core Stabilizing. Cause: Skill Exhaustion (Unclassified Use)] [Recovery Time Estimate: 3–5 Days]

“You scared the hell out of me, Otto…”

Three days passed.

You stayed beside him the entire time. You barely went to work. You fed him sips of warm broth with a straw when the assistant orb told you it was okay. You took his temperature every few hours and read aloud whatever you could—weather reports, news headlines, random pages from economics books—just to fill the silence. You didn’t know if he could hear you, but it felt wrong to let the quiet take over.

On the fourth morning, just as you were about to doze off, something tugged at your sleeve.

You opened your eyes slowly.

Otto was sitting up.

“You're awake.”

“You didn’t leave.”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered. “You’re mine now, remember?”

He smiled at that.

----

The kitchen was quiet except for the running water and the soft clink of plates in the drying rack. Otto stood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, washing the dishes. You watched from the doorway for a moment. He had even memorized where the towels went, how the cups stacked.

Then, thinking it’d be funny, you stepped forward without a sound and reached out to poke his side.

The moment your fingers touched him, a pulse surged through your vision.

[ANOMALY DETECTED] Subject: OTTO Danger Rating: 14.3% Redemption Sync: 03.7%

You jerked your hand back with a small gasp.

The image vanished.

Otto turned, towel in hand, blinking at you in mild surprise. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah… just static. Weird vision thing.”

Later that evening, you found him in the kitchen again, this time bent over the stove, quietly sautéing vegetables. You couldn’t help it. Despite your nerves from earlier, he looked so focused. The warmth from the stovetop lit his face, and you found yourself walking toward him again.

You reached out, brushing your fingers across the edge of his arm.

The vision came back—but stronger.

[ANOMALY DETECTED] Subject: OTTO Danger Rating: 38.9% Redemption Sync: 07.4% Event Countdown: 00:03... 00:02... 00:01...

You grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back, hard.

The moment he stumbled away from the stove, the oil pan flashed—a sudden, violent spark leaping up. The corner of the towel hanging too close to the burner caught fire instantly.

You grabbed it and shoved it into the sink, dousing it with water.

“How did you not see that?” you snapped. “It was about to go up.”

“You pulled me before it happened.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Because I saw it. There was a box or a screen or something. It showed numbers, danger level, countdowns... like a warning.”

Otto stared at you for a long moment.

“You could see it?” he asked.

“Yes. And there was another number. Redemption… sync?” You folded your arms, trying to calm your racing thoughts. “What does that even mean? Did you do something, Otto?”

He didn’t deny it.

“I don’t know how you’re seeing that. But if you are…” His eyes lowered to the floor for a moment. “Then maybe it’s not over after all.”

“Not over?”

Otto didn’t speak of it again.

After the fire, he brushed away your questions with a gentle smile and a quiet apology, claiming it must have been leftover code in your visual implants—some glitch from the hatching synchronization, perhaps. He kept washing dishes. Kept cooking your meals. He even offered to do the laundry more often.

The strange visions hadn’t come back since. Maybe it had been a fluke. Maybe your nerves were still catching up with your new life, and Otto’s presence had simply overwhelmed your system.

But Otto knew better.

That night, long after you had fallen asleep, he lay in the dark, watching the ceiling.

You were never meant to see it.

The system wasn’t supposed to show you anything. It had been keyed to him alone. But somehow, that connection between you had begun to open doors. Dangerous doors. He realized, with growing tension, that your very presence might be interfering with the karmic balance he had disrupted.

Which meant the universe hadn’t forgiven him.

And if it hadn’t forgiven him, it might be trying to punish you instead.

He couldn’t allow that.

Not you.

He turned his head toward the soft shape of you curled beneath the blanket beside him. You had fallen asleep facing him.

Otto had rewritten the world for this.

He would not let it collapse again.

He closed his eyes, slowly. Then opened the system interface within his own vision—an admin-level command screen he had buried deep, so deep it threatened to fracture what little code his form had left.

[Command Input: Search — Compatible Energy Divergence Points] [Target: Y/N] [Objective: Isolate Karma Aura Interference → Transfer Vector Options]

Names. Not all human. Some were hatching soon. Some were adults already living in the outskirts of dungeon zones or slums near defunct portal rings. But they shared something in common. A proximity in soul frequency to yours.

If he used them as substitutes then the karmic load that hunted him and bled into you could be redirected.

He would have to monitor their aura readings. Wait until one reached full compatibility. And then remove them. Completely.

Until the Redemption Sync bar returned to zero.

Only then would you both be safe.

Otto smiled to himself.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I’ll clean everything up this time.”

-----

You rose early to catch the tram into Sector 3, a coffee in hand and your ID chip blinking green as you passed the checkpoints. The office wasn’t glamorous but it paid well enough, and more than that, it gave you something stable.

And when you returned home, Otto was always there.

The smell of warm food drifting from the kitchen. A towel hanging neatly where you left it. Soft slippers by the door.

But while you worked…

He also began his routine.

He mapped energy patterns, watching as candidates rippled across the system’s karmic field. None of them matched your aura completely.

One afternoon, while hanging the last of the laundry on the balcony, a name blinked across the screen in his mind.

[MATCH FOUND] Name: LYRA KREHN | Aura Type: Near-Identical] Compatibility: 99.87% Transference Potential: SUCCESS

Otto stared at it for a long moment, then quietly folded the towel in his hands and went inside.

---

His hands found her throat. She bucked against him, lips parting around a scream that never left her lungs. He adjusted his grip, thumbs pressing just so beneath her jaw. Her pulse hammered against his palms like a trapped bird. Then—slower. Slower. When her body went limp, he didn’t let go. Not until the Redemption Sync bar finally dropped.

[Redemption Sync: 0.00%] Karma Load: Fully Redirected

When he returned home that evening, the sunset painted the apartment in gold and warmth. The quiet hum of the heater filled the space, and from the kitchen, something savory simmered on the stove.

You were there, humming faintly under your breath, putting the finishing touches on dinner.

Otto slipped off his gloves, placing them quietly on the sideboard.

He moved to set the table. Each plate placed with care. Each spoon aligned.

Then, just as he reached to light the table candle, you crept up behind him.

“Wait—don’t turn around yet” you said, and giggled.

He obeyed without hesitation, closing his eyes with a faint smile.

You reached up, fingers brushing past his hair, and gently looped something around his neck.

Your handiwork. Soft, thick, woolen, a little uneven at the edges.

“Okay, you can open them now.”

He did.

It was a scarf.

“Surprise,” you said shyly. “I’ve been working on it during lunch breaks. I just… wanted to thank you. You’ve done so much for me. Really.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak.

You almost worried he didn’t like it. That maybe you had made it too short, or picked the wrong color.

But then he turned to you, slowly, and pulled you into a tight embrace.

You felt the scarf wrap gently against your cheek, still warm from your hands. His chin rested atop your head.

“I love it,” he whispered. “It’s perfect.”

You smiled, relief blooming in your chest.

In that moment, wrapped in soft wool, with your heartbeat pressed close, he thought of the girl he’d killed hours ago, the terrified look in her eyes when she reached out for mercy that never came.

It was worth it.

All of it.

For this warmth, this moment, this one soft breath against his neck.

He would do it again.

And again.

[heliosunny]

Steam beneath the surface

Veritas Ratio x Reader

You never understood what you did to make him hate you. First day of class and Dr. Ratio already had it out for you.

“Since no one is volunteering” he said flatly, “you’ll answer, Y/N.”

Again.

That made three times today.

The others chuckled under their breath, some with pity, some with that cruel glee that came from not being the one in the crosshairs. You sat stiffly at your desk, mind racing as you tried to recall whatever abstract theory he was droning about just seconds ago. You muttered a passable answer. He tilted his head—barely.

“Acceptable,” he murmured. “If we’re grading on mercy.”

What was his problem?

Because what you didn’t know -what none of his students knew- was that when the sun dipped and the academic world clocked out, Ratio worked another job. Not for the money, of course. No, he worked at the bathhouse in the old part of town. The quiet, traditional kind.

> One Week Before the Semester <

You had just passed the bathhouse's old stone gate, scrolling your phone, barely glancing at the sign outside. There was something vaguely elegant about the place, but you were just cutting through to shave a few minutes off your walk home.

You didn’t even notice the man in the open hallway.

“Don’t use your phone around here” came his voice.

You didn’t hear him. Your music was too loud.

He stood still, watching your retreating back, a shadow stretching behind him in the lantern light.

You hadn’t meant to trespass into his sanctuary.

But you had.

> Present <

“Y/N!” Dr. Ratio called from the front of the classroom, barely glancing up from the papers he was sorting. “Stay after class. We need to discuss your participation.”

A few classmates ooh’d quietly. This was the third time this week.

You gathered your things slowly, annoyed but trying not to show it. You hadn’t even done anything wrong. But Dr. Ratio had zeroed in on you from day one. Always picking you for questions, assigning you "extra practice" making snide comments about your "disengaged energy."

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said, setting down his pen and folding his hands on the desk, “do you enjoy underperforming, or is this a performance art piece I should grade more generously?”

“I’m not underperforming.”

“You’re not present,” he said. “Mentally, emotionally, or otherwise.”

You frowned. “I think you’re reading way too much into this.”

“Oh, I always read too much into things,” he murmured, “It’s how I stay ahead.”

“I’m assigning you weekly reports. On everything we cover. Typed. Double length.”

“What? Why?”

“To help you focus. And because I said so.”

You clenched your jaw. “Isn’t that excessive?”

“Excess,” he said, “is what’s required when prevention is the goal.”

You stared at him, baffled.

> Later That Week – The Bathhouse <

You were tired. Between the surprise reports, Ratio’s constant hovering, and whatever personal vendetta he seemed to have against your existence, you needed a reset. And where better than the bathhouse you passed by so often?

It was quiet that evening, just like before. The air inside was warm, damp, and heavy with the scent of wood and herbal steam. You slipped off your shoes, dropped some coins into the slot, and entered the changing room without a second thought.

A cold splash suddenly hit your side.

You gasped, twisting sharply as water soaked the edge of your clothes. A wooden bucket clattered against the tile, still dripping.

“What the hell—?”

“Oh,” came a voice you knew too well, “it’s you.”

There he was. Wearing a simple yukata tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up, a mop leaning against the wall beside him. His damp hair clung slightly to his forehead.

“You… work here?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I clean,” he said simply. “Among other things.”

“You splashed me.”

“I was cleaning,” he repeated, his tone was everything but apologetic.

“…Right.”

You turned slightly, intending to just continue whatever you were doing, maybe pretend none of this happened.

But Ratio’s voice followed you like a hook behind the ribs.

“Planning to tell anyone?”

“What?”

“About seeing me here.”

You scoffed, frowning. “Why would I care?”

You finished your soak in the mineral bath, tension slowly easing from your shoulders. The brief exchange with Ratio still lingered in your mind but you pushed it aside. He was just your teacher. Weird, maybe even a little paranoid—but harmless.

You dried off, changed, and left, humming to yourself.

It wasn’t until you got home that you realized your headphones were gone.

> The Next Morning – Faculty Office <

You tapped on the frame of the open door. Ratio’s office was dark except for the natural light pouring through the blinds, slanting across piles of paper. And there, sitting right on the edge of his desk, were your headphones.

He looked up from a stack of graded essays. “You’re early.”

“I left those at the bathhouse,” you said, trying to sound neutral. “Can I have them back?”

“I’m holding them for observation” he said.

You blinked. “They’re just headphones.”

“Which is what I would say, too, if I were trying to convince someone they weren’t bugged.”

“…What?”

He set his pen down slowly, folding his hands in front of him. “You think very little of my intelligence, if you assume I’d overlook the possibility of surveillance.”

You stared. “They're literally from a convenience store—”

“Low-budget cover. Clever. But not clever enough.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You couldn’t be rude. He was your teacher.

So you just sat there.

That’s it, you thought later that day. He asked for it.

You started small.

Chalk balanced on the door.

He caught it.

Switched the sugar in his office drawer with salt.

He sipped his coffee, adjusted his glasses, and said, “My tolerance for bitterness must be improving.”

You tried slipping a fake notice into his inbox about a mandatory dress code violation.

He didn’t even react, just circled the typo in red ink and pinned it to the board labeled “AMATEUR ATTEMPTS” with your handwriting copied underneath.

It was infuriating.

Despite his personality, or maybe because of it, Dr. Ratio had a strange pull in the school. Students tried to flirt with him, constantly.

None of it landed.

He never entertained it beyond a dry “I’d advise focusing on graduating before fantasizing.”

But the weirdest part?

They liked that.

And he wasn’t the only one.

There was another teacher, Aventurine, who always hovered close to Ratio’s orbit.

They were opposites, but close.

Rumor had it they shared lunch daily.

Students’ attempts to flirt or get attention were met with condescending amusement. Like watching children play pretend.

> Two Weeks Later <

You stopped going to the bathhouse.

Whatever peace it once gave you had been ruined.

The idea of seeing him in that setting again made your stomach twist. Curse him. Curse his cryptic attitude and his obsession with making you the center of everything. You hoped his numbers dropped now that you were gone.

Your focus shifted. With all the extra reports he assigned, you didn’t have much choice. Pages and pages of analysis, summaries, theories—Ratio turned your free time into a footnote. But strangely… after a while… he stopped.

He stopped assigning you extra work.

It was like the storm had passed.

Maybe he realized he overdid it. Maybe he was wrong, and too prideful to admit it out loud. Either way, you weren’t about to ask.

Fine. Let him go back to whatever twisted little schemes he cooked up in his free time.

You ignored him.

You reminded yourself—he’s just a teacher.

That afternoon, your grandma sent you out with a neat list folded in half. Groceries: soy sauce, tofu, green onions, some sweet buns she liked. You took the usual shortcut through the shopping street.

As you exited the small bakery, plastic bag in hand, you heard laughter.

Your eyes flicked toward the source instinctively.

There he was, standing under the warm glow of an old lamp post, speaking with a small group of bathhouse guests—well-dressed, older types who clearly respected him. He wore his casual yukata again.

He smiled at something one of them said.

And then—his eyes caught yours.

He soon looked away.

You stood there for a beat longer than you should’ve, then kept walking. Your feet hit the pavement faster now. You didn't look back.

You returned home in silence.

But the entire way, you felt the heat of his gaze pressed against your back, even though he wasn’t following.

----

It was just a quiet Saturday afternoon. You were upstairs, scrolling through your phone while half-listening to music.

Then you heard voices. The first one is your grandma's.

You frowned, sitting up. You didn’t remember her saying anyone was coming over.

You stood at the top of the stairs, then froze.

Him. In your house.

Your first instinct was to retreat. Maybe out the window. Maybe fake illness. Anything but dealing with this. But it was too late. Your grandma called out sweetly, “Why didn’t you tell me your teacher was visiting, dear? You should’ve warned me so I could prepare tea!”

You descended slowly, blinking in disbelief. “I didn’t know he was coming…”

Ratio sat on the floor cushion.

He gave a faint, respectful bow. “Apologies for the sudden visit. I was nearby delivering materials to another household. I figured I’d return this before it got forgotten.”

He held up your headphones.

You stepped forward hesitantly. “You could’ve just… given them to me at school.”

“Some things are better returned in a proper setting.”

What the hell did that mean? You took them quickly. Your fingers brushed his. His skin was colder than expected.

Your grandma kept talking, but you barely registered it. All you could think of was the way he looked at you.

Like he was dissecting something.

After a quick chat and polite exchange, he excused himself and asked if he could speak with you 'briefly outside.'

You obliged, unsure why.

“You stopped showing up.”

“…To the bathhouse? It’s not like we had a standing appointment.”

"No. But you didn’t even say goodbye."

You scoffed. "Why would I?"

"Fair." His tone didn’t change, but something in his stare sharpened. "Just thought you’d be more consistent."

Then he stepped away with a nod, as if this was perfectly normal behavior.

-----

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What was he trying to prove?

You lost track of time during his lecture. Your notes trailed off into nonsense halfway through the second blackboard.

“Y/N” he called, not even turning from his writing.

You snapped to attention.

A piece of chalk whizzed past your head.

“Focus” he said, still facing the board.

Later that week, you were sent to deliver a stack of paperwork—probably punishment for not dodging Ratio’s chalk faster the day before. You balanced the forms carefully as you navigated the quiet hallway.

The door to Ratio’s office was already ajar.

You knocked lightly and stepped in, only to freeze mid-step.

A student stood in front of his desk, clearly flustered, holding out a small envelope, probably spritzed with perfume if the scent in the air meant anything.

Dammit. You walked in on a confession.

“…I’ve admired you since last semester. I—I just thought you should know.”

He reached for a stamp. Pressed it onto a document without lifting his eyes.

“Admiration is not the same as understanding,” he said. “Please redirect your energy toward something measurable—like improving your test scores.”

The student’s expression crumbled.

You slowly backed up, trying to pretend you were not there, not part of this disaster. But his eyes flicked toward you in the same moment the student turned to leave.

You quickly approached his desk, dumped the paperwork, and muttered, “Delivery.”

Ratio’s voice followed as you turned to leave. “Do try to watch your step.”

“Huh?”

Your foot hit a small box.

You yelped as your balance vanished, but you didn’t land on the floor.

Your hands gripped his sleeves.

Well that was...

Then a laugh echoed behind you.

“Ohhh, what’s this now?”

You turned, and there stood Aventurine, leaning in the doorway. His grin said everything.

“I leave for five minutes and you’re already catching students in your arms?” Aventurine teased, striding in with a swagger that made you want to melt into the floor. “Is this what the paperwork’s hiding these days?”

Ratio gave him a withering look. “It’s your toy box.”

“Crafting kit,” Aventurine corrected, reaching for the package you’d tripped on. “Limited edition. Very important.”

You stepped away from Ratio quickly, brushing off your sleeves. “I didn’t see anything. I’m going.”

But Aventurine wasn’t done.

“Oh, no no.” He stopped you from leaving, facing Ratio with a wider grin. “I never thought you’d fall before me. You owe me dinner if you make it official, you know.”

Ratio simply returned to stamping papers.

You fled before either of them could say another word.

You cursed every god that ever existed when you saw Aventurine.

Leaning against your school gate with the same smirk, the same posture, the same glint in his eyes that had always meant trouble. You knew that smirk.

He used to live next door to you. You used to babysit his pet.

And now he was a teacher.

Worse, he remembered everything.

“Hey, neighbor. Or is it ex-neighbor?” he greeted, sliding into step beside you as if he hadn’t been absent from your life for years. “You know, I’ve been thinking—I should drop by again sometime. Say hi to your grandma. Maybe dig up that photo album she keeps. You remember the one with the duck pajamas?”

You glared. “That was ten years ago.”

He winked. “And yet, timeless.”

From that day forward, he never left you alone. Probably, just probably, he was trying to get anything from you that could be used against Ratio.

Between classes. After school. Even during lunch, he’d somehow “run into you.” Ruffling your hair. Poking your cheek and saying things like, “Still as pouty as ever.”

And of course, always right in front of Ratio.

He didn’t say anything at first.

When Aventurine appeared beside you, Dr. Ratio’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

To avoid anything that would happen out of his control.

He’d call on you to run some errands.

That day you stayed after class, Ratio set a new boundary.

“Do you enjoy his company?” Ratio asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You know who. He seems to be around you quite a bit.”

“We’ve known each other for a while. He’s just teasing.”

“Is that all it takes to make you smile like that?”

“…Excuse me?”

He didn’t clarify. “Just an observation.”

He dismissed you with a wave.

But the truth is, he’d underestimated you. He couldn't sleep that night, thinking back everything he has ever done.

At first, he thought you were a troublemaker.

Well he hates people figuring out his second job and all.

And you somehow kept showing up in this peaceful life of his.

But now?

He’d grown used to your presence.

No.

Maybe if he stop worrying over such things, his life will be just like before.

Yes, that's it.

-----

You swore you’d never come back here.

And yet, here you were. Because your grandma had that look in her eye. The “I want to relax, and I’m dragging you with me” kind of look. You couldn’t say no, not after everything she’s done for you. So while she headed off for a soak, you wandered near the refreshment corner, cracking open a cold bottle of milk and parking yourself on a stool by the fogged-up window.

And then he walked in.

His hair was still damp, slightly messy like he’d just run a hand through it. The robe hung loose, gaping just enough to show a glimpse of toned collarbones and a frame that looked more like a personal trainer’s than a teacher’s. A towel was draped over one shoulder, but unlike the rest of us, flushed and scrambling after practice, he looked completely unbothered.

You looked. Just a flicker of attention, half a second longer than you meant to.

He noticed. His foot hovered mid-step. Then that slow tilt of his head, eyes locking onto yours with quiet, amused precision. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Staring at others in public isn’t polite, you know.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“You were. I wonder, should I assign you a reflection paper on boundaries and professionalism?”

You glared, taking another sip of milk just to avoid speaking. You couldn’t argue. Not here. Not in front of your grandma, who was somewhere behind the sliding doors and would not tolerate “talking back to adults.”

A voice cut through the air.

“There you are!”

You both turned at the same time.

A woman, clearly a guest, approached with an air of flirtation so thick it made your teeth ache. She didn’t even glance your way, too busy pressing into Ratio’s space, her fingers grazing his arm like she had every right to.

“Oh, you’re so tense,” she purred, tracing a line down his bicep. “Do you work out? Or is it just natural…?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t move, but he didn’t return the gesture either. You couldn't watch another second of this trainwreck. The pawing, the baby-talk voice - fucking disgusting. She might as well have started licking him right there in public.

“That’s enough,” you said sharply, stepping between them. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”

The woman blinked, as if noticing you for the first time. Her lip curled.

“And who are you?”

Ratio’s voice cut clean through the tension.

“We’re in a relationship.”

Your stomach dropped, like -what the hell? but you recovered fast. “Security, actually.” 

You snatched the towel off Ratio’s shoulder and dunked it in the nearby basin. “And you’re harassing guests.”

The woman barely had time to shriek before you flicked a wall of water straight at her. “The fuck—?”

“Bathhouse rules.” You wrung out the towel with a sharp twist. “Now move.”

Ratio watched, impassive, as she scrambled back, makeup running. “You—you—” She finally stomped off, slippers slapping like a drowned cat retreating.

You tossed the towel back at Ratio. “In a relationship? Seriously?”

He caught it without blinking. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Wow." You wiped your hands on your pants, grinning. "You suck at chasing women away, huh?"

"And you're exceptionally good at it. I should assign extra credit. A 5,000-word essay on conflict de-escalation techniques, perhaps?"

"You wouldn't."

"3,000 words. Due Monday."

"I yield!" You threw your hands up. "Next time I'll just let her climb you like a jungle gym!"

----

You started dreaming of him.

Not his voice. Not his face.

Just… him. Specifically: Professor Ratio shirtless in the bathhouse steam, towel hanging dangerously loose, water sliding down those unfairly sculpted shoulders like even physics was simping.

You’d wake up pissed.

Why him? Why your brain’s insistence on rendering him in 4K detail?

But dreams don’t negotiate.

Last Tuesday, you dreamed he hugged you, except it was less hug and more biceps chokehold. You tapped out. He didn’t let go. You woke up wheezing into your pillow, half-convinced you could still smell his cologne.

Then came the bad one: Ratio waiting in a dark classroom, idly curling a 50lb dumbbell. "You’ve been skipping lectures" he said, smiling. "Let’s… discuss your attendance." You ran, then woke up as the dumbbell whooshed toward your face.

You tried to ignore it at school. You really did.

But then the tiniest things started catching your attention.

Like how he always wore his shirt buttoned perfectly, until he was too distracted grading to notice one undone near his collarbone.

Or the way his sleeves rolled up just enough when he leaned over a desk.

The line of his throat when he tilted his head.

It got harder to hate him.

----

The exam period hit Ratio like a freight train.

You barely saw him on campus anymore, just fleeting glimpses of his back as he vanished into faculty meetings, or the ominous click of his office door locking mid-conversation with the dean. Rumor was he’d taken over grading three departments’ worth of papers after a colleague quit.

Which made it infuriating that he somehow still worked more shifts at the bathhouse.

You caught him one evening, as he scrubbed the mineral stains from the soaking pools. His hair was a mess, his knuckles red from hot water.

“Staring is rude.”

You jerked your gaze up. Ratio hadn’t even turned around.

“I wasn’t— You look like hell.”

“Eloquent.” He wrung out his rag. “If you’re here to complain about your exam score, I finished grading those at 4 AM. My patience is—”

“I’m here to help.”

Ratio finally turned around.

“Help, huh?”

“You’re clearly drowning.” You snatched the spare apron off the hook. “So here’s the deal: I work your bathhouse shifts. You get to sleep for once. And in exchange…”

You paused. He waited.

“You stop failing people for breathing wrong in class.”

Ratio’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

“And,” you barreled on, “you teach me how to get—” You gestured vaguely at all of him.

“…A doctorate?”

“That!” You pointed accusingly. “That right there is why no one likes you!”

Ratio exhaled through his nose. For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he tossed you the rag.

“Terms amended: You assist, I consider curbing fail rates. The rest is delusional.”

“You literally look like a Renaissance statue.”

“And you,” he said, stepping past you to grab a bucket, “have the work ethic of a napping cat.”

You grinned. “So we’re agreed?”

Ratio didn’t answer. But when you showed up the next day, he’d left an extra uniform out.

---

Aventurine’s entrance was about as subtle as a firework in a library.

One moment, you were elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the bathhouse tiles. The next, a familiar voice purred directly into your ear

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little workaholic.”

You jumped, sending suds flying—straight into the face of your childhood menace-turned-unwelcome-admirer. Aventurine blinked, water dripping from his unfairly long lashes. Then, slowly, he grinned.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

“I missed the days when you moved away.” you shot back, wiping your hands on your apron.

Aventurine just laughed, leaning against the counter like he owned the place. “Heard you were playing bathhouse attendant now. Had to see it for myself.” His gaze flicked over your uniform.

You were about to retort when the temperature in the room dropped.

“The standard bathing time,” came a voice like iced tea, “is thirty minutes.”

“Professor! Didn’t know you moonlighted as a lifeguard.”

“Twenty-five minutes” 

Aventurine opened his mouth.

“Twenty.”

“Oh-ho? Someone’s territorial—”

“Fifteen.”

Aventurine, wisely, threw his hands up and sauntered off—but not before winking at you. “Save me the hot spring next time, yeah?”

The second he vanished, Ratio exhaled through his nose. “That is your neighbor? You sure he didn't escape from any prison or mental hospital?”

“Regrettably.”

“He’s banned from the cedar baths.”

“We don’t have cedar baths.”

Ratio didn’t smile. But the way he nudged the hot water valve just a little hotter as Aventurine yelped in the distance? That was something.

----

Ratio had insisted you stop working at the bathhouse. "Your academics take priority" he’d said, as if he hadn’t been the one drowning you in extra assignments before.

You obeyed, what else could you do.

"Ohhhhhh~ He’s into you!" Aventurine declared like a self-proclaimed romance expert. "But the man’s emotionally constipated. So! We help."

You eyed the fake love letter in his hands. "What is that?"

"This is strategy! You ‘confess.’ We reveal it’s a joke. He gets mad—which means he cares—then boom! Clarity!"

"Or he fails me."

"Risk versus reward, sweetheart." He grinned. "Besides, when have my plans ever backfired?"

Every time. But you still agreed.

You waited until after school, as you slipped into Ratio’s office. "You’re late for your club."

"I—" You shoved the letter at him. "I have something to say."

Ratio’s expression didn’t change as he read. But his grip creased the paper.

"This is… Unprofessional."

"But do you—"

The door slammed open.

"GOTCHA!" Aventurine crowed, phone out to film the whole thing. "Ohhh, Professor~! You should’ve seen your face—"

Ratio stood.

"Out."

Aventurine blinked. "Huh?"

"Get. Out. Now."

Aventurine fled. You didn’t.

Ratio didn’t look at you. "You too."

-----

You tried everything. Morning greetings, putting his favorite drink on his desk, volunteering to grade papers,.. Nothing works.

Even Aventurine, now banned from your texts, had the decency to look guilty. "Okay, maybe I underestimated how petty he could be."

You gave up.

When your grandma invited you to the bathhouse, you begged off. "Not feeling it today."

She eyed you. "You’ve been moping like a kicked puppy."

"I’m fine."

She went there on her own.

The bathhouse storage room door creaked open. "Young man? Could you help an old woman with these buckets?"

Ratio looked up from his inventory logs to your grandmother struggling with two overfilled water pails. As he took the buckets from her, she squinted up at his face in the dim light.

"Well now," she chuckled, "I know you. You're that strict professor from the university." Her eyes twinkled with sudden recognition. "The one who's got my grandchild moping around like a wet chick these past weeks."

Ratio nearly dropped the buckets. "I—"

"Ah, ah." She waved a finger. "No need for teacher talk here. This is bathhouse business." Taking one bucket back, she gestured for him to follow. "Come, come. These won't carry themselves."

As they walked, she continued as if discussing the weather: "You know, when I was young, there was a boy who fancied me something terrible. Handsome as sunrise, dumb as a post." She laughed at Ratio's expression. "Oh yes! He once stood outside my window for three hours holding a turnip because he heard I liked soup."

Ratio opened his mouth, then closed it. The grandmother hummed as they set the buckets by the soaking pools.

"Took me years to realize - men either say too much or nothing at all." She fixed Ratio with a knowing look. "The smart ones are worst for it. Think they need perfect words when really..." She patted his arm. "Even a turnip would do."

Ratio stared at the rising steam. "It's... complicated."

"Is it?" She tilted her head. "Or have you just been thinking so hard you forgot to feel?" With that, she shuffled off.

That night, your phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your grandmother is terrifying.

You sat up. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Meet me at the bathhouse. 8 PM.

YOU: Are you going to yell at me again?

RATIO: No.

RATIO: I’m bringing tea.

You arrived at the bathhouse to find Ratio already there, two steaming cups of tea set neatly on the counter. He didn’t look up when you entered, but his shoulders tensed—just slightly.

"You came" he said, as if he hadn’t been the one to text you.

"You asked"

Finally, Ratio exhaled. "Your grandmother is… persuasive."

You snorted. "She threatened you or something?"

He pushed one of the cups toward you. "Drink. I brewed it the way you like"

"You remember that?"

"I remember many things. Including how… unfairly I acted."

You sipped the tea. It was perfect. "Yeah, well. Aventurine’s the one who should be apologizing, not you."

"He will. Extensively."

"I overreacted," he admitted, staring into his cup. "Because the idea of you… pretending to care for me was…"

"It was a stupid prank. But you ignored me for days. You don’t get to be the wounded party here."

"You’re right."

"And if you had just talked to me instead of sulking—"

"I know." He finally met your eyes. "But I did care. That’s the problem."

"I hated how much it mattered," he continued "And then you—"

"I what?"

"Nothing.."

"If you’d just talked to me instead of being a drama queen, maybe we could’ve figured this out sooner."

"So what now?"

The door slammed open.

"DON’T HIT ME I BROUGHT SNACKS—" Aventurine skidded to a halt, arms full of convenience store bags, eyes darting between you and Ratio. "…Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Ohhh." He grinned, "You two made up."

"Get out."

"Nope! I’m here to apologize." Aventurine dropped the snacks on the counter with a flourish. "And also to witness whatever this is."

You sighed. "We’re talking. Like adults."

"Boring." He ripped open a bag of chips. "But fine. I’ll be your emotional support menace."

And for the first time in days, you both sighed in unison.

-----

You could tell were the inspiration came from.

[heliosunny]

Omg omg omg you right for Gallagher! Im so happy to see some content for him.

Could you humor me with how you think the relationship or dynamic of a dog hybrid!Gallagher and a owner!darling would go? Like Gallagher is an older "stray" that darling takes in to help foster until the local shelter can find him a forever home.

First of all, I'm sorry this took so long! It's been sitting in my drafts forever, but I finally got some inspiration to finish it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy~

Yandere!Dog Hybrid!Gallagher x Owner!Reader

Gallagher wasn’t used to kindness. He’d spent most of his life fending for himself, fighting for scraps and sleeping in alleyways with one eye open. He didn’t trust humans. Not after the ones who’d kicked him, the ones who’d tried to chain him, or the ones who’d looked at his fangs and claws and called him a monster.

He’d been nursing fresh wounds after a brutal fight with another stray when you passed by.

He’d expected you to hurry away like the rest. Instead, you crouched down, just far enough to be safe, and placed a wrapped meal beside him.

"You look like you’ve had a rough day."

It was the best damn thing he’d ever eaten.

He should’ve let it end there.

But the scent of you lingered on the wrappers, and something primal in his chest ached.

Tracking you wasn’t hard. His nose led him through the city, past dim street lights and wary pedestrians, until he found your apartment. A small, cozy place with potted plants by the window. He watched from the shadows as you moved inside, humming to yourself.

-----

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But the next morning, there he was, looming in your doorway, battered and bleeding.

"You!... You’re hurt!" You rushed forward without thinking.

Gallagher let you touch him. His tail gave a slow wag.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

Gallagher was huge, taller than you when he stood at his full height, his broad frame taking up far too much space in your small living room. His ears twitched at every sound, his tail flicking lazily as he watched you rummage through the first-aid kit.

You reached for the worn tag hanging from his neck, but he jerked back with a low growl, baring just the slightest hint of fang.

"Okay, okay...no touching the tag," you murmured, pulling your hand away. "But… Gallagher, right? That’s what it says."

His ears perked at his name, and his tail gave a single, heavy thump against the floor.

"Do you have somewhere to go? An owner? A… pack?"

Silence.

His eyes just stared, unblinking, as if daring you to suggest the one thing he really didn’t want to hear.

"I can’t just keep you here," you said, more to yourself than to him. "Maybe a shelter could—"

A deep, warning growl rumbled in his chest. His claws flexed against the floor, leaving faint scratches in the wood.

"Alright, no shelter." you amended quickly.

You chewed your lip, brainstorming alternatives, maybe a rescue organization, a hybrid-friendly vet, anything, but Gallagher had other plans.

His nose nudged your wrist. Then your elbow. Then your shoulder.

"Gallagher—"

You turned to face him, and he pounced, not aggressively, crowding you against the couch, his massive body caging you in. His breath was warm against your neck, his tail wagging deliberately.

Mine.

Later that night, you came home with a new collar, dark leather, sturdy, with a fresh tag engraved with his name.

You literally had no other choices.

Gallagher’s eyes gleamed when he saw it.

And when you finally reached for the old, rusted tag around his neck?

This time, he let you.

-----

Gallagher was, surprisingly, the most well-trained stray you’d ever met.

He carried your groceries without being asked. He nudged your forgotten coffee toward you before it went cold. He even learned how to operate the blender after watching you make smoothies once.

You were starting to suspect he hadn’t always been a stray.

"Gallagher," you said one evening, eyeing him as he effortlessly lifted a stack of books you’d been struggling with. "Were you, like… someone’s service hybrid or something?"

His ears twitched. He set the books down neatly, then knocked over a framed photo of you and a coworker, pretending it was an accident.

"Rude."

He gave you an innocent blink, tail wagging.

But the real mystery was his obsession with scent.

You came home from a friend’s birthday party, hugged Gallagher hello like usual, and he immediately sneezed, recoiling like you’d just doused yourself in acid.

"What? Do I smell weird?" You lifted your arm to sniff your sleeve.

Gallagher’s nose wrinkled. His tail went rigid. His entire body language screamed:

"WHO TOUCHED YOU."

Before you could react, he bolted to the laundry basket, dug out your favorite hoodie, and rubbed his face all over it like a cat in catnip. Then he dragged it to his bed and curled up on top of it, glaring at you like you were the weird one.

"Okay…?"

It got worse.

When a coworker gave you a pat on the shoulder? Gallagher "accidentally" bumped into you with his entire body, smearing his scent all over you like a living, breathing essential oil diffuser.

You dared to hug your best friend Hannah? Gallagher materialized behind you like a horror movie villain, resting his chin on your head and exhaling loudly, as if to say, "There. Now you smell like ME instead."

You caught him spraying your perfume on himself once.

"GALLAGHER!"

He froze, ears flattening guiltily, then slowly, spritzed himself one more time before putting it down.

The final straw was when you came home from a date.

You hadn’t even kissed the guy, but Gallagher took one whiff of you and lost his damn mind.

He dragged every blanket in the house into a nest on the couch.

He licked your hand like he was trying to disinfect it.

You stared at him.

He stared back, panting proudly.

Mission accomplished.

-----

Hannah wasn’t wrong. Gallagher was obsessed with you.

But in his mind, it wasn’t obsession. It was duty.

You were his human.

And yet, despite his best efforts (licking your coffee cups, stealing your hoodies, glaring daggers at anyone who so much as glanced at you), you still treated him like… well, like a pet.

A very spoiled, very possessive pet, but still just a pet.

And that wasn’t enough.

"You have to see how weird this is," Hannah insisted, gesturing at Gallagher, who was currently draped over your lap like a living, breathing weighted blanket. "He’s not just clingy, he’s territorial. Like, aggressively territorial."

Gallagher’s ear twitched.

"He’s fine," you said, scratching behind his ears. "Just a little protective."

"A little?!" Hannah threw her hands up. "He growled at Mark when he tried to ask you out for drinks!"

Hannah leaned in, lowering her voice like Gallagher couldn’t hear her. "Look, I get that he’s helpful around the house, but this isn’t normal. You should really consider—"

That’s when Gallagher made his move.

He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, rubbing his scent glands against your skin. Then he flicked his gaze toward Hannah, his eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.

See? Y/n lets me do this.

Hannah’s eye twitched. "Did he just—?"

You sighed. "Yeah... He does that."

Gallagher knew he’d won that battle.

But the war wasn’t over.

Because as long as you saw him as just a 'pet', you’d never truly be his.

So he needed to change that.

That night started like any other, until you came home wasted.

Your cheeks were flushed, your steps wobbly, and your words slurred in a way that made his ears twitch with amusement. You stumbled through the door, giggling at nothing, and immediately face-planted onto the couch.

"Waaaaater," you groaned, flopping an arm dramatically over your eyes. "Gallagherrrr, wateeer."

He should’ve just brought you a glass.

But where was the fun in that?

Instead of water, Gallagher handed you a full water bottle—unopened.

You blinked at it, slow and confused, before fumbling with the cap. "Mmnngh… open it."

Gallagher smirked. Make me.

You scowled. Then, with all the drunken authority of a tiny, furious monarch, you grabbed his collar and yanked him down to your level.

"I said," you hissed, "OPEN. IT."

This was new.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he rumbled, "Kiss first."

You stared at him.

Then, without hesitation, you grabbed his face, shoved your lips against his in a messy, aggressive mwah!, and immediately pulled back, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

"There. Happy? Now open it."

Gallagher’s brain short-circuited.

Holy shit.

Somehow, it got worse. (Or better. Depending on who you asked.)

When he finally opened the bottle, you snatched it from him, took a sip, then poured the rest into his mouth like he was a disobedient houseplant.

When he tried to nuzzle into your neck, you shoved him onto the couch and climbed on top of him, pinning him down with your knees on either side of his hips.

"You’re annoying!" you slurred, poking his chest. "If you don’t behave, I’m taking your stupid collar away."

Gallagher’s tail thumped against the cushions.

Oh no. Please don’t.

You smacked his shoulder for good measure. "And no more being a brat! Got it?!"

Gallagher’s ears flattened.

Got it.

You passed out shortly after, collapsing face-first onto his chest.

Gallagher lay there for a solid minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what the hell just happened.

Then, carefully, he lifted you into his arms and carried you to bed.

As he tucked you in, he couldn’t resist one last act of rebellion, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"Mine." he murmured.

Then he paused.

...Maybe he’d pretend to misbehave tomorrow.

Just to see if you’d punish him again.

[heliosunny]

Hi! I wasn’t sure if you’ve played the older genshin events/have an interest in him, but if you do could I request something for yan! Albedo? His long awaited return has been causing me crazy brainrot lol I’d love to hear your thoughts on him

Rest assured, I've been one of the players since the game's release and only stopped playing after Fontaine. It was a magical game back then, but I lost interest later on and dropped it. Hope u enjoy reading this!

Contractual Affection

Yandere!Albedo x Reader

Albedo sat in the dim glow of multiple screens, his sharp eyes scanning the profiles in front of him. His fingers tapped idly against his desk.

"This one."

The assistant beside him marked the chosen candidate.

You had heard the rumors.

The Kreideprinz Corporation paid exceptionally well—better than any other company in Teyvat. But there was a catch: employees never lasted long. Some said the work was grueling. Others whispered about the CEO’s particular standards.

Then, the real surprise came.

"You’ve also been selected as his partner in marriage."

Wait—what? You're here for work though.

Before you could protest, you were ushered into his office.

"I’ve been waiting for you." 

You checked the email notification on your phone again and again.

"Congratulations! You’ve been selected as the personal assistant to Chief Albedo Kreideprinz. Additionally, you are hereby formally engaged to him under a provisional contract."

You blinked. Then read it again.

…What? How did you miss the second line?

Sure, the job posting had mentioned "unconventional benefits" but this was not what you’d signed up for. You were thrilled to get the job, maybe that's why you didn't even bother to finish reading the mail.

Albedo’s office was pristine, much like the man himself. He didn’t even glance up when you stormed in, waving your phone like a white flag of confusion.

"There’s been a mistake!" you insisted. "I applied for a job, not an—an arranged marriage!"

Finally, he set down his pen. His gaze was glacial, but there was something beneath it—amusement? Annoyance?

"No mistake," he said. "It’s a temporary arrangement. My family has been… insistent."

Alice—his adoptive mother, a whirlwind of chaos, and Klee, his little sister (bless her explosive heart), had apparently decided that Albedo’s "workaholic iciness" was a cry for help. They’d misread his quiet dedication as loneliness.

"They believe I lack 'human warmth,'" he deadpanned. "This was their solution."

You crossed your arms. "So I’m your..."

"For appearances only. The salary, of course, will reflect the additional role."

…Well. That was a staggering number. And, not that it mattered, but Albedo was unfairly handsome.

"Fine," you sighed. "But no weird demands. We keep it professional."

"Naturally."

Breaking News! The announcement hit the tabloids: "Kreideprinz CEO ENGAGED to Mystery Partner!"

Speculations ran wild. But your identity remained sealed under airtight confidentiality—for your safety, the contract stated.

…Which meant you now had to dodge paparazzi, side-eye strangers in cafes, and resist the urge to throat-punch anyone who whispered, "I heard they’re a gold-digger."

The pressure was on.

Surprisingly… Albedo was chill about it.

He treated you with the same detached politeness as before, just with added "my dear" in front of the board members.

"This isn’t working," you admitted one evening, slumping into his office couch. "People think you hired an actor. Look at this."

You shoved your phone at him. A gossip forum’s top thread: "Albedo’s ‘partner’ = paid PR stunt??"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes! If this fails, your family will just set you up again. And I’d like to keep my lucrative job." You hesitated. "We should… go on dates. Public ones."

Albedo finally looked up from his notes.

"Very well. Dinner at La Lumière tomorrow."

You should’ve known the universe would punish you for trying to help.

The photo splashed across every gossip site by dawn: "Albedo’s Future spouse Caught in Scandalous Rendezvous!" The caption screamed betrayal, but the reality was pathetic. You’d just been asking an old friend for café recommendations while Albedo took a phone call.

You’d explained. He’d nodded calmly. "I trust you."

…Which somehow made it worse.

Now, holed up in his pristine townhouse (a temporary safety measure, he insisted), you stared at the latest headline: "Heartbroken Kreideprinz: Is the Engagement Doomed?"

You groaned into a couch cushion. "I’m going to strangle the press with their own camera straps."

knock knock knock.

Albedo hadn’t mentioned visitors. The paparazzi wouldn’t dare approach his private residence… right?

Cautiously, you peered through the door’s stained glass and saw a tiny figure in a red hat, bouncing on their toes.

You cracked the door open. "…Hello?"

"Hi!!" The girl beamed, clutching a backpack that rattled suspiciously. "I’m Klee! Big brother Albedo said I could visit, but.." She leaned in, whispering loudly, "he forgot, so you gotta let me in before the monsters find me!"

…What.

Five minutes in, you learned three things:

Klee was Albedo’s sister (and a walking explosion hazard).

She adored her brother (and was thrilled he "finally got a friend!").

She had the energy of a thousand suns (and zero respect for "boring adult rules").

By the time Albedo’s immaculate living room resembled a rainbow bomb site, crayon murals on the walls, Dodoco plushies staging a coup on the sofa, and something sticky on the ceiling, you were ready to collapse.

Klee, however, was just getting started.

"Watch this!!" She brandished a handful of glitter. "Sparkly Boom—"

"NO—" You lunged.

The door clicked open.

Albedo stood in the doorway, gaze sweeping over the chaos, the overturned furniture, the glue-streaked floor, Klee dangling from the chandelier (how?!) before landing on you.

"…I was gone for two hours."

Klee waved. "We bonded! Your friend's fun, Big brother Albedo!"

"Did you now?"

You thrust Klee toward Albedo like a live grenade.

"Here. Please."

He took her without comment, though his eyebrow twitched at the glitter smeared across his sleeve while you scrambled to salvage his ruined home.

"Leave it," he said, catching your wrist as you tried to scrub crayon off the wallpaper. "I’ve already called a cleaning service."

"You—what? Then why didn’t you—"

"You seemed… invested."

Was that amusement in his voice?

With the house uninhabitable and no food in sight (RIP, the exploded kitchen experiment Klee swore was a "snack"), the three of you fled to a quiet corner of Mondstadt’s tavern.

Peace, at last.

"Big brother Albedo," Klee chirped around a mouthful of sticky honey roast, "do you like your friend?"

You choked on your water.

"Of course."

"But like-like? Like how Mom likes Dad before he went poof?"

"Klee—"

"Because if you like-like them, you gotta hold hands! And kiss! And—"

"We are engaged." Albedo interjected smoothly. "That means I care for them deeply, and we’ll be together… indefinitely."

Klee squinted. "That’s boring. Prove it."

"It’s inappropriate to do such things in front of children."

"Liar." She puffed her cheeks. "Mom kisses people all the time in front of me!"

With terrifying calm, he turned to you.

"Apologies."

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Your face burned. Klee giggled. Albedo sipped his wine like nothing happened.

"Happy?" he asked Klee.

"Mmm… barely pass." She grinned at you.

You buried your face in your hands. "I hate both of you."

-----

The moment you stepped out of the shop, you knew something was wrong.

A man you’d never seen before suddenly blocked your path, grinning like a wolf who’d spotted easy prey. "Hey there, sweetheart. Fancy meeting you here."

You sidestepped, but he grabbed your wrist. "Come on, don’t be like that. Let’s chat—"

Camera flashes erupted.

Shit. You’d been set up.

The paparazzi lurked just out of reach, snapping photos of the "scandalous encounter" they’d orchestrated. Your pulse spiked—this would be everywhere by sundown.

"Remove your hand."

You didn’t even have to turn to know Albedo was there.

The man scoffed. "Or what? You gonna fight me over your little—"

Albedo’s fingers dug into the man’s shoulder, forcing him back with terrifying ease. "I won’t repeat myself."

The cameras went wild.

You expected him to drag you away. Instead, Albedo cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek where the stranger had nearly grazed you. "Are you hurt?"

You shook your head.

Then, in full view of the paparazzi, he pulled you close, one arm locking around your waist as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

"Let’s go home," he murmured, loud enough for the cameras to catch.

The crowd erupted.

Once the authorities dispersed the paparazzi, Albedo didn’t let go. His grip on your hand was just shy of painful, his strides too fast as he led you through backstreets.

"Albedo—"

"Quiet."

Only when you were safely inside his car did he finally look at you.

"It won’t happen again."

--Days before the actual selection--

The stack of personnel files sat neatly on Albedo’s desk, each one meticulously reviewed and annotated in his precise, angular script. He had no patience for incompetence, no interest in those who might disrupt the careful order of his work. And yet, when he reached your file, his pen hovered.

He didn’t believe in fate. But something about you, the way your credentials aligned so perfectly with his needs, made him pause.

A practical choice. He circled your name in red ink.

But just to be sure, he'll look up for more information.

At the time, it was nothing more than that.

He hadn’t expected you to be good with Klee.

Most people weren’t. Either they coddled her like glass or scolded her recklessness without understanding the sharp mind behind it.

You handed her bandages when she skinned her knees, humming distractedly as she chattered about her latest "experiment." You packed her lunches with the same precision you applied to his reports, slipping in a handwritten note now and then ("No sparkling bombs today, okay?").

And when Albedo worked through the night, he’d find a fresh pot of coffee at his elbow, a blanket draped over the back of his chair.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

-------

The sky had been clear when you left headquarters. Albedo remembered this distinctly because he had noted the weather in his daily log—72% humidity, minimal cloud coverage, optimal conditions for outdoor testing.

And yet, by mid-afternoon, the clouds rolled in like spilled ink.

He was reviewing soil samples when the first raindrops hit the windows. A flicker of movement caught his eye—you, darting across the courtyard below, arms raised uselessly over your head as the downpour soaked through your clothes in seconds.

A logical man would have returned to his work.

Albedo found himself at the door with his coat in hand before he'd fully processed the decision.

You nearly collided with him when you burst inside.

"Oh—!" You skidded to a halt, blinking water from your lashes. "I didn't think anyone was—"

"Take this." He thrust the coat at you.

"But you'll—"

"I dislike repeating myself."

"...Thank you."

He watched, inexplicably fascinated, as you shrugged it on. The sleeves swallowed your hands whole.

"You look ridiculous." 

You laughed, shaking rainwater from your hair. "Well, it's not like I had much choice. Unless you wanted me tracking mud through your—"

"The third floor lavatory has a hand dryer." He turned on his heel. "Try not to electrocute yourself."

You returned the coat folded neatly on his desk, still faintly damp at the cuffs.

Albedo picked it up. The scent hit him like a poorly calibrated reaction. His grip tightened.

Across the room, Klee bounced on her toes. "Big brother, are you listening? I said—"

"Later, Klee."

The coat went into his desk drawer.

---

A late night in the lab, the winter chill seeping through the windows. You rubbed your arms absently, fingers numb from sorting through stacks of his research notes.

A shadow fell over you, then the weight of his coat across your shoulders.

You startled. "I’m not—"

"You’re shivering." His fingers lingered at your collarbone, adjusting the lapel. "It’s inefficient."

The fabric was still warm from his body.

You didn’t have time to protest before he was back at his desk, scribbling equations like nothing happened.

Then there was this other time.

"You’ll freeze."

The winter wind howled through the streets as Albedo looped his scarf around your neck.

"I have my own—"

"Not thick enough." He tugged the wool tighter, his breath fogging in the air between you. 

When the paparazzi snapped photos of you wrapped in his colors, he didn’t correct the headlines.

"Kreideprinz’s Future Spouse Spotted in His Clothes!"

"Stay close."

Albedo’s hand settled at the small of your back as you navigated the ballroom. This was something you didn't expect to do. Dancing and all at a party.

"We agreed—no unnecessary contact in public."

"Mm." His thumb stroked your spine. "But that reporter from Fontaine has been staring. Credibility demands consistency."

Then his lips were at your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.

You gasped.

"Paparazzi expect them at events like this." he murmured, pulling back to admire the mark blooming on your neck. 

Your face burned. "That’s..."

"Shall I add another?"

The office knew.

How could they not? Their boss is definitely not good at hiding his true intention.

But the worst part?

You were starting to like it.

The way his gloves caught in your hair when he "fixed" your hood. The weight of his coat. The thrill when he glared down people who dared to flirt.

----

It was just another ordinary day.

You were delivering a stack of reports to Albedo’s office when a loud crash from the hallway startled you. The papers in your hands slipped, scattering across the floor. With a sigh, you knelt to gather them, only to freeze when you realized what you were looking at.

A list of names.

His original selection of candidates.

Each one was meticulously annotated—appearance, qualifications, personality traits. All of them were stunning. All of them were brilliant.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

"Wow, look at these people. Gorgeous, talented.. Why am I even here? I should’ve quit ages ago." you joked, shuffling the papers back together.

You looked up.

Albedo stood in the doorway.

"You’re not leaving, are you?"

"I—It was a joke." you stammered, quickly standing.

He stepped forward, his fingers curling around your waist. "Humor is subjective. That wasn’t funny."

"I wasn’t serious."

Just as he leaned in, his lips parting to say something far from professional.

"OH MY, IS THIS A WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT?!"

There she was—Alice, Albedo’s adoptive mother, back from her latest trip.

Her eyes darted between the two of you, Albedo’s hand still gripping your waist, your face burning crimson, and she grinned.

"Awwww! My little chalk prince finally found love!" she cooed, clapping her hands. "And you! You’re adorable! Oh, we have to start planning—"

Before you could even process, she had whipped out a detailed baby-naming guide from god knows where and was flipping through it excitedly.

"Hmm, if it’s a girl, ‘Lumine’ has a nice ring!"

You were mortified. Albedo, however, looked completely unbothered.

"Mother," he said calmly, "this is Y/N L/N."

"I KNOW! I SAW THE HEADLINES!" Alice squealed, grabbing your hands. "You’re staying for dinner. We’re celebrating! Klee! KLEE, GET IN HERE!!!"

The "celebration" lasted three full days—three days of Alice’s increasingly unhinged wedding plans, Klee’s sugar-fueled energy, and Albedo watching it all with the quiet amusement of a man who had already accepted his fate.

By the time you finally returned home (Alice having vanished mid-party with a "Be back in a year or five! Love you!"), you were exhausted.

Klee, somehow still buzzing with energy, had insisted on a "sleepover!"—which meant she now lay sprawled between you and Albedo in the bed, her tiny limbs taking up an unreasonable amount of space.

"Hey," Klee piped up, rolling onto her side to squint at you. "Hypothetically… if Big brother Albedo turned into a dragon and kidnapped you, would you be mad?"

"What?"

"Like, a big dragon. With scales and fire and stuff. And he carried you away to his super-secret dragon castle and said you could never leave." She grinned. "Would you stay?"

You shot a glance at Albedo, who was watching you with far too much interest.

"Well," you mused, playing along, "if he was nice about it… and maybe let me redecorate the dragon castle… I guess it wouldn’t be so bad."

Klee giggled. "He’d definitely be nice! He’d give you all the books you want and never let anyone else take you!"

Albedo’s fingers twitched against the sheets.

You yawned, your eyelids growing heavy. "Mmm… then sure. I’d stay."

Klee opened her mouth to ask another question, but before she could, you were already asleep.

Albedo waited until Klee’s breathing evened out—until she, too, finally succumbed to sleep, curled up like a little firework ready to explode at dawn.

Carefully, he shifted her to the side, tucking the blankets around her before turning his attention to you.

His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from your face.

He had made the right choice.

Not just in selecting you, though that had been flawless in its own way, but in keeping you. In letting you carve a space into his life, his routines.

You stirred slightly in your sleep, murmuring something unintelligible.

The peace lasted exactly two hours.

The bedroom door burst open with enough force to rattle the walls.

"GOOD MORNING, FUTURE GRANDBABY FACTORY—"

Albedo’s arm shot out, catching Alice by the collar before she could leap onto the bed. Klee snorted in her sleep, rolling over like a tiny, bomb-happy burrito. You jolted upright, hair sticking in every direction.

"Mother," Albedo hissed through gritted teeth, "they’re sleeping."

Alice pouted. "But I have blueprints for a nursery! And a list of explosion-proof baby names!"

Without breaking eye contact, Albedo reached for his desk intercom. "Security."

As they hauled Alice away, her voice echoed down the hall:

"FINE! BUT I’M MAILING YOU THE CRIB ANYWAY—"

The door slammed.

You stared at Albedo.

Then, slowly, he pulled the blankets over your head.

"Five more minutes" he muttered.

----

You woke in a cold sweat, gasping.

"Albedo—Albedo—"

He was already awake, "Hm?"

"I just dreamt you were a dragon," you panted, "and you...you swallowed me whole—"

Albedo laughed. Not a polite chuckle, but a deep, unhinged sound that vibrated through his chest.

"That’s not funny!" you hissed, swatting his arm.

"It’s hilarious," he corrected, wiping his eye. "And biologically implausible. Unless," he added thoughtfully, "I shrunk you first."

You gaped at him.

He kissed your forehead. "Go back to sleep."

You did not.

[heliosunny]

hiiiii, i hope your doing good, i adore how you write charecters and was hoping that you could write Alhaitham for the lucky egg series. Thank you

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Alhaitham x Reader

The sky split open like a wound as the alien armada descended. Their ships were vast, silent monoliths of silver and obsidian, drifting through the atmosphere.

Governments collapsed within hours. Resistance was met with annihilation so swift, so absolute, that humanity had no choice but to kneel.

You watched from your window as the streets filled with towering figures—elegant creatures with skin like polished onyx and eyes that burned with distant light.

"Compliance ensures survival. Each of you will be assigned an Overseer. They will guide you. Ensure order."

An egg was pressed into your hands. It was heavier than it looked. The alien who delivered it tilted its head, studying you with those depthless eyes before speaking again.

"In three days, it will awaken. Do not resist."

Then it was gone, leaving you standing there, clutching the egg as if it were a bomb.

-Day 2-

You placed the egg on your desk, half-expecting it to move. But it remained still.

That night, you dreamed of whispers.

"Soon."

You woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to your skin.

The news feeds were a graveyard of grim updates. People who had refused their Overseers had vanished overnight. Those who obeyed were rewarded—food, shelter, safety. But at what cost?

-Day 3-

Crack.

Your eyes flew open. The egg on your nightstand was fracturing.

The egg soon split open, and the figure inside unfolded itself.

Fluid dripped from silver hair, evaporating into mist before it could even touch the sheets. The man—because it was a man—lifted his head.

You flinched, fingers digging into the sheets. "Who—what are you?"

"Alhaitham."

He rose. His fingers brushed your cheek, cold at first, then warming unnaturally fast.

"You are my master" 

A slow smile curled at the edge of his lips.

"Protect. Guide. Own." His grip tightened, just slightly, as if testing your reaction. "The terms are interchangeable."

-----

You quickly realized that Alhaitham was… different.

The other Overseers, hatched from their eggs in the days following the invasion. A man down the street had one who never smiled, who watched his charge with unblinking precision, correcting even the slightest deviation from the new world’s order.

But Alhaitham?

He was calm.

And he loves reading.

“You have a collection of books,” he remarked, fingers trailing over the spines on your shelf.

You hesitated before answering. “Yes. I like to read.”

He hummed, pulling out a well-worn novel. “This one is annotated.”

“I… mark my favorites.”

Then, to your surprise, he sat in your armchair, flipping it open. “Read it to me.”

“What?”

“You are my master. I am to learn from you. So teach me.”

So you read to him.

You saw the way the others acted.

Your neighbor, a nervous young man named Eli, had an Overseer who monitored his every move. She stood by the door as he ate, as he worked, as he slept.

“She won’t even let me choose my own clothes” he whispered to you one day, when she was momentarily distracted.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because Alhaitham, in contrast, had merely glanced at your wardrobe that morning and remarked, “The blue sweater suits you better.”

It became a habit.

Every night, without fail, he would select a book and wait for you. Sometimes you read to him. Sometimes, when your voice grew tired, he took over, his smooth baritone filling the room as you curled against the armrest.

One evening, exhaustion from the day’s labor dragged you under before he’d even finished the chapter. You woke hours later to the soft glow of lamplight, the book still open in his hands, his other arm curled around you.

You jolted upright. “I—I fell asleep?”

He turned a page, unfazed. “You did.”

“Why didn’t you… move me?”

“You were comfortable.”

Something warm settled in your chest.

The others feared their Overseers.

You… didn’t.

----

The monthly check-up was as clinical as you expected.

You stood in line with the others as the aliens inspected each human and their Overseer. Their hands were cold when they touched your wrist, scanning something beneath your skin that you couldn’t see. Beside you, Alhaitham stood perfectly still.

When it was your turn, the alien tilted its head, studying you both.

"Report" 

"No irregularities. Compliance is maintained."

Then, the alien released your wrist and moved on.

You barely breathed until you were outside.

The walk home was tense. Alhaitham’s hand rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

Once you were far enough away, his voice dropped low.

"Don’t react."

You kept your steps even.

"They were watching us more closely than usual." 

"Why? What’s happening?"

His fingers pressed slightly against your spine. "Not here."

So you stayed silent the rest of the way, your pulse loud in your ears.

The moment the door closed behind you, you let out a shaky breath.

Alhaitham didn’t relax—if he ever did—but his shoulders lost some of their rigid tension. He moved to the window, drawing the blinds shut before turning back to you.

"They suspect something" he said simply.

"Like what?"

"It doesn’t matter yet. Just follow my lead."

You wanted to argue. To demand answers. But the look in his eyes stopped you.

So you nodded.

And then, because you needed something to distract yourself, you turned to the chores.

You were scrubbing dishes when he appeared beside you.

"Let me help."

"No, it’s fine. I’ve got it."

"You’re tired."

"I’m fine."

Reluctantly, he let go. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you worked.

"You don’t have to hover"

"I’m not hovering," he said, "I’m observing."

That night, curled under the blankets with the lights dimmed, you finally dared to ask.

"Do they know?"

Alhaitham glanced up from the book in his hands. "Know what?"

"About how you’re different."

"It’s complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"We’re not meant to be too attached."

You frowned. "But the others—their Overseers control everything."

"Control isn’t the same as attachment" 

You hesitated before asking the next question. "Do you… know the other Overseers?"

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

"We’re aware of each other," he admitted after a moment. "But we don’t… interact."

"Why not?"

He closed the book slowly. "Because some of them wouldn’t approve of how I handle you."

You didn’t ask anything else after that.

----

The television was your one escape.

In this strange new world, where every move was monitored and every choice scrutinized, the flickering glow of the screen offered a sliver of normalcy.

Celebrities still performed, still lived their lives—albeit with their own Overseers hovering just off-camera.

Tonight, the entertainment news was buzzing about a rising star—a young singer with a voice like spun sugar and a smile that could melt glaciers. But it wasn’t her who caught your attention.

It was her Overseer.

Blond hair swept back in elegant waves, eyes like molten honey, dressed in a tailored suit that shimmered under the studio lights. His one hand resting lightly on the singer’s shoulder as she gushed about her new home.

"Kaveh designed everything himself," she said, "He knows exactly what I like!"

The camera panned to him, and he smiled.

You leaned forward, intrigued.

"Huh. I didn’t know Overseers could be so…"

You trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Obnoxious?"

You jumped. Alhaitham’s voice was dry as dust, right beside your ear. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

"I was going to say ‘expressive,’" you muttered, eyes still glued to the screen.

Kaveh was gesturing now, explaining some architectural detail with animated flair.

"He’s very…"

"Loud" Alhaitham supplied.

"I was thinking ‘attentive.’"

A hand covered your eyes.

You yelped. "Hey—!"

"Change the channel"

You batted at his wrist. "I’m watching that!"

"No, you’re staring at him."

You could hear the frown in his voice.

"Are you jealous?"

His grip on you tightened, just slightly.

"I’m ensuring you don’t develop poor taste."

You snorted. "Oh, so now you’re an art critic?"

"I don’t need to be a critic to recognize gaudy excess."

On screen, Kaveh laughed at something, head thrown back, golden hair catching the light.

Alhaitham’s fingers twitched.

You smirked. "You are jealous."

For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, in one smooth motion, he plucked the remote from your hand and switched the channel.

A nature documentary. Elephants.

You groaned. "Really?"

"Educational" he said flatly, settling beside you.

You elbowed him. He didn’t budge.

----

The streets were quieter these days.

Not out of peace—but out of fear.

The Overseers walked among them, their presence a constant reminder of the new order.

You kept your pace brisk, arms wrapped around yourself as you turned the corner toward home. The sun had barely set, but the alleyways were already swallowed by gloom.

You heard it.

The rustle of fabric.

Then, a gasp.

Your steps faltered.

Curiosity warred with instinct, and against your better judgment, you glanced toward the sound.

Two figures pressed against the brick wall, tangled in each other. A woman, her fingers clutching the collar of a man’s shirt—her Overseer—as he kissed her.

Alhaitham was waiting by the door when you stumbled inside, your face burning, pulse hammering in your throat.

He took one look at you and arched a brow.

"You’re flushed."

"It’s—it’s nothing," you stammered, toeing off your shoes with too much force. "Just walked too fast."

He didn’t move. Just watched as you all but fled to the kitchen, busying yourself with the kettle like your life depended on it.

"You’re a terrible liar."

The kettle clattered against the stove. "I’m not lying."

"Your pulse is elevated. Your breathing is uneven. And you won’t look at me." He stepped closer. "So. What happened?"

"I just saw something… unexpected."

"Define ‘unexpected.’"

"Why do you care?" you snapped, finally turning to face him.

"Because," he said slowly, "if something—or someone disturbed you, I’d like to know."

You exhaled sharply. "It wasn’t like that. I just… saw a couple. In the alley."

A pause. Then, understanding dawned.

"Ah."

"Yeah." You rubbed your temples. "Can we just… not talk about it?"

"As you wish."

Life went on.

You worked. You ate. You read together in the evenings.

But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you’d catch him studying you.

Neither of you mentioned the alley again.

----

It was your day off, and the apartment was quiet without Alhaitham.

He had left early.

So you did what any sane person would do in a world where sanity was a luxury.

You turned on the TV.

The News: Love, Obedience, and Rebellion

The first channel was a broadcast of some government-approved talk show.

"Today, we discuss the beautiful bonds between humans and their Overseers!" she chirped, gesturing to a panel of guests.

A woman in a pastel dress clasped her hands together. "My Overseer knows me better than I know myself. He anticipates my needs before I even realize them!"

A man nodded fervently. "Resistance is pointless. Why fight when they only want what’s best for us?"

Then the screen cut to footage of a protest—or what used to be one. The rebels were being dragged away, their faces bloodied.

"Those who refuse harmony must be… corrected" the host said.

You changed the channel.

The next channel was pure entertainment.

There they were again—the rising starlet and her dazzling Overseer, Kaveh. They sat on a plush couch, her fingers laced with his as she giggled at some interviewer’s question.

"We’re just so in sync," she sighed, leaning into him. "It’s like he was made for me."

Kaveh smirked, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. "I was."

The audience swooned.

You rolled your eyes—but couldn’t help the twinge of curiosity. Was this… real? Or just another performance for the cameras?

A knock at the door startled you.

You fumbled for the remote, switching off the TV just as Alhaitham stepped inside.

He paused in the doorway, gaze flicking from you to the darkened screen.

"You’re tense"

"Just watching junk TV," you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest.

Alhaitham set down a bag of groceries. "What did you see?"

You hesitated. "The usual. Rebel crackdowns. And, uh… your friend Kaveh."

"He’s not my friend."

"You know him, though."

"We’re aware of each other. That’s all."

The commotion outside was sudden.

You and Alhaitham exchanged a glance before rushing out, joining the crowd gathering in the street.

A group of rebels had been cornered, their faces desperate as they fought against their Overseers. One of them, a woman, raised her hands, and a surge of violet energy erupted from her palms, aimed straight at the enforcers.

But the blast went wide.

Straight toward you.

A shimmering barrier of geometric green energy materialized in front of you, absorbing the attack.

You turned, stunned.

Alhaitham stood with one arm outstretched, his eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly teal hue.

The rebels were subdued moments later, dragged away by their Overseers. The crowd murmured, some in awe, others in fear.

But all you could focus on was him.

Back inside, you finally found your voice.

Alhaitham didn’t answer immediately, pouring tea with deliberate calm.

"All Overseers have abilities" he said at last. 

You stared.

He sipped his tea.

A long silence stretched between you before he spoke again.

"They’ve offered me a promotion."

You blinked. "A… what?"

"Better resources." His gaze met yours. "A safer district."

You hesitated. "Oh."

"You don’t seem excited."

"I just…" You fidgeted with your cup. "I didn’t realize Overseers could get promotions."

"Neither did I. But it would mean better living conditions. For you."

"Do you want to take it?"

"I want to know what you want."

You exhaled. "I’m fine either way. As long as…"

"As long as?"

"As long as you’re still you."

He nodded.

"Then we’ll stay."

----

The knock at the door came when you least expected it.

You had been lounging on the couch, flipping through an old book, when the sharp rap of knuckles against wood made you jump. Setting the book aside, you peered through the peephole—only to see a tall, uniformed officer standing stiffly on your doorstep, his Overseer hovering just behind him.

You hesitated.

Then opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” the officer said, “I’m here for a routine follow-up.”

“A follow-up?” You frowned. “On what?”

“Your Overseer’s recent… declination of a promotion. May I come in?”

You swallowed hard but stepped aside.

The officer strode in, his Overseer following like a ghost. The moment they crossed the threshold, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier.

“You have a lovely home,” the officer remarked, though his gaze was sharp, scanning every detail—the books on the shelf, the half-drunk cup of tea on the table.

“Thanks,” you muttered. “Can I ask why this is necessary?”

“Just ensuring everything is in order.” He turned to face you fully. “Your Overseer is an exceptional case. His refusal was… unexpected.”

“He has his reasons.”

“And what might those be?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

The officer’s smile thinned. “I intend to.”

The door opened just as the officer was reaching for another question.

Alhaitham stepped inside, the moment his eyes landed on the intruders, the temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.

“Officer,” he said, “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Just a routine check. Your refusal of the promotion raised some… questions.”

“And have you found your answers?”

“For now.”

Before leaving, the officer cast one last glance at you.

“We’ll be in touch.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

You let out a slow breath. “That was—”

“Unnecessary.” 

“They’ll keep looking.”

“Let them.”

The night was quiet when Alhaitham slipped out.

You were deep in sleep, unaware of the weight of his gaze lingering on you before he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then he was gone.

Kaveh’s residence was predictably opulent, a gleaming testament to his charge’s fame. The lights were still on when Alhaitham arrived, the sound of faint music drifting through the windows.

He didn’t bother knocking.

Kaveh looked up from his drafting table.

“Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alhaitham didn’t waste time. “I need your help.”

Kaveh arched a brow. “Oh? And why would I help you?” He gestured lazily around the room. “I’m quite comfortable where I am, thank you.”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll dismantle this little paradise of yours piece by piece.”

Then Kaveh sighed dramatically, tossing his pencil aside. “Ugh, fine. I was joking anyway. You’re so tedious when you’re serious.”

Kaveh leaned back, crossing his arms. “So. What’s the plan?”

“We gather the dissidents.”

“And then what? Storm the capital with sticks and righteous fury?” Kaveh snorted. “The masters aren’t exactly pushovers.”

“No,” Alhaitham agreed. “Which is why we don’t fight them directly. Not yet.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We infiltrate. Until the time comes—”

“We strike.” Kaveh finished.

“I’m talking about freedom.”

Then Kaveh exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “...Fine. But if this goes south, I’m blaming you.”

Alhaitham turned to leave. “Naturally.”

In the weeks that followed, whispers began to spread.

A network of rebels, slowly coalescing under the guidance of two leaders.

Kaveh, with his charm and connections, gathered sympathizers among the elite.

Alhaitham, with his cold precision, identified weaknesses in the system.

And you?

You remained blissfully unaware.

But change was coming.

----

Alhaitham had left that morning with the same quiet efficiency as always.

But when he returned, something was off.

The door slammed open with a force that made you jump.

Alhaitham stood in the doorway, his eyes colder than you’d ever seen them.

“You’re still here”

“...Yeah? Where else would I be?”

He didn’t answer. Just strode past you.

You watched, unease coiling in your stomach, as he began methodically inspecting the apartment—touching objects, scanning the shelves, as if searching for something.

“Alhaitham, what’s going on?”

He paused. Turned. And when his eyes met yours, there was nothing familiar in them.

“You will address me as Overseer.”

Days passed like this.

The Alhaitham you knew was gone, replaced by this hollow, aggressive shell.

You hated it.

But what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was the truth beneath the act.

The way his fingers twitched when your voice wavered.

The way his jaw clenched when you flinched away from him.

The call came on the seventh day.

A coded message, hidden in plain sight—a news broadcast about construction delays in the capital.

Alhaitham listened. Nodded once.

Then waited until you were in bed before slipping out.

Kaveh was already there, leaning against a crumbling wall in the abandoned sector.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered. “I was starting to think they’d actually wiped you.”

Alhaitham didn’t dignify that with a response. “Status?”

“The brainwashing tech is centralized in the Tower. If we hit it during the shift change, we can disable it long enough to free the others.”

“And the masters?”

Kaveh grinned, “Oh, they’ll definitely notice.”

Then Alhaitham nodded. “Good.”

----

When he came back, dawn was just breaking.

You were awake, curled on the couch, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders.

The door opened. Closed.

“...You’re up.”

His voice was different. Softer. 

The Alhaitham who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, he's finally back.

“It’s over” 

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You crashed into him, arms wrapping around his waist, face buried in his chest. Relief flooded you so violently your knees nearly buckled. He was back. He was himself.

Alhaitham stiffened for a fraction of a second—then his arms closed around you. His breath shuddered against your hair.

>4 hours ago - The Tower<

The brainwashing facility wasn’t just a building.

It was a slaughterhouse.

Alhaitham moved through the halls, his blade slicing through guards. Blood painted the walls. The air reeked of iron and ozone, the stench of seared flesh from the malfunctioning machines.

Kaveh was at his side.

"They’re rerouting security—we have five minutes before the masters lock this place down!"

Alhaitham didn’t respond. Just wrenched open the control panel.

A scream echoed from deeper in the facility.

Human.

Not dead yet.

They found the prisoners strapped to tables, their skulls hooked to machines. Some twitched. Some wept. Some didn’t move at all.

One—a young woman with dark hair matted to her face—jerked against her restraints as Alhaitham passed.

"P-please… kill me…"

He didn’t.

He cut her free instead.

She collapsed, sobbing, into Kaveh’s arms.

The alarms blared.

They came.

The masters.

Tall, gleaming, their obsidian skin reflecting the flickering emergency lights. One lifted a hand—and the air rippled, a shockwave of force hurling Kaveh into the wall.

Alhaitham barely dodged.

The master tilted its head.

"Defective."

Alhaitham’s blade shattered on the second strike.

He didn’t flinch. Just pivoted, driving the broken shard into the master’s throat. The creature staggered—

And then Kaveh was there, driving a stolen energy core straight into its chest.

The explosion blew out half the floor.

The facility collapsed behind them, flames licking at the sky. The survivors—those they could free—stumbled after them.

Kaveh was laughing.

Alhaitham wasn’t.

He was thinking of you.

>2 hours ago - The Mothership<

The masters’ true stronghold wasn’t on Earth.

It hung in the sky like a grotesque moon, a jagged obsidian monolith pulsing with sickly violet light. Getting inside had required more than just violence—it required precision.

Alhaitham moved through the ship’s corridors along with Kaveh, their path littered with the corpses of the creatures who had once ruled your world.

At the heart of the ship, suspended in a web of bioluminescent cables, was the Core—a living, breathing mass of writhing tendrils and neural tissue.

"You are flawed."

Alhaitham didn’t argue.

He plunged his blade into its center.

The Core didn’t die.

Alhaitham’s fingers worked swiftly, tearing into its neural pathways, rewriting its purpose.

Peace.

A forced one, yes. A lie, perhaps.

But better than slaughter.

The Core shuddered, its violet glow shifting to a soft, steady gold.

The change rippled outward—through the ship, through the planet, through every Overseer still connected to the network.

Including him.

The Core couldn’t sustain itself.

It needed fuel.

Alien blood.

So, when the time came, Alhaitham returned.

He fed the Core with the lifeblood of its own kind, ensuring the illusion of peace held firm.

And when it was done, he came back to you.

>Months later<

"Where have you been?"

"I have some unfinished business."

This world—this peace—wasn’t the masters’ design.

It was his.

----

Sunlight spilled through the curtains as Alhaitham stirred beside you, his arm draped lazily over your waist.

He enjoys those moments.

He'd read his books in the garden.

Sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d smile, as he watched you hum over breakfast or lose yourself in a novel.

The world outside might never know the truth, but here, in this stolen peace, it didn’t matter.

[heliosunny]

Heaven’s Gold Noose

Yandere!Sunday x Reader

Life hasn’t been kind to you.

Every job interview ends in rejection.

Every relationship fizzles out.

Even your coffee always spills at the worst possible moment.

But then… he appears.

A man with soft, feathered wings and a halo—Sunday, your newly assigned guardian angel.

"The celestial council has reviewed your past life," he murmurs, "You were a soul of pure kindness. And now, in this life, you’ve been given misfortune as a test."

His fingers brush your cheek, "But don’t worry. I’m here to guide you."

You should feel relieved. But...

Now, he’s sitting across from you at a café, dabbing at his stained white robes with a napkin while giving you a pained but patient smile.

"Okay, let me get this straight. You’re an angel. From Heaven. And you’re here to… what, fix my life?"

"Precisely! Consider me your divine guardian—" "Uh-huh. And how much is this ‘heavenly guidance package’ gonna cost me?"

"I would never—! This is a sacred duty, not some… earthly pyramid scheme!"

You take a long sip of your (third) coffee, squinting. "Prove it."

Without missing a beat, he plucks a feather from his wing and offers it to you. "A token of my sincerity."

You grab it—then yelp as it bursts into golden sparkles in your palm.

"Okay, that was cool. But I still think you’re either a hallucination or a really dedicated cult recruiter."

You wake up the next morning to find your broken phone fully charged, your dead plant thriving, and your cat suddenly fluent in Latin ??

"…Did you just say ‘ave dominus’?"

"Meow." 

Then, Sunday materialized just behind you.

"Ah! I see you’ve noticed my small blessings!"

"Dude! Do you have to pop up like a jump scare?!"

"Apologies. I forget earthly beings are so… fragile."

----

You’re on a terrible date (third one this month—curse your bad luck) when Sunday manifests in the restaurant’s chandelier, glaring daggers at your oblivious companion.

"So, I think splitting the bill is only fair—"

"HERETIC."

"SUNDAY. NO."

"Uh… did you just say ‘Sunday’?"

"Yep! Gotta go! Bye!" 

Outside, Sunday floats beside you, pouting. "That man was unworthy of you."

"Yeah, well, possessing the lighting fixtures isn’t gonna help!"

"But you did leave with me."

"Oh my god—"

----

At first, you thought it was all some elaborate joke—or worse, a scam. A literal angel showing up in your life? Yeah, right.

But after weeks of inexplicable blessings: your rent mysteriously paid, your chronic back pain vanishing overnight, even your perpetually dying houseplants suddenly flourishing... You finally gave in.

"Fine," you muttered one evening, throwing your hands up as Sunday hovered expectantly by your window. "You can stay. But no more weird angel stuff, okay?"

"I shall adhere to your mortal customs... within reason."

You set boundaries, of course. You weren’t religious, and the idea of divine intervention still made you uneasy. But Sunday was... different. He wasn’t preachy or holier-than-thou. He was just... there.

You kept your distance, treating him more like an overly affectionate roommate than a celestial being. He respected your space, though his presence lingered in small ways—freshly brewed tea waiting when you woke up, your favorite snacks restocked before you even realized they were gone, and an unsettlingly perfect knowledge of your schedule.

"You don’t have to do all this" you told him once, frowning at the spotless kitchen.

"But I want to" he replied, "Your happiness is my purpose."

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you just nodded awkwardly and went about your day.

Then came the day you almost died.

Tires shrieked against asphalt as headlights flooded your vision—too bright. Your coffee cup slipped from numb fingers, hitting the pavement in a burst of scalding liquid. The truck’s grille filled your entire field of view, chrome gleaming like a predator’s smile.

You had half a second to think: This is how I die.

You gasped, blinking as you found yourself standing safely on the sidewalk, Sunday’s arms wrapped tightly around you. His wings were fully unfurled, casting an eerie glow in the dim streetlights.

The sound of screeching metal filled the air as the truck crashed into the guardrail right where your car should have been.

Your legs gave out.

Sunday caught you before you hit the ground, cradling you against his chest.

The warmth of the milk cup seeped into your fingers as you sat curled up on the couch, the near-death experience still fresh in your mind. Sunday sat across from you, his wings now neatly folded behind him, his golden eyes watching you with quiet intensity.

The silence stretched, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

----

You both returned home after that.

You took a slow sip of your warm cup of milk, then finally spoke.

"So… when are you leaving?"

Sunday blinked, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Leaving?"

"Yeah. Like, is there an expiration date on this guardian angel gig? Do you get reassigned? Or do you just… vanish one day when Heaven decides I’ve had enough blessings?"

"Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not here on a temporary assignment."

"So… you’re stuck with me forever?"

"Not stuck," he corrected gently. "Chosen. My presence isn’t bound by time. I stay as long as you need me."

"Which is…?"

"However long that may be. Perhaps a lifetime. Perhaps longer."

"Okay, next question," you said, shifting topics before your brain could spiral. "Do other angels do this? Just… move in with humans and fix their Wi-Fi and scare off bad dates?"

Sunday tilted his head. "Some do, in their own ways. But most guardians are subtler. They prefer signs, whispers, the occasional miracle. I, however…" He gestured to himself, wings and all. "I believe in a more hands-on approach."

"No kidding." you muttered.

"Besides," he added, "you’re special."

You ignored the way your face warmed at that.

"Last question," you said, pointing at his robes. "Heaven’s got, like, upgrades, right? You guys aren’t all harps and scrolls up there?"

Sunday laughed in a rich, melodic sound. "Oh, we’re quite modern. Cloud computing is literally cloud-based. The Pearly Gates have biometric scanning. And the angels in charge of mortal affairs? They love spreadsheets."

You nearly choked on your milk. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly." He leaned forward, mischief dancing in his gaze. "Would you like to see my divine tablet? I have an app that tracks prayer requests in real time."

You stared. "…You’re joking."

He pulled out a sleek, glowing device from thin air.

"Nope."

As the night wore on, you learned more than you ever expected:

Angels have hobbies. Sunday’s was composing hymns… and binge-watching human dramas.

They adapt to human culture. He preferred loose sweaters over robes at home ("More comfortable for lounging") and had strong opinions about coffee brands.

Heaven does have WiFi. ("But the connection in the mortal realm is terrible.")

At first, you had to remind yourself constantly: Sunday is invisible to everyone else.

You’d catch yourself mid-conversation in public, only to bite your tongue when strangers shot you weird looks. You learned to text him instead of speaking out loud, to nudge him under the table when he laughed too loudly at a restaurant, to pretend you were on a phone call when he whispered warnings in your ear.

But slowly… you stopped caring.

Because Sunday wasn’t just your guardian angel anymore.

He was your best friend.

You’d wake up to find him humming hymns while making breakfast, his wings brushing against the ceiling.

He’d sit beside you on the couch, scrolling through memes on his divine tablet and snickering at cat videos.

When you had nightmares, he’d stroke your hair until you fell back asleep, murmuring, "I’m here."

You started looking forward to coming home—to his warmth, his laughter, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you.

----

One evening, as you lounged together, Sunday suddenly went still.

"There’s something I need to tell you." 

You tensed. That tone never meant anything good.

"You weren’t just randomly assigned to me," he admitted. "You… you’re not entirely mortal."

"What?"

"Your soul—it’s different. " His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. "That’s why I was sent. Not just to protect you, but to… prepare you."

"Prepare me for what?"

He hesitated. "One day, you’ll have to decide—stay human, or ascend."

All this time… he’d known.

And he never told you.

"So what, this was all just a mission to you? All the—the tea, the jokes, the saving my life—just part of the job?"

Sunday’s expression shattered. "No. Never." He reached for you, but you flinched away. "I was supposed to guide you, yes, but my feelings—my devotion—that’s real."

"Then why hide the truth?"

"Because I was afraid!" The raw desperation in his voice stunned you. "Afraid you’d hate me. Afraid… you’d choose to leave."

You stared at him.

And yet…

You still didn’t know if you could trust him.

You needed time.

So you did the only thing you could—you walked away.

And Sunday, for once, didn’t follow.

At first, you told yourself it was fine.

But then…

Your coffee went cold because he wasn’t there to reheat it with a touch.

Your nightmares returned, and there were no gentle hands to soothe you.

The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, like the world itself had dimmed.

And worst of all?

You missed him.

Meanwhile, in Heaven…

Sunday stood before the Celestial Council.

"Remove their name from the records," he demanded, "They don’t belong in this trial."

The council murmured amongst themselves.

"The choice was never yours to make, Sunday." 

"You would fall for them?"

Sunday didn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

Three days passed.

Then, on the fourth morning, you woke to the scent of fresh tea and the sound of rustling wings.

Sunday stood at the foot of your bed, his form flickering—like a star about to burn out.

You sat up, "You… you look terrible."

And he did. His glow was dim, his wings frayed at the edges. But his smile was the same.

"I had to see you one last time." he whispered.

"What do you mean, last time?"

"I made a choice. You won’t have to."

And then—

He began to fade.

For weeks, you searched.

You screamed his name into the empty air. You prayed—something you’d never done before. You even tried to bargain with the universe.

"Bring him back. Please."

Until—

It was a rainy afternoon when you saw him.

A man sitting by the window, his eyes scanning the street with an expression so achingly familiar it stole your breath.

But he wasn’t Sunday.

Not quite.

No halo. Just a human—or something close to it—with a faint, lingering glow at the edges of his silhouette.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up.

You stood in front of him.

He looked up.

"Do I… know you?"

It was him.

And he didn’t remember.

You smiled politely at the stranger with golden eyes, exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries, and walked away.

What else could you do?

He didn’t remember you.

And maybe… that was for the best.

----

That night, he dreamed. Visions of a life he never lived flickered behind his eyelids—a celestial choir, a mortal with your face, the weight of devotion so fierce it burned like holy fire.

He woke gasping, fingers clutching at his chest.

And then—

His voice.

"You loved them enough to fall," whispered the shadow of his former self in the mirror. "Are you really going to let them walk away?"

Piece by piece, the memories returned.

The way you used to scowl at him for hovering too close.

The sound of your laughter when he tried (and failed) to understand mortal slang.

The betrayal in your eyes when he told you the truth.

And worst of all—

The way you looked at him in the café.

Like he was nothing.

Like Sunday had never existed.

-----

He found you again on a stormy evening, standing at your doorstep, drenched and desperate.

"You know me," he said, "Don’t you?"

You froze, keys slipping from your fingers as you tried to insert it to the keyhole.

This wasn’t the same man from the café.

"Sunday?"

"You remember."

"No," you lied, turning away. "I don’t."

The moment you lied—"I don’t know you"—something in Sunday snapped.

Before you could turn the key fully, his hands slammed against the door on either side of you, caging you in. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in.

"Liar" he whispered.

His fingers curled into the wood, splintering it slightly as he spoke.

"I gave up everything for you," he hissed. "Heaven cast me out the moment I begged them to spare you from your fate."

His nose brushed against the nape of your neck, sending a traitorous shiver down your spine.

"And you dare pretend I never existed?"

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you from behind, crushing you against him.

"I don’t regret it," he murmured, lips grazing your skin. "Even if Heaven abandons me forever, even if I have to claw my way through eternity alone—you will never be alone again."

He was no longer an angel.

At first, the changes were small.

Almost kind.

You used to wake up groggy, stumbling to the coffee maker like a half-dead thing. Now, there’s no need. Sunday is already there, pressing a steaming cup into your hands before your eyes even fully open.

"You function better with caffeine before seven," he murmurs, "I’ve timed it perfectly."

He learns your preferences down to the smallest detail. The way you prefer your eggs (soft-scrambled, no pepper). The exact number of seconds you like your toast browned.

(You try not to wonder what else he’s memorized.)

This is where it gets dangerous.

You mention offhand that you don’t like your coworker. The next day, they transfer departments.

You sigh about the noisy neighbors. That night, their apartment goes mysteriously silent.

"Sunday," you say slowly, "are you—?"

"Making your life easier?" He tilts his head, innocent. "Of course. That’s my purpose."

(He doesn’t mention the blood on his hands. You don’t ask.)

Then comes the night you catch him editing your journal.

You freeze in the doorway, watching as his fingers glow faintly over your open notebook—words rewriting themselves under his touch.

"What are you doing?"

Sunday doesn’t startle. He just turns, smiling beatifically.

"Fixing it," he says, as if it’s obvious. "You were too hard on yourself here. And this memory?" He taps a page. "It hurt you. Now it won’t."

"That’s not your choice."

For the first time, his smile falters.

"Isn’t it?" He stands, stepping closer. "Who knows you better than me? Who loves you more?"

His hand cups your cheek.

"Let me perfect you."

You wake up one morning with a gap in your memory.

A childhood birthday party—except now, when you try to recall it, there’s a new figure standing beside you in every photo.

A boy with golden eyes.

That’s not how you remember it.

That time you failed your driving test? Erased. Now it’s Sunday in the passenger seat, guiding your hands on the wheel. "Perfect" he praises.

The funeral you barely survived? Rewritten. He’s there, holding you up, taking the pain away.

You clutch your head, dizzy.

"This isn’t real."

Sunday smiles, stroking your hair.

"Isn’t it better this way?"

You remember now—the truth.

The day you almost died in that car crash.

How Sunday didn’t just save you.

How he leaned over your bleeding body and whispered:

"Let me make it all beautiful."

And then—

Nothing.

Just him.

Always him.

[heliosunny]

Yandere!DemonKing Oikawa Tooru x Reader

You had no idea how you ended up here. One moment, you were booting up that new fantasy RPG your friend had gifted you: "Defeat the Demon King and Save the World!" and the next, you were blinking under the dim torchlight of a cold, damp dungeon.

Your head throbbed as you sat up, chains clinking around your wrists. The last thing you remembered was the game’s title screen flashing before your vision swallowed you whole. 

"HEY! YOU THERE!"

You turned your head to see a tall, lean figure stepping into the flickering light.

You recognized him instantly—not just from the game’s lore, but from the way he carried himself like the world was his personal stage. The self-proclaimed demon king, a man who ruled with a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

"You’re… Oikawa Tooru."

His smirk widened. "Oh? You know my name? How delightful." He crouched down in front of you, tilting his head. "And yet, you don’t seem the least bit afraid. Most people tremble just hearing it."

You were afraid. Terrified, even—but you’d be damned if you let him see it.

Oikawa’s fingers brushed your chin, forcing your gaze up. "What’s even more interesting is that my ability doesn’t work on you." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you know how rare that is?"

You didn’t answer. You had no idea what he was talking about.

He chuckled, standing up and dusting off his immaculate coat. "No matter. I’ll have plenty of time to figure you out." His smile turned sharp. "Consider yourself my new toy!"

With that, he turned on his heel and left, the dungeon door slamming shut behind him.

You slumped against the wall, heart pounding.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

----

Every time Oikawa summoned you for his "game" your body tensed with instinctive dread.

The first time, he had given you a ten-second head start before chasing you through the twisted, thorn-laced forests of his domain.

The second time, he had blindfolded you and left you in the middle of a ravine, whispering in your ear, "Run fast. I love the thrill of the chase."

And now, for the third time, you were exhausted, your legs trembling as you pressed yourself against the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, trying to quiet your ragged breaths.

Somewhere in the shadows, Oikawa’s voice sang out, taunting.

"Come now, darling~ You can’t hide forever."

The last two times, you had barely escaped—more out of sheer luck than skill. Oikawa was toying with you, drawing out the hunt like a cat playing with a mouse.

A twig snapped nearby.

Your heart stopped.

Then—a hand clamped over your mouth.

"Stop moving. He’ll hear you."

Iwaizumi Hajime - Oikawa’s right-hand man, the only demon in this hellish court who didn’t seem to revel in your suffering.

You stilled, and Iwaizumi slowly released you. His sharp eyes scanned the trees before he jerked his chin toward a hidden path. "This way. Now."

You didn’t hesitate.

His quarters were sparse compared to Oikawa’s lavish chambers—practical, with weapons lining the walls and a sturdy wooden table covered in maps.

Iwaizumi pushed you onto a stool before grabbing a cloth and a vial of dark liquid. Without a word, he began cleaning the cuts along your arms.

"You’re lucky," he muttered. "He’s getting bored of just hunting you. Next time, he might actually try to kill you."

You winced as the antiseptic stung. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because someone in this damned court should have a shred of decency."

You stared at him.

He sighed, running a hand through his spiked hair. "Look. that man’s… different. He’s always been like this—obsessed with things that amuse him, things that challenge him. And right now, that’s you."

"So what do I do?"

Iwaizumi met your gaze. "Survive."

When he returned you to your chamber, a slightly upgraded cell with an actual bed, you collapsed onto the thin mattress, exhaustion dragging you under.

But as you drifted off, one thought burned in your mind:

Oikawa wants a game? Fine.

But this time, I’ll play to win.

You woke to the weight of an arm draped over your waist.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty~ Did you dream of me?"

You stiffened, but before you could react, he rolled you onto your back.

"I was thinking," he mused, tracing a finger down your cheek, "that today’s game should be a little more… exciting."

A snap of his fingers, and the chamber doors burst open.

A monstrous, lion-like beast prowled inside—muscles coiled beneath its dark fur, fangs glistening with drool. Its glowing eyes locked onto you like prey.

"Meet my pet, Kuro. He hasn’t eaten yet."

Kuro snarled, crouching low—ready to pounce. As Kuro lunged, you moved, ducking under his massive paws and grabbing the first thing your fingers brushed against.

Oikawa’s wrist.

You yanked.

There was a pop as his arm dislocated at the shoulder, his hand tearing free from his sleeve.

For a single, stunned second, Oikawa blinked at his own severed limb.

"HAH?!"

You hurled his still-twitching hand straight into Kuro’s open jaws.

The beast chomped down instinctively. Kuro’s ears twitched. His massive head tilted. Then, slowly, he licked his chops and let out a low, rumbling purr, nuzzling against your leg like an overgrown housecat.

Oikawa stared.

You stared back.

Then, to your horror, his lips curled into the most terrifyingly delighted smile you’d ever seen.

"You just stole my demon beast. How rude~"

You braced for retaliation—but instead, Oikawa just laughed, flexing his already-regenerating fingers as his arm stitched itself back together.

"I’ll let it slide this time," he mused, stepping closer. "But next time" His fingers brushed your throat. "I won’t be so forgiving."

Kuro licked your face.

You groaned.

What have I gotten myself into?

----

The castle was eerily quiet when you slipped out.

Oikawa’s absence was a stroke of luck.

But you didn’t stop to question it.

You half-expected Kuro to come bounding after you, or worse—Oikawa himself, materializing from the darkness with that infuriating smirk.

But nothing happened.

By the time you reached the human village, your legs ached and your breath came in ragged gasps. The wooden gates creaked open, and wary eyes studied you before recognition flickered in their gaze.

A woman with sun-worn skin and calloused hands stepped forward. "You’re the one the demon king’s been hunting, aren’t you?"

"Word travels fast. Don’t worry—we don’t turn away strays here."

The village was small but nothing like the cold, gilded halls of Oikawa’s domain. People moved, trading goods, sharpening blades, murmuring about the growing threat of the Demon King’s forces.

A weathered hunter handed you a rolled parchment. "You’ve got fire in you if you survived him. Might as well put it to use."

The commission was simple: Clear the nearby ruins of shadowbeasts.

As night fell, you sat by the hearth, listening to stories of this world—the wars, the lost heroes, the whispers of a prophecy.

"They say the Demon King can’t be killed by just anyone," an old man muttered, swirling his drink. "Only someone from another world can end him."

The days in the human village had been strangely peaceful. You spent your time honing your newfound abilities, testing the limits of your strength, speed, and even a flicker of magic you hadn’t realized you possessed. The villagers watched in awe as you felled shadowbeasts.

Leveling up.

The thought almost made you laugh. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was survival.

"You’re a natural," the village hunter remarked one evening, tossing you a freshly forged dagger. "Ever think about joining a proper adventurer’s guild?"

You caught the blade, spinning it between your fingers. "Maybe. But I’ve got other things to deal with first."

Whispers had been spreading—of a legendary Hero’s party marching toward the Demon King’s domain, armed with sacred relics and sworn to end Oikawa’s reign.

Finally. A real chance to see someone stand against him.

That morning, you volunteered to gather rare herbs from the forest’s edge, a task that conveniently brought you closer to the main road where the Hero’s party was said to pass.

BOOM.

The ground trembled. Birds scattered from the trees in a flurry of wings. Your head snapped toward the horizon, where the distant silhouette of Oikawa’s castle stood against the sky.

A second thunderous crash echoed, this time followed by a flash of blinding light—magic.

"What the hell…?" 

The Hero’s party. They must have arrived early.

And they were attacking.

You ran to witness the scene.

The closer you got, the louder the sounds of battle became—clashing steel, shouted spells, the occasional roar of something monstrous.

Kuro?

You burst into a clearing just in time to see the castle’s outer walls crumbling, dust and debris raining down. A group of warriors stood at the gates—four figures.

"My, my~ You came all this way just to die?"

A tall swordsman with a blazing golden aura—stepped forward, his blade pointed at Oikawa’s throat. "Your reign ends today, demon."

"Oh, I adore when they say that."

Then his gaze locked onto you.

"Ah. There you are."

He knew you were watching.

The world seemed to slow as Oikawa raised a single hand, his fingers curling with dark intent. The air itself warped around him. A pulse of black energy erupted from his palm, swallowing the Hero’s party whole.

That was his worst spell? And he’d cast it like it was nothing.

Oikawa sighed, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. "Honestly, I expected more from the so-called Hero." His gaze slid to you, amusement dancing in his eyes. "But I suppose I have you to thank for the real entertainment."

Vines burst from the earth, coiling around your limbs before you could react. They dragged you forward, thorns biting into your skin as you were hauled toward him.

Iwaizumi stood silently at his side. Kuro whined low in his throat, recognizing you, but a single glance from Oikawa had the beast flattening its ears and staying put.

"Did you miss me?" Oikawa purred, tilting your chin up with a clawed finger. "Or did you really think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking off?"

You gritted your teeth. "I wasn’t sneaking. I left."

"Oh? And yet, here you are again." His grip shifted, fingers wrapping around your throat "Did you enjoy your little rebellion? Playing hero with the villagers? Watching those fools march to their deaths?"

"At least they tried to stop you."

"And you? What will you try, I wonder?"

You spat in his face.

He wiped his cheek with his sleeve, his smile never fading. "How adorable."

You summoned the first spell that came to mind—a weak spark of fire, barely more than an ember—and hurled it at him.

He flicked it away like a gnat.

"Did you really think that would work?" His grip tightened, cutting off your air for one terrifying second before releasing you just as quickly.

"Tonight, you’ll learn what happens to naughty little runaways."

Then he turned, snapping his fingers. The vines dragged you after him as he strode back toward the castle, Iwaizumi falling into step beside him. Kuro whined again, padding after you, but Oikawa didn’t so much as glance back.

---

The grand hall of Oikawa’s castle was steeped in shadow, the air thick with the weight of whispered strategies and the clink of goblets. The Demon King lounged on his throne, one leg draped carelessly over the armrest, as his most fearsome subordinates debated border skirmishes in hushed, venomous tones.

Iwaizumi stood at his right, arms crossed.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH—!"

The doors burst open with a crash.

Every head in the room snapped toward the sound, weapons drawn in an instant��only to freeze at the sight before them.

You. Dripping wet. Barefoot. Wrapped in nothing but a hastily clutched bath towel.

"THERE’S A GIANT FUCKING CENTIPEDE IN THE BATHS!" you shrieked, pointing behind you with a trembling hand.

"Pfft—"

Oikawa dissolved into laughter, his shoulders shaking as he nearly toppled off his throne. "Oh my god—" he wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "This is the best day of my life."

The rest of the demons just stared. Some looked horrified. Others looked like they were seriously reconsidering their life choices.

Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

A skittering, chittering noise echoed from the hallway.

Your face went pale. "IT’S COMING—"

The doors exploded inward as a monstrous, segmented horror—easily the size of a horse—surged into the room, mandibles clicking, dozens of legs scuttling across the marble floor.

Oikawa, still grinning, lazily lifted a hand.

"Honestly, darling, you bring the weirdest things home."

A blade of pure shadow sliced through the air—and the centipede popped like an overripe grape, ichor splattering across the floor in a grotesque arc.

You stood there, towel still clutched to your chest, breathing hard.

Oikawa sighed dreamily. "I adore you."

The bath water had long gone cold by the time you finally dragged yourself out, your muscles still tense from the earlier ordeal. The servants had left a tray of food outside your door—roasted meat, warm bread, a goblet of spiced wine—but they refused to meet your eyes as they scurried away. Their fear was palpable.

You ate in silence, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. The bed looked like salvation—soft furs, plush pillows—and you nearly collapsed into it, ready to let sleep claim you.

Then the door creaked open.

"Tired?"

You didn’t even bother sitting up as he stepped inside.

"What do you want?" you muttered into the pillows.

He tsked, circling the bed like a predator. "So rude. After I saved you from that dreadful little pest?"

You scoffed. "You laughed."

"Because it was hilarious." He perched on the edge of the bed, his fingers trailing along the curve of your shoulder. "But now, I think it’s time for us to have a proper chat."

"Let’s start simple," he mused. "Your name."

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. "You don’t know it?"

"I could rip it from your mind if I wanted. But where’s the fun in that?"

Reluctantly, you gave in.

He hummed, testing the syllables on his tongue like a fine wine. "Hm. It suits you."

"Now, about that punishment I promised you..."

"You did think I’d forget, didn’t you?" 

You tried to twist away, but he was faster, he flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath him.

"Oikawa—"

"Ah-ah." He tutted, leaning down until his lips brushed your ear. "No more games tonight."

Then his teeth sank into your shoulder.

You gasped, pain flaring hot and sharp as he bit down before pulling back with a satisfied smirk.

"There." He licked the blood from his lips. "Now you’ll remember who you belong to."

And with that, he was gone—leaving you with the sting of his mark.

The bite mark on your shoulder burned every time you even thought of defying Oikawa. A cruel little failsafe—his way of ensuring you couldn’t act against him without consequence.

But you weren’t about to let that stop you.

If you couldn’t fight him directly, you’d find another way.

Rumors whispered through the castle halls—of something powerful hidden deep beneath the dungeons, locked away where even Oikawa’s most trusted demons dared not go.

You waited until the dead of night, when the torches burned low and the guards were sluggish with boredom. You stole the key and soon you were slipping down the winding stone stairs, the air growing colder with every step.

Sobbing.

That… wasn’t what you expected.

At the end of the corridor, curled in the farthest cell, was a child.

A small demon boy with messy hair and a single, jagged horn. His eyes snapped to you the moment you stepped into view.

"Who… who are you?" 

You hesitated. "I could ask you the same thing."

He shrank back slightly. "Kageyama Tobio."

Your grip tightened on the key.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

You hadn’t expected what happened next.

The moment the cell door creaked open, Kageyama changed.

His small frame twisted, bones cracking, shadowy energy erupting around him as he grew—taller, broader, until a monstrous, horned demon loomed over you, his once-childish face now sharp with fury.

His voice was a roar, shaking the dungeon walls.

You barely had time to dive out of the way before Kageyama slammed through the stone ceiling, debris raining down as he surged upward—toward the castle.

The entire fortress shook as Kageyama tore through corridors. Demons scrambled, alarms blared, and somewhere in the distance, you heard Oikawa’s voice—laughing.

"Oh? Tobio-chan decided to join the party?"

It took him nearly an hour to subdue Kageyama.

When he landed in front of you, his coat was singed, his hair disheveled, but his grin was vicious.

"Did you miss me that much? You could’ve just asked for my attention."

You glared. "I was trying to prank you, not unleash a demonic disaster."

"Even better." His thumb brushed your lip. "But next time? Ask me first."

The bite mark on your shoulder burned in warning.

Note to self: No more freeing mysterious dungeon children.

Oikawa Tooru—no, just Tooru now, as he’d so imperiously insisted—had made one thing very clear:

“No more trouble, darling.”

You ignored him.

Because while he may have forbidden you from directly undermining him, he never said anything about… research.

The Demon Kingdom was vast, its citizens varied—lesser demons, shadowbeasts, even the occasional cursed spirit lurking in alleyways. And yet, one thing united them all:

Their baffling obsession with Oikawa Tooru.

You’d seen it before—the way servants tripped over themselves to please him, the way warriors preened under his attention, the way even the most fearsome demons turned into blushing messes with a single smirk from him.

But why?

And more importantly—how could you use it against him?

“Excuse me,” you said, cornering a flustered imp in the kitchens. “On a scale of ‘terrified’ to ‘would die for him,’ how would you rate your loyalty to Lord Oikawa?”

The imp squeaked. “W-Would die isn’t high enough—”

Noted.

You moved on.

A towering, battle-scarred demon general? “His laugh haunts my dreams. In a good way.”

A shy librarian demon with too many eyes? “H-His hands are so elegant…”

Even Kuro, when you bribed him with extra meat: “He scratches behind my ears just right.”

By sundown, your chamber was a disaster of scattered notes, hastily scribbled rankings, and one very incriminating pie chart titled:

“Reasons People Are Down Bad for Oikawa Tooru (And How To Exploit It).”

You didn’t notice the door creak open.

You definitely didn’t notice the two figures standing in the doorway, one visibly exasperated, the other…

“Oh my,” Oikawa purred, plucking a sheet off the floor. “Is this a ranking of how attractive my subjects find my smile?”

Your head snapped up.

Oikawa was already flipping through your notes, his grin widening with every page. “’Voice like melted sin’? ‘Hair so soft it’s unfair’? Darling.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m flattered.”

“It’s not a compliment. It’s data.”

“Data you collected because…?”

“Because I’m figuring out how to ruin you”

Oikawa burst out laughing. “I adore you.” He tossed the papers back onto the bed. “By all means, keep going. I’d love to see what you do with this.”

And with that, he strolled out—leaving you surrounded by evidence of his own infuriating charm.

That night, you collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, papers strewn around you.

Somewhere in the mess was the real answer—the key to unraveling him.

You just had to find it.

The knock startled you awake—three sharp raps against your chamber door. You groaned, shoving aside the mountain of research notes you’d fallen asleep on, and stumbled to open it.

A demon you’d never seen before stood there, his armor scuffed and his single yellow eye gleaming in the dim torchlight.

“Kageyama Tobio requests your presence” 

You blinked. “…He’s locked up.”

The demon shrugged. “And yet, he asked for you.”

Curiosity won out.

Kageyama looked even worse than before—pale, his horn cracked, chains thicker than last time digging into his wrists. But his eyes burned with an intensity that made you pause.

“You’re the one from another world” 

“How do you know that?”

“That didn't matter.” His gaze flickered to the guard, who stepped outside, leaving you alone. “There’s a way to kill Oikawa Tooru. And a way for you to go home.”

“True love’s blade,” he continued. “The Namidagiri—the Sword of Tears. It lies at the bottom of Lake Akuyami, in the Valley of Lament. Stab him through the heart with it, and he dies.”

You frowned. “That sounds like a fairy tale.”

“It’s the only thing that can kill a demon king,” Kageyama insisted. “And you—you’re the only one who can wield it. Because you don’t belong here.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I loathe him.”

You left the dungeon in a daze.

It’s just a game.

That’s what you told yourself.

If I kill him, I go home. And he’ll just respawn. No consequences.

So why did your chest ache at the thought?

Your research came in handy.

Lake Akuyami was a cursed place, said to drown anyone who tried to swim in it. But according to your notes, Oikawa had hated it since childhood.

“Too many sad memories” a servant had scribbled in the margins of an old ledger.

Weakness confirmed.

Now, you just had to find the damn sword.

The journey took three days.

The lake was exactly as described—a mirror-smooth obsidian void, nestled between jagged cliffs.

You took a deep breath and dove in.

The water was cold. Not just temperature-cold, but soul-cold, like it was leaching the warmth from your very bones. You swam deeper.

There.

Embedded in the lakebed, glowing faintly, was a blade of pure silver.

You grabbed it.

Your fingers closed around the hilt of the Namidagiri—and the moment you pulled, the lake itself seemed to recoil.

The blade snapped in half.

You barely had time to register the broken shard in your hand before the lake’s fury erupted—currents twisting like enraged serpents, dragging you toward the depths. You kicked wildly, lungs burning, until you breached the surface, gasping.

Clutched in your grip was only the top half of the legendary sword, its edge still gleaming with an eerie silver light. The rest remained lodged in the lakebed.

"Damn it" 

But half a blade was better than none.

You returned to the castle, the fractured Namidagiri hidden beneath your cloak.

Kageyama’s words haunted you.

"Stab him through the heart."

But how? Oikawa was always on guard.

So you played the part he wanted.

The next few days, you doted on him like a lovesick fool.

You brought him his favorite wine.

You laughed at his jokes (even the terrible ones).

You let him drape himself over you like a spoiled cat, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin as he murmured about how adorable you were.

Iwaizumi watched you with narrowed eyes, clearly suspicious, but Oikawa?

Oikawa was delighted.

You had to wait for the perfect moment.

That night, as you lay beside him in the dim candlelight, his breathing slow and even, you finally let yourself think it:

What if this isn’t just a game?

What if Oikawa didn’t respawn?

What if killing him meant he was just… gone?

"You’re thinking too loud" Oikawa murmured, his voice thick with sleep. His arm curled around your waist, pulling you closer. "Whatever it is… it can wait until morning."

"Right..."

The moment the broken Namidagiri pierced the air toward Oikawa’s heart—his hand snapped up, catching the blade just before it could strike true.

Blood dripped between his fingers, dark and shimmering like liquid shadow.

"You really thought that would work?"

Oikawa tilted his head, studying you with something between amusement and hurt. "After everything I’ve given you. After all the fun we’ve had. You’d really try to kill me?"

"It’s the only way home." You answered truthfully.

His grip on the blade tightened, his blood staining the sheets. "Home?" A bitter laugh. "You think that’s what this is about?"

"Or is it that you’ve already got someone else in your heart?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Someone you’d rather belong to?"

You recoiled. "What? No—"

"Or maybe," he continued, advancing on you, "you just hate the idea of being mine so much that you’d rather die than stay."

The bite mark on your shoulder burned, again.

You gasped, but before you could react, Oikawa was on you—pinning you down, his free hand tearing at your clothes.

"Fine," he growled. "If you need a reminder of who you belong to, I’ll carve it into your skin myself—"

Your fingers closed around the other half of the Namidagiri—the shard that had flown from your grip moments ago—and with a desperate cry, you plunged it into his chest.

Oikawa staggered back, staring down at the blade buried to the hilt in his heart.

"...Hah."

A trickle of blood spilled from his lips.

His knees hit the floor.

The world shattered.

You woke up.

The familiar glow of your computer screen greeted you with the word "VICTORY" flashing.

You were home.

A shaky laugh escaped you as you slumped back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. It had worked. You’d won.

The mark on your shoulder was gone.

Then—

A crash from the kitchen.

Your apartment was supposed to be empty.

Heart pounding, you grabbed the nearest weapon (a half-empty water bottle) and crept toward the noise.

The fridge door was open.

A tall, familiar figure stood in front of it, humming as he rummaged through your snacks.

No fucking way.

He turned, holding up a yogurt cup with a smirk.

"You really need to stock better desserts."

Your grip on the water bottle tightened.

"Motherf—"

[heliosunny]

Oooo, I thought of something maybe slightly cute! What about a yan Jing Yuan x Reader, but the reader tends to be much more affectionate with other people, and tends to be pretty formal with Jing Yuan?

Like...reader will hug and ruffle the hair of Yanquing and Yunli (much to their chagrin), but tends to be much more stiff with affection toward Jing Yuan, if showing him any at all. Maybe the reader thinks being affectionate with Jing Yuan would be considered inappropriate, considering he is the general and 'The Divine Foresight.'

The perfect distance

Yandere!Jing Yuan x Reader

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the Seat of Divine Foresight as you stepped through the grand doors, a small satchel of medicine tucked under your arm. Jing Yuan sat at his desk, the usual stack of reports before him, though his gaze lifted the moment you entered.

"Good morning, General." you greeted with a polite bow.

"Ah, if it isn't my diligent healer." he mused, resting his chin on his palm. "Come to check on me again?"

"Of course. The healers at the Alchemy Commission insisted on a follow-up after your last mission." You approached, setting the satchel down neatly before stepping back, hands clasped behind you.

"Always so dutiful. You know, a little informality wouldn’t hurt."

"Respect is important, especially for someone of your standing."

He chuckled, but there was a weight to it. "Is that so?"

Before he could say more, the doors burst open, and Yanqing stumbled in, panting. "General! The—oh, Y/N! You're here!"

Your entire demeanor shifted instantly. A bright smile broke across your face, and before Yanqing could react, you reached out, ruffling his hair with a laugh. "Look at you! Did you run all the way here?"

"Hey—stop that!" Yanqing protested, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Jing Yuan's fingers twitched against his desk.

You only grinned, giving Yanqing’s cheek a playful pinch before turning back to the general—your expression smoothing back into polite professionalism. "My apologies for the interruption, General. I’ll ensure your medicine is properly prepared."

Jing Yuan hummed, his gaze lingering on you. "No need to apologize."

You were warm with everyone else—affectionate, even. But with him? Only proper distance.

-----

The Alchemy Commission was bustling as usual when you arrived, the scent of herbs and medicine thick in the air. Lingsha glanced up at you.

“Back again so soon?” she teased, setting down a mortar and pestle. “Don’t tell me the General’s been overworking himself again.”

You sighed, leaning against the counter. “You know how he is. I swear, if I didn’t bring him his medicine personally, he’d forget it entirely.”

Lingsha chuckled, but then her expression turned sly. “Speaking of the General… anything new with him?”

“New? Well, his recovery is progressing, though he still insists on working through fatigue. His blood circulation—”

She held up a hand, cutting you off. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then…?”

“I mean, anything interesting? You’re around him all the time, and yet you never have anything to say about him besides his health reports.”

You shrugged. “There’s nothing else to say.”

Lingsha gave you an incredulous look. “Nothing? You’re telling me that the man who half of the Luofu sighs over doesn’t warrant any personal commentary from you?”

You frowned, genuinely confused. “I don’t see why it matters. I’m just doing my job.”

“That’s exactly the problem! You treat us like family. But with him, you act like a soldier reporting to a superior.”

Unbeknownst to you both, a certain silver-haired general had paused just outside the doorway, having been on his way to greet you—until the conversation took an unexpected turn. Now, he stood just out of sight, arms crossed, listening with far too much interest.

You sighed. “It’s different with him. It would be improper to act casually.”

“He’s still a person, you know.”

Jing Yuan, still eavesdropping, nodded silently in agreement.

You shook your head. “It’s not that simple. I respect his position too much to overstep.”

“Is that so?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Jing Yuan stepped into view.

“G-General!” you stammered, immediately straightening your posture.

“Speak of the devil.”

“I had no idea my presence was so… intimidating.”

You swallowed hard. “Not intimidating! Just… respectable.”

“Respect is one thing. But treating me like a statue is another, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure how to respond.

“Even he thinks you’re too stiff.”

Jing Yuan hummed in agreement. “Indeed. I was just passing by, but it seems I’ve stumbled upon quite the enlightening conversation.”

Your face burned.

Oh, this was bad.

----

The streets of the Xianzhou Luofu were alive with celebration—lanterns glowed warmly against the dusk, the scent of spiced wine and roasted delicacies filled the air, and laughter echoed through the bustling plaza. It was one of many festivals the Luofu held, but this one was special: a gathering to mark the General’s full recovery.

You hadn’t expected such an event to be held in his honor, much less to be personally invited. But when the summons arrived, you couldn’t refuse.

Dressed in simple but elegant robes, you arrived early, intending to help with the preparations. Yet the moment you reached for a stray decoration to adjust it, a familiar voice stopped you.

“Now, now. Must you always be working?”

You turned to see Jing Yuan standing behind you.

You quickly bowed. “General. I just thought I’d assist—”

“You’ve done more than enough,” he interrupted smoothly. “Tonight, you should enjoy yourself.”

You hesitated, but nodded. “…Understood.”

Jing Yuan lingered for a moment, as if waiting for something more, but when you said nothing else, he chuckled and turned away, disappearing into the crowd to attend to his duties as host.

Left to your own devices, you did what came naturally—you kept busy.

You helped a group of children untangle their kite strings, laughing as they tugged at your sleeves, begging you to join their game. You chatted with the servers, exchanging jokes and lighthearted complaints about the hectic preparations. And when you spotted a young man struggling with a heavy tray of fruits, nearly tripping into a table, you immediately stepped in, steadying him before disaster could strike.

“Careful” you said, helping him adjust his grip.

He exhaled in relief. “Thank you! I swear, these trays are cursed.”

You grinned. “Just take it slow.”

He smiled back, grateful, and before long, the two of you found yourselves sitting at one of the long banquet tables, sharing a drink and easy conversation. He was a junior clerk from the Sky-Faring Commission, you learned, and his stories about bureaucratic mishaps had you laughing into your cup.

You didn’t notice the pair of golden eyes watching from across the plaza.

Jing Yuan stood near the edge of the festivities, a cup of wine untouched in his hand.

How effortlessly you showed warmth to others.

And yet, with him, you still kept that careful distance.

Then, with deliberate steps, he began making his way toward your table.

The clerk noticed first, nearly choking on his drink when he recognized the approaching figure. “G-General?!”

“Mind if I join you?”

You weren’t entirely sure how you ended up being whisked away from your conversation, but Lingsha had appeared out of nowhere, looping her arm through yours with a cheerful, "There you are! I need your help with something!" before dragging you off without another word.

"What’s the emergency?"

She huffed, adjusting the sleeve of her robe. "This sash won’t stay straight. Fix it for me?"

You sighed but obliged, fingers deftly retying the fabric. "You could’ve asked one of the attendants."

"And miss the chance to rescue you? Please. You had no idea what is going to happen next."

You paused. "…What?"

Lingsha waved a hand. "Never mind. Just—try not to look so approachable to random people tonight, okay?"

Before you could ask what she meant, she was already slipping back into the crowd, leaving you standing there, confused.

Shaking your head, you decided to find Yanqing and Yunli instead—familiar faces, easy company. You spotted Yanqing first, the young swordsman grumbling as he tried (and failed) to sneak a pastry from one of the dessert trays. You snuck up behind him and ruffled his hair.

"Hey—!" He whipped around, scowling, but the moment he saw it was you, his expression shifted to exasperated fondness. "Oh. It’s you."

"Miss me?"

He rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away when you playfully tugged at his ponytail.

Yunli, ever the composed one, merely raised an eyebrow as you approached. "Must you torment him?"

"Absolutely," you said, reaching up to adjust the slightly crooked pin in her hair. She sighed but allowed it, her lips twitching in amusement.

Meanwhile, across the plaza, Jing Yuan was surrounded.

People of all kind—all vying for his attention, some with thinly veiled flirtation. He smiled, nodded, gave polite replies, but his gaze kept drifting—past them, past the crowd, to where you were, laughing with his disciple as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The night had been a blur of laughter, music, and far too many cups of Xianzhou’s strongest liquor. You hadn’t meant to drink so much—truly, you hadn’t—but between Yanqing daring you to try the spiced wine and Lingsha cheerfully refilling your cup every time it emptied, you’d lost track.

By the time you realized you were swaying on your feet, it was too late.

The world spun pleasantly as you wandered away from the feast, the cool night air a welcome relief against your flushed skin. The lanterns blurred into golden streaks, the distant hum of voices fading as you found yourself near one of the Luofu’s tranquil ponds, the water shimmering under the moonlight.

You plopped down at the edge, legs dangling precariously over the water, and giggled to yourself.

Oops. Maybe too close.

You leaned forward—just a little—to peer at your reflection, but your balance betrayed you.

For a brief, dizzying moment, you felt yourself tipping—

Then strong arms caught you, pulling you back against a firm chest.

“Now, now,” a familiar voice murmured, “That would be a rather undignified way to end the night, don’t you think?”

You blinked up at him.

His silver hair glowed under the moonlight, his golden eyes crinkled in amusement. He looked unfairly handsome, and in your drunken state, you saw no reason not to say so.

“Wow,” you breathed, reaching up to poke his cheek. “You’re really pretty.”

His eyebrows shot up.

Then he laughed—a deep, rich sound that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Is that so?”

You nodded sagely. “Mhm. Like a painting.”

His gaze softened. “And here I thought you only saw me as ‘The Divine Foresight.’”

You scrunched your nose. “That’s stupid.”

“Oh?”

“You’re Jing Yuan,” you declared, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You laugh at bad jokes. You forget your medicine. You let Yanqing win sometimes even though he definitely doesn’t deserve it.”

“I see alcohol makes you rather… honest.”

You sighed dramatically, flopping back against him. “I’m always honest. You just never listen.”

He hummed, shifting to steady you. “Then perhaps you should tell me something else.”

“Like what?”

“Why,” he said, voice dropping to a murmur, “you treat everyone else with such ease… but with me, you keep your distance.”

You frowned, struggling to form a coherent thought through the haze of liquor. “Because… you’re important.”

“And that means I deserve less of your kindness?”

“No!” You huffed, frustrated. “It means I can’t mess up. If I’m too casual, if I say the wrong thing—what if you realize I’m not as put-together as I pretend to be?”

The confession tumbled out before you could stop it.

Jing Yuan went very still.

Then, slowly, he tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “That’s what you’ve been worried about?”

You pouted. “It’s a valid concern.”

He chuckled, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “Silly thing. Do you really think I don’t know you?”

“I’ve watched you scold Yanqing for skipping training,” he continued, amused. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet in the halls. I know you sneak extra sweets when you think no one’s looking.”

Your face burned. “You—noticed that?”

“I notice everything,” he said, “Especially when it comes to you.”

Your drunken brain short-circuited.

Before you could respond, he sighed, shifting to lift you into his arms. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere you won’t drown.”

You whined but didn’t protest, too busy marveling at how nice his chest felt to lean against.

Somewhere in the distance, Lingsha watched the scene unfold—then smirked and turned away, deciding some things were better left uninterrupted.

>The Morning After<

Your head pounded.

Groaning, you buried your face into the pillow, willing the world to stop spinning.

Wait.

Not your pillow.

Your eyes flew open.

This was not your room.

Oh no.

Fragmented memories flashed in your mind—Jing Yuan’s arms around you, his laughter, your embarrassingly honest rambling—

You sat bolt upright, then immediately regretted it as your skull throbbed in protest.

A cup of water and a small vial of medicine sat on the bedside table, along with a note:

"Drink this. We’ll talk later."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you scurried into the Alchemy Commission, still nursing the remnants of your hangover. The moment you arrived, you grabbed the nearest healer by the sleeve.

"Switch shifts with me. Please. I'll owe you forever."

They blinked at your desperate expression but shrugged. "Uh… sure?"

You nearly collapsed in relief. Perfect. Now you could hide behind the counter, avoid all human interaction, and—most importantly—never have to face him again.

-----

The General of the Luofu was distracted.

Reports lay unfinished on his desk, his usually sharp mind clouded with thoughts of you—your drunken confession, the way you'd curled against him, the way you'd finally spoken to him without that infuriating formality.

And then you'd vanished.

His fingers tightened around his brush.

Did you regret it?

Was it just the wine talking?

Or worse—had that clerk from the Sky-Faring Commission caught your interest instead?

The brush snapped in his hand.

"…I see."

He exhaled slowly, setting the pieces aside. He was Jing Yuan, the Divine Foresight. He did not lose composure over such things.

…Yet here he was, standing up, cloak already swinging over his shoulders as he strode out of his office.

Fine. If you wouldn’t come to him, he’d find you himself.

----

You were safe.

Hunched behind the counter, pretending to organize herbs, you let out a slow breath. Maybe if you stayed here long enough, he’d—

"Where is Y/N?"

Your blood turned to ice.

You ducked lower, praying that he wouldn’t see you.

"They, uh… switched shifts?" the other healer said nervously.

Footsteps. Moving away.

You nearly sobbed in relief.

…Until a shadow loomed over you.

"Hiding, are we?"

Slowly, painfully, you turned your head.

You swallowed.

"G-General! I—uh—was just—"

"Crawling away?" he supplied helpfully.

You winced.

Before you could react, his hand shot out, gripping the back of your collar like a misbehaving kitten. "Up."

You yelped as he hauled you to your feet.

You knelt before him in the empty side room, hands raised in surrender, face burning with shame.

"Explain."

You gulped. "I… may have acted inappropriately last night."

"Oh?" He tilted his head. "How so?"

"I—I drank too much. I said things I shouldn’t have. I embarrassed myself—and you—and then I ran away like a coward—"

"So you do remember."

You nodded miserably.

"And yet," he continued, voice dropping, "instead of facing me, you chose to hide?"

You flinched. "I thought… you’d be angry."

"Angry?" He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. "I was worried."

Your eyes widened.

"Now," he said, stepping closer, "come here."

You blinked. "Wh—?"

"I can’t hear you from there."

You hesitated, then shuffled forward on your knees until you were right in front of him.

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his voice a low murmur.

"Now. Tell me again—why did you run?"

"I… was scared."

"Of?"

"Of… you realizing I’m not as composed as I pretend to be."

"I already told you—I know you."

You bit your lip.

"And," he added, fingers brushing under your chin, "I rather like the real you."

"So no more hiding," he murmured. "No more formality. Understood?"

You nodded weakly.

"Good." He straightened, offering you a hand. "Now get up. We have work to do."

You took it, your face still burning.

After The Incident (as you now referred to it in your head), things… changed.

Not drastically—you weren’t suddenly clinging to Jing Yuan’s arm or calling him by some ridiculous nickname—but the stiffness in your interactions had melted away.

You still bowed when necessary, still addressed him with respect, but now…When he made a terrible joke during strategy meetings, you rolled your eyes instead of forcing a polite laugh. When he "forgot" his medicine (again), you scolded him openly instead of couching your words in deference. And when he teased you—which was often—you gave as good as you got.

Jing Yuan, for his part, seemed delighted by this shift.

But there was something else, too.

A lingering glance when someone spoke to you a little too familiarly.

A casual step closer when a visiting diplomat eyed you with a little too much interest.

A look—one that had even Yanqing gulping and backing away when he tried to drag you into another ill-advised sparring match.

At first, you thought you were imagining it.

But then Lingsha smirked at you over her tea.

"You really don’t see it, do you?"

"See what?"

She just laughed.

Whispers spread through the Luofu.

"Did you hear? The General personally reprimanded that merchant for overcharging them."

"He reassigned three clerks just because they were rude to Y/N in passing."

"I heard he nearly leveled a training ground because someone accidentally knocked them over during drills."

(That last one was an exaggeration.…Probably.)

It hit you one evening, as you sat across from him in his study, reviewing supply reports.

He was leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed from running a hand through it one too many times. He looked… relaxed.

And then it struck you—

He likes having you here.

Not as a subordinate.

Just… as you.

Jing Yuan noticed your stare and raised an eyebrow. "Something on my face?"

You shook your head, smiling slightly. "No. Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit" he teased.

You threw a crumpled piece of paper at him.

He caught it effortlessly, grinning.

No one dared to mistreat you.

No one dared to overstep.

And no one—absolutely no one—dared to flirt with you within Jing Yuan’s line of sight.

(You weren’t sure whether to be exasperated or touched.)

But when you mentioned it to him, he merely sipped his tea and said,

"I have no idea what you’re talking about."

You snorted.

Liar.

-----

I'm currently facing writer's blockkkkkkkkkkkkk.(╥﹏╥)

[heliosunny]

Hello! Wondering if you can do a fic with Anaxa? Maybe how he uses his gun to scare off other people from Reader?

Yandere!Anaxa x Reader

The scent of musk, sweat, and perfume clung to the air. Somewhere, silk rustled against bare skin, a stifled giggle was followed by a drawn-out moan. You sat stiffly on the cushioned floor, hands bound loosely in front of you.

Everything had gone black since that night.

The night your palace burned.

You’d watched the throne crumble, the flags torn down, the screams of your people. And then something—someone—had struck you down. The flash was so bright, you swore the stars themselves had bled into your retinas. Now all you saw was a sea of endless dark.

“Do you like the sounds?” a teasing voice asked. The man’s footsteps creaked closer. “Such a waste for someone like you to be blind... Can’t even see what you’re missing.”

That voice belonged to him—Kallius. He had taken you after the siege, claimed you like one might claim a broken heirloom, only to toss it onto the shelf for entertainment. At night, he brought women into the room and made a show of his indulgence, whispering cruel things to test your limits.

You flinched as the moans grew louder, fake and over-exaggerated, designed to pierce your ears like knives. One woman laughed as Kallius pressed her against the wall with a thud.

“This is what pleasure sounds like. Do you remember what that is?” he mocked.

“Why are you doing this…?”

“Oh? Still talking?” he chuckled. “Guess I’ll have to turn up the volume.”

There was another groan, sharper, more dramatic. You winced. You wanted to cry—but even your tears had dried up by now.

Then… the door burst open.

The moan cut off into a gurgled scream.

A warm spray misted your cheek.

You didn’t need your sight to know something was very, very wrong.

The woman had fallen silent. The other girls gasped, scrambling backward. You heard a soft metallic clink… the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

“…Big brother” Kallius muttered. There was a hint of amusement, but also fear. “You’re no fun.”

Anaxa stood in the doorway, the scent of smoke clinging to his coat.

“Too loud” Anaxa said flatly, stepping inside. “And you touched what's mine.”

You blinked, feeling something warm drip down your cheek. You reached up hesitantly—and felt it.

Blood.

You couldn’t even scream.

Anaxa knelt beside you, his hand brushing your ear gently. “Cover these,” he whispered, “You don’t need to hear what comes next.”

He stood again,“Out. Now. Before I forget to be merciful.”

There was a scramble of footsteps—heels on tile, fabric dragging. A whimper. Then silence again, broken only by Kallius’ low chuckle.

“You’re obsessed..”

“You’re still breathing. Be grateful.”

And then… his arms scooped you up, pulling you close to a chest you recognized even without your vision.

“You don’t belong in filth like that.”

You didn't reply. You didn’t even know how to. But you let yourself be carried, your face still warm with blood, your heart pounding against cracked ribs.

You didn’t know how to feel. You sat motionless in the chair by the fireplace, the blood still crusted on your cheek, a ghost of the earlier violence.

When he carried you into his chambers, Anaxa said nothing for a long time. He simply set you down on soft sheets and crouched in front of you. You could feel his eyes scanning every inch of your skin, his hands surprisingly gentle, checking your wrists, your arms, your face.

“…No bruises” he murmured. “Good.”

He didn’t speak after that. Just the quiet shuffle of him standing and walking away.

You heard the door close behind him with a metallic click. Locked—from the outside.

You exhaled, not realizing you'd been holding your breath.

Time passed strangely.

Minutes. Hours. Maybe longer.

Eventually, footsteps approached. The door opened, and cautious voices whispered to one another.

Servants. Two of them, women by their tones, helping you out of the stiff, bloodied clothes and into clean, silken ones. Warm water ran over your hands as they wiped your skin delicately.

They didn’t explain anything. Maybe they were too afraid.

You wanted to ask about your eyes, about a healer—anything. But all that came out was a hoarse, “Can I stay inside?”

“…His Highness says the fresh air will help.”

Later, as the sun—or what you assumed was the sun—shifted behind thick curtains, the door opened again.

You knew it was him. Even without seeing, you felt him.

That scent—faint gunpowder.

“Come” Anaxa said.

You stayed sitting on the bed, unsure, hugging your knees. “I’m fine here…”

“No, you’re not.”

He was closer now, and you didn’t even hear him move.

“You need to remember the world hasn’t ended. You’re still breathing. I made sure of that.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’ll hold your hand. I won’t let you fall.”

You hesitated. But your fingers still reached out, searching… and found his.

You let him guide you.

-------

Later that evening, you heard new footsteps

“The doctor you requested.”

Anaxa didn’t speak at first. He merely shifted beside you on the couch.

“Your Highness. With permission?”

Anaxa gave a quiet grunt, then turned to you. “He’s here to help. Let him.”

The doctor’s hands were cold. He checked your eyes, held lights near them—though you couldn’t tell how bright.

“Your eyes are healing, but slowly. The shock trauma caused temporary cortical blindness. It’s not permanent, but… you’ll need care. Rest, above all.”

Night crept in.

You curled beneath heavy blankets in the oversized bed, your thoughts swimming. Was this safety? Or just another cage?

The house was silent—until it wasn’t.

A soft creak.

Then another.

You shifted slightly, “Anaxa…?”

No response.

Suddenly, a rough hand clamped over your mouth.

You thrashed instinctively, but the body pressed against yours was larger, heavier.

“Shhh…”

Kallius.

“I missed that little shiver,” he said, pinning you to the bed, his breath hot and sour against your skin. “You really are a fine little plaything. No wonder Anaxa’s been hiding you like some precious gem.”

You couldn’t move—your limbs locked in panic.

“Let’s see how loyal he is,” Kallius murmured, dragging his fingers slowly down your arm. “Maybe he’ll still want you once I’ve had my fun. Or maybe he’ll finally toss you aside like broken glass.”

He shifted closer, the weight of his body pressing into you.

Your teeth clamped down on his hand.

“Ah—!!”

He yanked back with a growl.

You didn’t wait—you bolted. Your knees hit the cold floor. You didn’t care. You ran blindly through the halls.

“Y/N?”

You slammed into him chest-first, trembling.

He caught you instantly.

“What happened?”

Before you could even form the words, Kallius’s voice echoed down the hall.

“They bit me. Can you believe that?”

Anaxa didn’t reply. Not with words.

You felt the way his body stilled.

And then you heard it—the click of the safety coming off his gun.

“Woah, woah—easy, big bro-”

Kallius raised his hands in mock surrender, limping into view with a forced grin. “No need to point that thing at me. I was just teasing.”

Anaxa didn’t lower the gun.

He aimed directly at his brother’s thigh—and fired.

Kallius collapsed with a grunt of pain, hand clutching his bleeding leg as he cursed under his breath.

“I warned you” Anaxa muttered, already turning away with you still in his arms.

The next few days passed in an odd hush.

Kallius was nowhere to be heard.

In the meantime, servants tended to you more gently now.

But Anaxa was gone.

The quiet he left behind wasn’t comforting.

You still couldn’t see.

But your other senses sharpened. The scent of old books in the library. The breeze through the courtyard. The way sunlight warmed your face. You began taking walks with someone guiding you, or on your own when you were brave enough.

That’s where he found you—by the tall hedges in the east garden, tracing your fingers along rough bark and damp petals.

“I see you haven’t lost your curiosity”

You turned toward the sound. “You’re back.”

“Did you miss me?” he asked playfully.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t mind.

“When I was younger. I was being pushed around by older kids in the village.”

You tilted your head slightly, unsure where this was going.

“There was a tree,” he continued, “with a single apple left. I couldn’t reach it. But someone else did. Not afraid of dirt or climbing. They picked it, dropped it down, and we split it right there under the branches like we were friends.”

You stood still.

“I always remembered that day,” he added, “because it was the first time someone didn’t look at me like I was nothing.”

He took a step closer. His fingers brushed your wrist.

“Come on. You’re tired,” he murmured. “Let’s get you back.”

The halls felt less threatening now, though you still didn’t know what to make of the man at your side—gentle and monstrous, savior and tormentor. He was all of it, layered and unreadable.

Late into the night, after servants had gone and silence had settled, you spoke:

“Anaxa.”

He stirred from where he stood near the balcony, the scent of fresh air clinging to him. “Hmm?”

“I want to know what you look like.”

That made him pause.

“I can’t see,” you continued, “but maybe I could… get an idea.”

You reached your hand out hesitantly.

He didn’t move at first.

Then, without a word, he stepped closer—close enough that his presence warmed your skin. You lifted your fingers carefully and brushed them across his jaw. You moved upward, tracing the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose—sharp, symmetrical. His lips were still.

And then your fingertips ghosted over something foreign.

An eyepatch.

You paused.

“...Is something wrong with your eye?” you whispered.

He flinched slightly under your touch, but didn’t pull away.

“It’s just… a memorable moment”

You could feel the unspoken weight in those words.

You lowered your hand slowly, heart aching with a strange mix of fear and fascination.

Anaxa didn’t speak again. He simply helped you lie down, adjusting the blanket, making sure you were warm.

And as his footsteps faded into the next room, your thoughts drifted somewhere darker.

Because no matter how gently he touched you…

No matter how many times he said you’re safe…

You remembered who he was.

You remembered the screams. The flames. The night everything ended.

He had stood there.

He hadn’t just found you in the ruins. He had helped create them.

He killed your family.

The moment you were stronger—when your legs could carry you, and your eyes opened again—you’d leave.

No matter what it cost.

That morning, a guard approached with a message:

“His Highness summons you to the east tower.”

Anaxa never sent for you through anyone else.

But the guard bore his seal.

So you followed.

You climbed the winding steps slowly, fingers brushing the cold stone walls. The wind bit sharper the higher you went, and by the time you reached the terrace, something already felt… off.

“Kallius?” you whispered, recognizing the scent—too sweet, like wine overripe.

He was waiting by the railing.

“My brother’s little pet… You just never learn.”

The world dropped beneath you.

You didn’t even have time to scream.

CRACK.

Everything went black.

When the news reached Anaxa, his silence was more terrifying than any scream.

“Where?”

“Th-the east tower. The guards—found them at the base. Alive, but unconscious.”

“Bring Kallius to the pit.”

Kallius was dragged in, his leg still limping from the bullet wound. He grinned as though it were a joke.

“Oh come on, brother, really? They tripped. Clumsy little thing—”

Anaxa shot him in the other knee.

He raised his gun again.

But before he could give the final command, the chamber doors burst open.

A woman ran in—one of Kallius’s devoted.

“Wait—please!” she cried. “He only did it because of that person! They're poisoning you, you don’t see it—”

Anaxa turned his eye on her.

“…So you want to die with him.”

“N-no, I—”

“Fine.”

He nodded once to his soldiers.

“Skin her too.”

Kallius’s screams were drowned out by hers.

-----

Back in the upper chamber, you still hadn’t woken.

Wrapped in bandages. Blood dried at your temple.

Anaxa sat by your bedside, unmoving.

He hadn’t spoken since he returned.

But his hand was wrapped tightly around yours.

It was days before your eyes finally fluttered open.

Everything was blinding at first—white bandages, the sharp sting of light. A pressure in your skull throbbed, dull and heavy, but—

You could see.

And sitting beside you, head bowed with exhaustion… was him.

When he noticed your eyes open, his single visible eye went wide.

“…Y/N”

Relief washed over his features like breaking thunder. He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and cupped your cheek—but stopped himself before fully touching you.

“You’re back”

You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry.

All you could do was point shakily toward the pitcher of water. He understood instantly, helping you drink, then bringing you warm broth, soft bread, fresh fruit.

In the days that followed, your body mended.

You walked again. Slowly. But now, with sight returning, the world came back to you in sharp contrast—vivid, overwhelming.

And so did he.

Anaxa didn’t leave your side unless necessary. But when he did… the change was obvious.

Short-tempered. Anyone who so much as looked at you wrong was snapped at. Servants flinched when he entered the room, even if he was calm.

You pulled him aside one day after seeing a maid leave with tears in her eyes.

“Anaxa,” you said, “you can’t keep treating people like that.”

“They don’t deserve you.”

“That’s not the point.” you pushed, trying to stay calm. “People want to help. But they’re scared. And scared people don’t stay loyal forever.”

Reluctantly, he nodded.

“…I’ll try.”

That night, you bathed and dressed with the help of two familiar servants—girls who had been by your side since the accident. They were kind.

“I wanted to leave.” you whispered.

They froze behind you.

“He helped me, yes. But he also took everything from me.”

The silence stretched. Then—

Thump.

You turned just in time to see one of the girls drop to her knees, face pale.

Then the other.

Their foreheads hit the floor with sickening force.

Thump. Thump.

They began to sob.

“Please don’t go,” one of them begged, “Please—he’ll think we let you slip, he’ll—he’ll kill us—!”

The other was already bleeding from her brow, tears mixing with red as she struck her head again and again.

“We’ll die,” she wept. “We’ll die if you leave. Please, please stay—”

You stumbled forward, horrified, grabbing their wrists.

“Stop!” you shouted. “Stop, I’m not—! I won’t go now, okay? Just stop!”

The door opened behind you.

Anaxa stood in the doorway.

“What… happened here?”

You quickly turned.

“They were helping me. That’s all. Nothing’s wrong.”

He looked unconvinced, his gaze darting to the trembling servants.

You placed your hand on his chest, trying to ground him.

“I’ll handle it. Just let me.”

After a beat, he nodded once.

“Out,” you said gently to the girls. “Go. Get cleaned up.”

They scrambled to obey.

And once they were gone… the room fell quiet again.

That night, as you lay in bed, the thought clawed at you.

What happened to Kallius?

You remembered the fall, the pain, the blur of stone and blood.

And then waking up—alive.

But Kallius… you hadn’t seen or heard his name spoken since.

The next day, during a quiet moment, you asked Anaxa.

He was seated at your window, light slicing across the dark fabric of his coat, his eyepatch catching the glow.

“…What happened to your brother?”

He stilled.

At first, no reply.

Then, abruptly—his voice clipped.

“He got what he deserved.”

You waited, but that was all he gave.

Anaxa rose soon after, “Rest well” before walking out.

You didn’t sleep.

It was the next morning when you approached one of the more trusted servants—an older woman.

“I need to know,” you told her. “What happened to Kallius.”

She hesitated.

“If you promise not to leave… I’ll tell you.”

“What?”

“If you stay here,” she repeated shakily. “We’ll talk. If not… I won’t say a word.”

You didn’t understand. Not yet.

But you nodded anyway.

“…Alright.”

She looked around, then led you to the laundry halls, where voices didn’t carry. And in a hushed voice, she told you.

At first, Anaxa had simply ordered Kallius to be executed.

But something changed his mind.

Instead of death, Kallius was tied up.

Each day, one by one, his loyalists were brought before him—his guards, his lovers, his advisors. One a day.

Executed.

Some were skinned. Some beheaded. Others poisoned slowly while he watched.

They made sure he heard every scream.

He begged, cried.

But Anaxa never relented.

And when there were no followers left—

Anaxa slit his throat himself.

“He said… that was mercy.”

The horror sat low in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.

You returned to your room.

That night, you dressed for dinner.

You sat at the long table across from him.

“Good to see you up,” he said. “You’re glowing.”

You forced a smile. “Thank you.”

The meal was beautifully laid.

You lifted your goblet, your hands steady despite the churn in your gut.

But as the cool wine touched your lips, something felt… off.

Not the taste. The aftertaste.

You set the goblet down.

Across from you, Anaxa tilted his head.

“…Is something the matter?”

And that’s when your heartbeat stuttered.

The room spun.

You barely noticed your goblet slip from your hand, the wine soaking into the embroidered cloth. You gripped the table, but your fingers felt numb.

Anaxa was at your side in an instant.

“There we go,” he murmured gently, arms firm around you, lifting you up as though you weighed nothing. “You’re just tired.”

The warmth of his body pressed into yours. You were so cold.

Your legs didn’t listen to you. Your tongue felt heavy.

He guided you out of the hall, his voice low in your ear.

“Just repeat after me.”

You could barely understand his words, but your mouth moved.

Repeating something.

Over and over.

“Yes… I accept…”

“I will never leave…”

When you woke, you were back in your room—but everything was… different.

Ribbons hung from the posts of the bed. A tray of delicate sweets sat beside a floral bouquet. And your hand—

There was a ring on your finger.

The door creaked open.

Servants entered with smiles, bows, soft cheers. Someone scattered petals at your feet. They whispered congratulations. One girl held a cake shaped like a crown. Another gave you a shawl embroidered with phoenixes.

“May your union be eternal,” one whispered. “He’ll protect you forever now.”

Union?

You stood, half in a trance, as Anaxa entered last—his uniform exchanged for ceremonial robes.

“You’re awake” he said with quiet satisfaction.

“What… did you do?”

“You said yes,” he said, “You promised. And now everyone knows. You belong to this palace… and to me.”

You stared at him.

Everything fell into place.

He’d married you.

“You don’t need to run anymore,” he whispered. “You have a kingdom again. A husband. A future. All you have to do… is stay.”

[heliosunny]

hii!! i love your lucky egg series sooo much 💓 maybe if u consider can you make it luocha x reader too? thank you if you make it, if don't it's okaay 💓

THE BLOOMING THORN

Yandere!Luocha x Reader

In the heart of a land known as Velisol ruled a king unlike any other. Crowned in gold thorns and draped in robes the color of dried petals, Luocha was as beautiful as he was feared. And he was searching desperately for love.

Every week, new petitioners and nobles were summoned from across the continent, invited to his palace under the guise of diplomacy or favor. But instead of politics, he met them with strange, haunting questions:

"Do you love me?" "Are you the one meant for me?" "What can you do to prove your devotion?"

If they faltered, if their answers stank of pretense or greed or fear—he’d smile.

Then the vines would slither out, creeping from under the marble throne like shadows made of root and rot, slipping into their mouths and eyes and ears.

Hope began to rot in Velisol.

Until one day, whispers stirred among the guards: a visitor from another land had arrived.

When Luocha heard the news, he ordered:

"Prepare the throne room. I wish to see this outsider... for a test."

He wanted to know—Would you tremble like the rest? Or would you bloom under pressure?

The great doors creaked open, and you were led inside. The guards kept a fearful distance. On his throne of vines and dying roses, Luocha smiled when he saw you—and for the first time in many seasons, the vines at his feet curled with interest.

"Tell me," he said, "do you believe in fate?"

You stood before the king of Velisol, a man cloaked in myth and misery.

“I believe fate brings people together,” you said, “but what they choose to do with it is what makes it real.”

The vines writhed around his throne like snakes, tasting your presence.

But they didn’t come for you.

“…Interesting,” he murmured. “You may stay.”

And just like that, you were spared.

No one dared speak to you. The servants avoided your eyes. The air was heavy with the stench of fear, and behind every curtained hall, you could feel the pull of vines, twitching as if dreaming of flesh.

But Luocha never harmed you.

He would summon you occasionally. His voice was calm. Yet beneath it all, he carried a sorrow so profound you could feel it bleeding through every corner of the palace.

He was terribly lonely.

So one afternoon, when the skies over Velisol bled their usual crimson, you wandered into the royal garden—a place whispered about, never visited by others. There, the flowers were unlike any you had seen. Some bloomed with eyes. Others opened and closed like mouths. But a few… were strangely beautiful.

You gathered a handful.

That night, in your chambers, you wove them together carefully—an art you’d learned long ago in your homeland. Twisting the stems into a circlet, you shaped them into a delicate crown of gold-veined leaves and dark blossoms.

You left it outside his throne room door, without a note.

The next day, you were summoned again.

But this time, Luocha wasn’t seated on his throne. He stood in front of it, wearing the floral crown you made.

“Did you craft this?”

You nodded.

His hand lifted to touch the crown gently.

“No one’s ever… made something for me before.”

“You are… difficult,” he whispered. “Difficult to predict. Difficult to understand.”

Then, he reached forward and cupped your face in one gloved hand.

“Don’t leave.”

You agreed to stay.

------

The palace halls, once cold and hollow, felt different now—alive with your presence, like the way vines reach for sunlight.

Luocha named you his "companion," a title with no formal power but one that placed you by his side during court, meals, and council. You smiled, greeted nobles with kindness, and never sought to outshine anyone.

But kindness, in royal courts, is often mistaken for weakness.

More than once, you passed by Luocha’s throne and saw a noble standing beside him—speaking sweetly, flattering him with sugared words. You’d greet them politely, as always. But some would only glance at you, nose lifted in subtle disdain. Others would speak to you with clipped courtesy, their eyes sliding past as though you were a mere servant he kept too close.

You noticed, of course. But what could you do?

You weren’t born of noble blood. You were a foreigner, a guest in a strange kingdom. So you smiled. Endured. And told yourself this peace was enough.

But Luocha noticed, too.

He saw the way you lowered your eyes to hide the sting. How your shoulders tensed just slightly when another courtier dismissed you. You never complained—not once—but that only made the ache in his chest worse.

To him, you were perfect. You were the bloom he had waited for in his garden of rot.

So why did they treat you like wilted leaves?

He held a party.

A grand affair. He invited every noble in Velisol, each one dressed in their finest, eager to win his attention. You stood by his side as always.

They laughed. Toasted. Danced.

And one by one, he made sure they drank.

Each goblet filled from bottles he personally gifted—wine laced with tiny, near-invisible seeds. Seeds that would hatch slowly, curling deep within the body like unseen roots.

They wouldn’t notice at first.

Not until the vines began to sprout from their mouths, their eyes, their veins—screaming in terror as Luocha’s garden bloomed inside them.

He watched their agony with a serene smile.

“They looked down on you,” he murmured. “So I gave them something to look up at.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

------

One afternoon, in the quiet breath between dusk and moonrise, he went searching for you.

He told no one.

He followed the distant scent of sweet soil and blooming roots—his garden always betrayed you. It welcomed you, more than it did him.

When he finally stepped past the arching vines of the eastern greenhouse, his gaze fell upon you.

You were kneeling in the dirt, sleeves rolled, hands gently pressing a flowering bulb into its bed. Beside you stood a young gardener.

The gardener said something. You laughed—a sound Luocha rarely heard so freely. You nudged the man with a playful smile, unaware of the quiet footsteps behind the tall hedge of blood-red lilies.

Vines stirred at his feet instinctively, but he did not command them.

He turned away.

That night, as the wind howled through the twisted towers of Velisol, you returned to your chambers.

You shut it. Bolted the lock. Turned—

And found Luocha already sitting in your chair, his green eyes glowing softly beneath the moonlight.

“Your Majesty—”

“Luocha,” he said, “When it is just us.”

“…Luocha,” you corrected gently. “You surprised me. Is something wrong?”

His gaze lingered on the faint dirt under your fingernails, the leaves still caught in your hair.

“You were in the garden today.”

“I was. I wanted to repot the grief blooms before they withered.” You smiled. “I think they’re finally responding to the soil here.”

He stood slowly.

“And the man?”

“The gardener?” you blinked. “He was just helping me carry compost. I asked for help.”

“I see.”

“I trust you,” he murmured. “But trust is a brittle thing, isn't it?”

You frowned. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, the hem of his robe brushing the floor. “That’s what frightens me.”

“Frightens you?”

“If I don’t claim what’s mine,” he whispered, “someone else eventually will.”

You opened your mouth, but his fingers brushed your cheek, the scent of damp earth clinging to him like perfume.

“I’ve been patient. Gentle. But I am not a man known for either of those things, am I?”

“I will not lose you to the world outside. Tell me now—do you want me, or do you want to leave?”

The vines on the walls held their breath. So did the wind.

He was giving you a choice. But he didn’t hide the fact that one answer would end with roots in your throat, and the other in his arms.

You hadn’t answered yet. The words were there, trembling on your tongue—when a knock echoed at the door.

“Your Grace?” a servant called from outside. “Is everything alright? Shall I prepare your bath?”

Your heart skipped. Luocha’s eyes narrowed, the vines behind him coiling with agitation. You moved—grabbing his wrist and pulling him aside, pushing him gently behind a curtain.

“Shh,” you whispered, and then, on impulse, you pressed your hand to his mouth.

You turned toward the door. “I’m alright! I… I just want to rest early tonight!”

“Understood, Your Grace. Sleep well.”

You sighed and turned—only to find Luocha still staring at you, your palm ghosting away from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “That was rude of me. I just didn’t want anyone to see you here and—”

You didn’t finish.

He stepped forward, swiftly, the way a storm rolls in over calm water—and then, he kissed you.

The air left your lungs.

You stumbled back, and he followed. The vines crept along the walls like eager witnesses, curling around the posts of your bed, blooming silently with blood-red petals.

You whispered his name once, maybe twice. But he didn’t stop. And when you didn’t resist—when you tangled your fingers in his robe, when you whispered for him to stay—he knew.

You were his.

The next morning, sunlight flooded Velisol with a warmth it hadn’t seen in years.

Birdsong returned to the towers. Flowers bloomed across the once-dull courtyards. The air was rich with the scent of new growth, and green vines danced down marble columns like threads of life weaving the kingdom whole again.

The king was late.

But no one dared speak.

And when Luocha finally arrived, dressed in white and gold, a subtle mark on his throat, and a calm too satisfied to be explained—no one said a word.

They only bowed.

The only change anyone could name aloud… Was that the kingdom itself had started to bloom.