mhinsanity

[mhinsanity]

say I love you and mean it in my mouth (I'll say it back and mean it for your heart)

gn! reader x xiao. word count: 1k words. tags: fluff, hurt/comfort if you squint, xiao's bad at feelings, first kisses, falling in love.

cross posted on my ao3

--

love was.. difficult.

xiao was a creature used to solitude. his karmic debt didn’t allow him to mingle with humanity, and he’d keep it that way, lest he hurt someone unintentionally. he was used to it. the acidic burn of his karma, the weight on his chest that pressed too hard, too deep, and left him unable to breathe. there weren’t many things that brought him respite from his own nature.

and then there was you.

loud. brash. bright enough for him to want to cover his eyes whenever you were around. and so undeniably mortal, he always feared his hands would end up covered in your blood too, eventually.

you who made almond tofu for him every time you came to see him. you who played with the children in qingce village like they were your own little siblings. you who stayed with him through his karmic episodes despite him warning you about the consequences.

he didn’t understand you.

he knew humans were kind, that they were fragile and had to be handled with care. yet here you came, shattering all his previous notions of mortals. you were loud where he was quiet, yet met him with a silent gentleness he had not felt in centuries. you ran headfirst into fights, always coming out with scrapes and bruises, and always, always smiled when he lectured you about your carelessness. you cooked almond tofu for him just the way he liked, always leaving a plate on the terrace of wangshu inn, yet never pressured him to show up.

he didn’t understand you.

how could a human know of his nature, of his bloody past, and not recoil when his hands held yours? instead, you held him back like he was something made to be cradled. like he was something precious.

he never quite pushed you away, not really. of course, he’d keep warning you about the consequences of being near someone as karma-ridden as him, but it didn’t deter you.

the first time you kissed him, he thought he might be dreaming.

it was a quiet night, the wind gentle as it blew past the leaves and caressed your face like you were a child of the breeze. he hadn’t said much since you called for him, preferring to sit next to you in the silence of the night. you hadn’t pushed him either, enjoying the soft sound of the crowds retiring to their homes.

the stars blinked in the sky like soft lit lanterns, the gentle shine of the moon illuminating his face, the usual furrow in his brow that he wore like armor. yet, it looked softer tonight.

“you’re quiet,” they said softly, your voice low, like you didn’t want to scare away the quiet moment.

“I don’t have much to say,” xiao replied, not turning to look at you yet. “but.. I didn’t want to be alone.”

your heart did that funny little flip again, the one it did often when you were with him. you’d never ask for more than what he could give–but it still meant something when he gave it.

you tilted your head back, looking up at the stars. “you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” you said, like it was a fact written between the stars in the sky. “I like being here. even if we don’t say anything.”

he was silent for a moment. then, he finally looked back at you. “I don’t understand why you keep doing this.”

you smiled. “doing what?”

you caught his gaze, golden and sharp, yet the jagged edges were softened tonight. “staying,” he said quietly.

you blinked, surprised. “isn’t it obvious?” you gave him a small smile. “I like you, xiao.”

he didn’t look away this time. his expression didn’t change, not outwardly, but there was something about him that softened, like tension crumbling at the edges.

“I am not.. easy to be with,” he said, his voice quiet, filled with something that almost sounded pained. “I bring danger. suffering. you could get hurt–”

“I do get hurt,” you interrupted lightly, nudging his shoulder with your own. “have you seen the bruises I come home with?”

his expression softened, lips twitching in not quite a smile, but something close. “that’s not what I meant,” he said. “there is more to me than the battles you see. darkness. blood. karma that clings like rot, it won’t go away.”

you turned to him fully, your face open and quiet, illuminated by the moonlight.

“and I still want to say,” you said, the words soft and simple, a declaration. a promise. “you don’t have to be easy, xiao. you just have to be honest.”

he stared at you, some unreadable emotion flickering in his eyes–fear, maybe. or something close to affection that made your chest hurt a little.

“you confuse me,” he murmured.

“yeah,” you chuckled, tilting your head back. “I get that a lot.”

and then–so slowly it felt like the world was holding its breath–you leaned in.

“if this is too much,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “tell me to stop.”

xiao didn’t move. his breathing hitched, the space between you warm and fragile.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, and it sounded more like a promise to himself.

“I know.”

your lips brushed against his–soft, fleeting–and for a second, he didn’t respond.

then, with hesitant hands, he reached up, fingers hovering near your cheek like you were something divine. and when he finally returned the kiss, it was with the quiet reverence of someone who’d never known gentleness, but wanted to learn.

the wind breezed past you, quiet and soft. somewhere below, the world carried on, retiring to their homes, cleaning up for the night. but up here, it was just you and xiao. and the soft devotion you never could quite put into words, but knew he understood nonetheless.

love was difficult, xiao thought.

and he was willing to give it a try with you.

[mhinsanity]

they braid each other's hair and kiss with a little to

[mhinsanity]

Masterlist

I'll try to keep updating this regularly! head over to my ao3 if you want all my fics!

Honkai Star Rail

Anaxa:

burn theory

baby, you're divine

Genshin Impact

XIao:

say I love you and mean it in my mouth (I'll say it back and mean it for your heart)

Jujutsu Kaisen

Satoru Gojo:

begging on my knees, I found heaven at your touch

Touchstarved

Vere:

dig your teeth into me (there's a kind of love in bloodshed too)

[mhinsanity]

I also have an ao3 if anyone wants to go check that out! I post most of my writings there usually but some of them are cross posted here.

[mhinsanity]

begging on my knees, I found heaven at your touch

gojo satoru x gn! reader. word count: 2.8k words. MDNI pls.

tags: unhealthy relationships, codependency, canon-typical trauma, gojo and reader both need therapy, dubious emotional consent, bitter sex.

--

babysitting wasn’t exactly what you had planned for the night.

yet, here you were, in his dorm, again–your coat half off, your curses half suppressed, and your patience hanging by the thinning thread of your restraint.

“you’re late,” satoru called out, sprawled across his couch like a greek statue with a sugar addiction. there was a half eaten bag of gummies balanced on his chest, a soda can on the floor, and a grin way too smug for you to handle right now.

“you told me to come over at nine.”

“and it’s nine-thirty.”

you stared at him. took a slow breath. really tried not to kick his teeth in. “you handed off your special grade curse to me,” you said, your voice stretched thin with barely holding on patience. his grin grew. “you survived.”

you raised your brow. “did you want me to?”

he laughed–that same laugh that grated on your nerves and made you want to kiss him stupid at the same time, like he’d never taken anything seriously in his life.

except you. sometimes. maybe. but never when it actually counted.

you kicked off your shoes, ignoring the way he watched the movement like he was counting how many layers he’d have to peel off you later. typical. you could still feel the heady rush of adrenaline coursing through you, making you even more alert than usual, and you knew he could tell. that he was trying to think of ways to take advantage of it. he always did.

“so..” you started, arms folded, “are you going to keep playing the part of emotionally unavailable toddler with Infinity, or are we going to talk like adults tonight?”

he mock gasped. “excuse you. I’m a man. a sexy, powerful, national treasure of a man.”

“you’re a manchild with a god complex and the EQ of a damp towel,” you deadpanned.

“ouch.” he sat up slowly, pulling off his blindfold just enough for you to see the gleam in his ocean eyes. his lashes fluttered–deliberate. “but accurate.”

the worst part was–he knew. he knew how exhausting it was to love someone who couldn’t stop performing long enough to be honest. he knew it drove you up the wall when he joked instead of listened, disappeared instead of communicate, gave you everything but a name for whatever this was.

and you knew he’d keep doing it–because he could. because you let him.

“you know,” you said, tone soft but edged, like a guillotine dropping down like a verdict, “one day I’m not going to come back.”

his smile faltered, but only just.

“one day,” you continued, stepping close enough to reach for the gummy bag and pluck one out, “you’ll push too far. say too little. smile too wide. and I’ll stop forgiving you for being a manchild just because you’re scared of being a man.”

he looked up at you like you’d cursed him. maybe you did. you tasted sugar and something bitter on your tongue. something that felt a lot like resignation.

“I’ll miss you,” he said, soft. the first honest thing he’d said tonight.

“no,” you said quietly. “you’ll miss having me.”

a beat.

then he grinned. wicked and carefree and a complete lie, but it was so Satoru, it hurt. “but you’re still here.”

“unfortunately.”

“you like me.”

“unfortunately.”

“you’re in love with me.”

you turned away. “let me know when you’re grown enough to deserve it.”

there’s a moment of silence, the kind that lingered. the kind that told you he’s listening–really listening. thinking of things to say to keep you there. thinking of words to hide so you don’t ever leave. you turned your back, acting as if you would leave. as if you ever did.

then–

a tug on your wrist.

his hand had found yours, fingers curling lazily, like he had all the time in the world. like he hadn’t done this a hundred times before. you turned to face him, raising your brow.

“you’ll stay,” he said quietly, his voice not quite vulnerable, but honest enough to sting. “you’ll stay because we both know you can’t stand the thought of leaving.”

you looked away.

you knew you wouldn’t leave. because you were just as fucked up as him. suguru’s defection and death had built the walls surrounding him, ones you knew he wouldn’t tear down for anyone, not even you. and you wouldn’t leave, because you didn’t know any other way to love than chasing after it, always one step short. you’d beg for the love he didn’t have, and eat out of his palm when he touched you like it mattered, like you mattered.

starving was the only form of love you’d ever known, after all.

“I’m going home,” you said finally, startling the built up precarious silence, like you hadn’t meant to say it out loud. he looked up at you, eyes widening just a fraction with what looked like panic, though it was hidden behind a forced calm soon enough. “no you aren’t,” he said, his attempt at a tease falling flat. he looked vaguely like you’d pulled the ground from under his feet, like he wasn’t quite able to decide whether to fall or claw his way to stay standing. you sighed. “I am.”

you tried pulling your hand away from his grasp, tried to put some distance between the two of you, if only to strengthen the scraps of your resolve begging for a dignified exit. he didn’t let go. “don’t,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

you sighed, meeting his cerulean gaze. even when you hated his guts, his eyes were the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. there had to be some bitter joke in that feeling.

he hadn’t moved from the couch, but he was sitting forward now, your wrist still in his grasp like he was afraid if he let go, you’d disappear for good. his eyes–those cold, brilliant, haunted eyes–were on you like you were the last stable thing in a world that never stopped crumbling.

“satoru–”

“I’ll fuck it up,” he said, too fast. “I already have. I know. but don’t–don’t walk out.”

you blinked. slowly.

he was supposed to be the strongest sorcerer, a title you knew he despised despite all his bravado and cocky words, a title that made him bear the world on his shoulders all alone. but right now, he didn’t look anything like the crown the world forced him to bear. he looked.. small. fragile. like something you wanted to hold and rest against your chest till you could make it whole again. you didn’t.

“you don’t love me,” you said instead, words quiet with a resignation you’d long since gotten used to.

he flinched like you’d hit him.

but he didn’t argue.

didn’t deny it.

didn’t say I do, I just can’t say it.

he just looked at you like the shadow of the sixteen year old boy who had the world torn from his hands.

“you don’t,” you repeated, softer now. “you never have.”

“I–” he swallowed, jaw tightening. “I don’t want to be alone.”

there it was.

not I need you.

not I love you.

just don’t leave me.

you stared at him for a long time, aching in all the places he’d never touch. “that’s not the same.”

and it wasn’t. because satoru gojo might need you more than he needed to breathe, but you knew that wasn’t the same as loving you. you could ask him to touch you and he’d make you cry as you came, but he couldn’t kiss you and mean it in love. couldn’t hold you when you needed to feel safe. you knew. you knew.

then why did it hurt so much?

“I know,” he said, and that honest sting in his voice was what broke you.

you should have walked out.

you should have said then you’ll learn what being alone really feels like.

but you didn’t.

you reached out for him.

because love, to you, had always looked like staying for scraps.

you sat beside him, just close enough to feel his presence. he didn’t touch you right away. just looked at you like you were something he could break if he wasn’t careful enough. and when his hand finally rose to cup your cheek, you leaned into it like a curse.

“please,” he said, voice quieter now, just above a whisper. “don’t make me lose you too.” he knew the exact weight of your resolve and how little it took to tip over. and when he said those words, you both knew you’d stay another night. another time in his arms. let him pull you back into himself, till you didn’t know where you began and he ended.

you didn’t resist. not really.

because this was a song and dance you’d done multiple times before. he’d laugh too loud, smile too wide, push his feelings six feet under like you weren’t carrying the flowers for their funeral, and you’d let him get away with it.

because what else did you have in this cruel world, if not him?

this was your pattern.

your prison.

your sanctuary.

his lips found yours before you could open them to say something stupid like ’I think we should stop this.’ because part of you did. always. it was easier this way. easier to let your body speak where your heart couldn’t. easier to pretend that this sex was intimacy, this closeness, honesty.

you could taste the sugar from the gummy candies on his mouth, sweet and sticky and clinging to you like he didn’t ever want to let go but wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud. his hands tugged at your clothes, gentle, questioning, asking to get them off, to touch you more, to touch you enough to make you forget why you ever wanted to leave in the first place. you arched into him before your mind could catch up, before your feelings crawled back up in your throat and ruined the moment.

you kissed him like you hated him. he kissed you back like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you didn’t even register him pulling your clothes off until your bare skin was pressed against him, heated under his palms like you were burning. for him, maybe you always had been. he pushed you down onto the couch like he wanted to bury himself in your warmth and forget the cold left behind by everyone he’d ever lost.

you let him.

he kissed you like you were salvation. like you were his lifeline. and maybe, if you closed your eyes, you could pretend this was love.

you tugged at his shirt, trying to pull it above his head, till you could feel his chest against yours, the unsteady thump of his heart betraying the fear of the broken boy he tried to hide so hard from everyone else. “I wish I could hate you,” you murmured against his lips, hands tracing down his chest like you could imprint the beat of his heart in your palms if you felt it enough times. “you should,” he said, settling you on his lap.

you could feel the hardness of him pressing against your thigh, straining against the fabric of his sweats, and you didn’t have enough patience to draw this out longer. you wanted this to end. you wanted to lie in his arms in the quiet after and pretend he would say your name in his dreams.

he got the message, lifting his hips to help you pull off his sweatpants and boxers in one go. “I do hate you,” you said, trying to mean the words that tasted like ash in your mouth. he knew you didn’t. he didn’t correct you.

you spread your legs further, positioned yourself on top of him, feeling the desperate press of him against you, slick and warm and addicting in the way only drugs could feel. “need to prep you–” he tried, but you huffed, sinking down on him before he could try to deviate you. it hurt, the stretch too much, his body way larger than yours, but you didn’t care. maybe if it hurt enough, you’d learn your lesson and walk away.

you knew you wouldn’t.

“fuck–” he groaned, gripping your hips tightly, trying to slow you down enough so it didn’t hurt anymore than it already did. between your insistence and his attempts to take it slow, you both were already panting, the connection making you feel lightheaded. you dug your nails into his shoulders, sinking down further, until your thighs met his hips, until you were filled to the brim with him–too much, too deep, too full of unsaid words to let go just yet.

it hurt.

and you wanted it to.

you wanted the sting, the burn, the stretch that made your eyes prick with tears–not because of the pain, but because of the sick comfort it brought. because if he hurt, maybe he’d feel something too.

his breath was ragged against your throat, lips brushing the edge of your jaw like an apology he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

“slow down,” he whispered. “you’ll hurt yourself.”

I want to, you almost said. but instead, you rolled your hips once–shallow, cautious, defiant.

he gasped, hands tightening around your waist like he could keep you tethered to reality, even as you tried to float somewhere else. his fingers pressed into your skin like he could brand himself into you, like if he held you just tight enough, maybe you wouldn’t leave after all.

“look at me,” he murmured.

you didn’t. couldn’t. not when his eyes held so much grief you felt like you would drown in it.

so he brought one hand up, gently cupping your cheek, forcing you to tilt your head until your gaze met his. blue, brilliant, endless–and hurting more than he’d ever try to admit.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoarse. “I’m so–”

“don’t,” you choked out. “don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“I do.”

you shook your head. “you say sorry, but you’ll still keep me in pieces. you’ll treat me like I’m just.. something to hold when the nights get cold. you’ll still pretend this is enough.”

his silence said everything.

but his hands kept holding you like they never wanted to let go.

you started to move again–slow, dragging friction that made your thighs tremble and your breath catch. each roll of your hips was a question: do you love me now? how about now?

his hands guided you, helped you, let you take control but never drift too far. his forehead pressed against yours, breath shared between half kisses, half prayers. his voice cracked when he moaned your name–like he only remembered it when he was buried inside you.

“feels good,” he gasped, like he needed the words to ground himself. “you feel–fuck, you feel like home.”

you hated how easily that shattered you.

because you wanted to be his home. you always had. and he only ever came back to it when the rest of the world turned its back.

you felt yourself getting closer, the ache cresting with the need to fall apart. he was close too–you could feel it in the way his hips stuttered, the way his breath hitched and his hand moved from your waist to cradle the back of your neck like he was afraid you’d disappear mid-movement.

when you came, it wasn’t pleasure that stole your breath–it was grief.

and he followed right after, burying himself deep, muttering your name against your skin like it was a benediction.

the moment after was quiet.

your bodies stayed tangled, sweat slick and trembling. he rested his head on your shoulder, breath hot and heavy, chest rising and falling like a man barely held together.

your fingers threaded into his hair, stroking mindlessly, even as you stared up at the ceiling like it would tell you why you were still here.

you hated that this was the only version of love he knew how to give.

you hated that you kept accepting it.

you hated that you didn’t hate him.

and satoru, resting against you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth, didn’t say a word.

because you both knew.

you’d get up in the morning and put your clothes back on and head back to your empty house to start another day. you’d leave his arms, and come back when he called again, because you needed him just as much as he needed you. you’d stay till he pushed you out of his life, because you didn’t know any other form of love.

he wasn’t all that wrong when he called love the most twisted curse of them all.

[mhinsanity]

AVENTURINE IN VER 3.4 PV ➡ MY MAN IS BACK!!! TTwTT

[mhinsanity]

how tf does tumblr work I wanna create a masterlist 😭😭

[mhinsanity]

I'm chewing on concrete

Oooo you want to pet his ears, ooooo you want to pet his ears so bad

[mhinsanity]

dig your teeth into me (there's a kind of love in bloodshed too)

(implied) fem reader x vere. word count: 3.6k words. MDNI!

this is smut, basically. both vere and reader are kinda into reader getting eaten but otherwise nothing too graphic.

--

you didn't know how to describe vere.

a friend would be pushing it. you didn't meet at the brothel to have tea parties and gossip. acquaintances wouldn't quite cut it either. unless having transactional sex somehow made you acquaintances. friends with benefits? no, scratch that. you'd have to be friends in the first place for that.

a client, then.

a needy, possessive, murderous client that for some reason was specifically fond of showing up at the brothel at odd times and only calling for you. well, the payment certainly didn't hurt.

the first time he had sauntered in through the silk curtains, you were almost certain he was here for a meal rather than a quick fuck. the bloodstain on his cheek didn't really help matters.

yet, he'd only taken a cursory look around, sunset pink eyes finally setting onto you, and with a flick of his wrist, you were off into a room with him.

it wasn't like you hadn't seen most types of characters working in a brothel. it would probably be easier to count the normal (ish) people that you came across. still, vere stood out. if not for the tufts of his ears, then the heavy collar around his neck.

you weren't stupid. you knew who he was. the senobium’s lapdog, in for a night of fun (or perhaps hunting for his next meal. that seemed more likely). but it wasn't like you had the luxury to pick and choose.

gossamer sleeves brushed your side as he lounged on the plush bed. for someone who walked into a brothel with so much intent, he didn't look like he was in a rush. you couldn't help but wonder if this was also one of his games.

“are you always this tense with customers?” he drawled, and the purr of his voice almost took you off guard. almost. “only when I have reason to fear my life,” you answered back. you could probably shout for help if he tried anything. not that it would've stopped him, you assumed.

his grin was lazy, amused, peeks of pearly fang glinting between plush lips, and you couldn't help but wonder for a moment how easy would it be for him to tear through your skin. you shook the thought aside before you could dwell on it.

“don’t worry. if I wanted to eat you, you'd know,” he hummed, like that made it better. you had to hold back a scoff. “how kind of you,” you muttered, still keeping your distance from him. he simply smirked, smug, and you wished to punch it off his face.

“what are you here for?” you asked finally, gaze lowering down his form in.. curiosity? no, not quite. a vague anticipation, possibly. he tilted his head, as if considering you. you tensed.

then he shrugged, stretching back against silk sheets. “a nap wouldn't be bad.”

you blinked.

and somehow, from there, a pact was made.

--

it was raining tonight.

the kind that made the lanterns flicker and the perfume-heavy air cling damply to the walls. business was slower on nights like these. yet, you knew he’d make his way over anyway.

“you’re late,” you called out, barely bothering to look up at him as he entered. the rain was heavy, and he’d been a victim of it, it seemed, with the way his hair was dripping. “did you miss me, pretty thing?” he drawled, voice saccharine and sticky sweet. it would have made you shudder once, but now, you just wanted to get paid and maybe ensure he didn’t leave your sheets bloody.

“I was hoping tonight would be quiet,” you said, your voice smooth and even despite the ever clinging dread of his presence. you walked to your usual room, raising your brow at him, “yet here you are.”

he grinned, shaking water from his hair like a half drowned cat, following you in. “you wound me.”

you scoffed. “not yet.”

that earned a soft laugh–genuine, amused, the kind that sent a shiver down your spine and settled low in your gut. he stalked closer, wet boots silent on the brothel floor, until the scent of rain and iron–probably blood–curled around you like smoke.

he never asked if he could touch. he didn’t have to.

and still, you scoffed in the face of certain demise.

“you’re dripping all over my floors,” you muttered, tossing him a towel which he caught with ease. he shrugged, the action causing more water to drip onto the floors you already knew you’d have to mop up. “you say that like this isn’t your favorite part of the night,” he said, like it was a fact of the world. and maybe it was, but you’d never admit it.

he was perhaps a little too used to the silk sheets and the sultry ambience of this room, always seeking your services every other night. he could probably fund your entire living in eridia, with how often he was paying for you. he watched you sit on the bed, waiting for him to demand his services for the night.

it was almost a little funny, you thought. how he started frequenting one of the busiest places in the entertainment district, only to take an uninterrupted nap. that wasn’t to say he didn’t have an appetite, especially when it came to you. you were more than used to playing along with his whims, whether it be resting on your lap, or your mouth on him till he deemed himself satisfied.

“another nap?” you asked, watching him dry his hair carefully. he was patient in his appearance, you’d noticed. not like the other monsters roaming free on the streets. he tilted his head, watching you like you were prey pretending not to tremble. “mm. maybe. unless you’d rather fuck me stupid.”

you stared at him. he smiled wider–that same ‘oh-you-sweet-summer-child’ grin that grated on your nerves. he was probably waiting for a denial, or some snark that he was so used to getting from you.

you didn’t deny it. not because you agreed, but because–again, you weren’t stupid. he liked pushing. he liked games. and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait. not tonight.

“I’d rather you behave,” you muttered, grabbing the towel back from him before he could throw it to some uncaring corner. “who did you kill tonight?” you asked, and it felt a little bit like dropping a guillotine on your own head. he grinned, sharp fangs glinting in the dim lighting of the room. “curious? or waiting to be my next meal, darling?” you scoffed at that, throwing a pillow at him. “I don’t want blood on my sheets.”

it probably should have been concerning how little you could bring yourself to care at his response. it was possibly a human tonight, innocent or not, torn apart by a monster. but you knew him, and he knew you, and you both knew you didn’t have much sympathy for anyone in eridia.

“it was a guard of some sort,” he said, tail flicking idly behind him. “taking bribes to let petty crime through.” you turned away, pretending to busy yourself with folding the towel. you weren’t sure what was more unnerving: his words, or the way you didn’t find them as terrifying as you should.

because you looked forward to his visits.

even if he could kill you in a blink.

even when he whispered in your ear how you were his in a way that made your skin crawl and your thighs ache.

even if, when he slept in your bed, you watched his lips part in dreams and wondered if they’d ever spell your name when he wasn’t awake.

maybe you were a little bit fucked up.

you set the folded towel down, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting. always waiting. for his next whim, or when he’d get bored and throw you your payment and walk out. “you’re not here to nap today?” you asked, voice softer now, warier.

he didn’t answer at first. instead, he leaned in–slowly, intimately, like he wanted you to feel every breath between you–and ghosted his lips just beside your ear.

“I had a dream,” he whispered. “you were in it. naked, mouthy, and bleeding.”

you stiffened. didn’t move away. simply looked at him till he decided he had enough fun tormenting you for tonight. or decided to make you his next meal.

he chuckled, pulling back to watch your expression. his eyes shimmered like dusk–unreadable and vaguely delighted. of course the bastard liked watching you tense.

“relax,” he said, brushing a lock of your hair behind your ear. “it was mostly a good dream.”

“you’re sick,” you said, your voice lacking heat. if anything, you were looking forward to the moment he’d decide this game had gone on long enough.

you didn’t want to die. especially not at the hands of a monster. but something about vere–something that still made you see him–kept you in his orbit. waiting. watching. you wondered sometimes, if he opened his maw, if he paid enough attention, if he tore you apart reverently enough, could he make it holy?

“I am,” he agreed, pleased. “and you’re still here. still standing in front of me like you want something.”

you didn’t answer. laid back on the bed instead, looking up at the ceiling. wondering how far you’d reached into death’s embrace.

he joined you, settling behind you like your very own monster brand blanket. you didn’t push him away.

it was quiet for a while, save for your breaths. the candle light flickered in the background, casting long shadows across the room. he didn’t leave. didn’t nap either. instead, he lounged by you like a quiet warning, still damp at the ends.

“is this how you always entertain your favorite customer?” he asked lazily, words stretched like taffy, slow and sticky. “I’m starting to feel neglected.”

“I’m not your courtesan,” you replied, not turning to face him yet. “I’m the one who keeps you from wrecking the sheets with blood or claws.”

“mm. that almost sounded like concern.” his tone dipped, velvet wrapped around something sharp. “you do care.”

you finally turned, glancing up at him. met those eyes–sunset stained and hungry–and found yourself holding your breath.

there it was again. that edge.

the moment that trembled between civility and violence. lust and death. want and hunger.

“don’t flatter yourself,” you found yourself saying instead, your pulse hammering in your ears.

he sat up, languid and with all the grace of a cat. deliberate. “tell me to leave,” he said softly. you didn’t. instead, you watched him hover over you like a predator cornering its prey, ready to pounce. to tear. to feast.

“you know what I am,” he murmured.

“yes.”

“you know what I could do to you.”

“I do.”

“so why,” he said, leaning close enough that your breaths mingled, “do you keep letting me close?”

you stared at him. the sharp lines of his jaw. the faint sheen of rainwater clinging to his collar. the soft looking leather almost glinting in the night, the one that kept his true self leashed–barely.

“because you haven’t” you said.

and then his mouth was on yours.

no warning. no sly comment. just his lips on yours, warm and open mouthed and utterly all consuming in a way that felt like he was devouring you inside out. you should’ve pushed him away. you didn’t. instead, you kissed him back. met his clawed fingers on your hips by digging your hand into his damp hair, tugging till he moaned into your mouth.

the kiss turned sharp, messy. claws digging into your skin through your clothes till you felt the beginnings of blood dripping down your hips. you fisted your hand in his hair till he growled.

“you really should be more careful,” he breathed against your lips. “I could fuck you or kill you and I’m not sure which I want more.”

you bit his lip. hard.

“try it,” you hissed, breathless, aroused, shaking from more than just fear.

his eyes lit up.

one moment his mouth was on yours, and the next, you were being pushed back into the mattress, the sound of fabric ripping filling the air as he tore off your outfit. you’d have half a mind to complain about it if you weren’t already hazing over from arousal. you gasped at the push, pulling him closer into your space. “you’re paying for that–” you muttered, watching the tattered remains of your outfit fall to the bed. he grinned, half manic and all teeth, “aren’t I already?”

he was on top of you before you could even think to protest, caging and surrounding and consuming, and you were losing your mind. “I could split you open,” he murmured, teeth dragging at your neck. “here. now.”

and god, you knew.

and maybe some part of you even wanted it. you didn’t know.

you gasped as he bit down, feeling teeth and tongue lave at your neck, your mind blanking faster than it had any right to. “then why haven’t you yet?” you asked, shaky. he grinned. you could feel it against your skin, and you hated it a little. loved it even more. “because you’re interesting,” he said, like it was conversation over breakfast.

his lips trailed lower, mapping out constellations of bruises down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. you knew you’d have trouble hiding those later. you didn’t care. instead, you slipped your fingers into his hair, tugging and pulling till a soft groan of approval escaped him. sex with vere was never just sex, you’d noticed. he wanted something to leave a mark on, and he’d leave it on you, bright and bruised and stinging for the next week till he came back to repeat the process all over again. and well, you weren’t exactly complaining.

he nipped right above your heart, teeth digging in just shy of drawing blood, like he was debating if he should sink his fangs in right then and there. “why haven’t you? you asked again, your voice quieter now. you knew him. knew he’d kill for work and fun and the next whim that guided his fangs into the flesh of an unsuspecting victim. then why not you yet?

he hummed, lips pausing at your sternum. he pressed a soft kiss there, lifting back to sit next to you. you blinked hazily, tilting your head to find his gaze. “maybe I just like pretty things,” he murmured, decidedly not an answer and the only one he was willing to give you. you looked back at the ceiling, the soft lilt of his voice echoing in your ears. “fuck me,” you mumbled, reaching out for his sheer sleeves to hold. it slipped within your grasp, and something about that felt like a metaphor.

he grinned lazily, clawed fingers trailing up and down your side almost soothingly. “impatient?” you scoffed at his words, or well, tried to. you were way too damn aroused for snark right now. his hand finally settled at your waist, the touch gentler than you were used to, like he was learning the shape of you through feel alone. his touch wasn’t reverent though. not devoted, not possessive, but something unfamiliar–curious. like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to touch you or tear you apart.

“you’re usually more composed than this. I must be wearing you down,” he hummed mock thoughtfully, trailing his fingers up to your chest, squeezing and feeling the softness in his palm. you scoffed. “you’re insufferable.” your voice was shaky, cracking in the middle without your permission, like you were frayed at the edges, and it made him light up.

he leaned in close again, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw. then another, lower, lazier, the kind that made heat pool low in your stomach and your mind fog up entirely too soon.

“you like when I push you,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing so softly it almost felt like this was something real. “don’t pretend you don’t. I could have you sobbing for me in minutes if I wanted.” that made an indignant flush rise up your neck. just because it was true didn’t mean you wanted to acknowledge it.

your fingers dug into the sheer fabric of his sleeve again, this time tighter. “I don’t understand why I’m still here,” you whispered, a reluctant admission, rawer than you wanted it to be. “I can’t pull myself away.”

he laughed–quiet and ruined and so fucking pleased. you wanted to slap him. or get him to fuck you till you cried. both worked, really.

you trailed your hands lower, unzipping his pants with shaky fingers, a touch he did not protest. he must’ve been getting impatient too, you realized, watching him pull off his sheer robes. he was definitely pent up, it seemed, free from the confines of clothes and dripping with need and something that made you want to run and hide. just a little.

“I suppose I’ve made you wait long enough,” he drawled, one hand stroking himself languidly. you watched with your breath caught in your throat, a heady mixture of arousal and fear making you almost dizzy. “you did,” you agreed breathily, spreading your legs wider so he could settle between them comfortably.

the first press of him had you tensing on instinct, until his hands caressed down your waist, the touch soothing in a way that had no right coming from a monster. you relaxed, feeling him push in further, till you were grasping at the sheets, your body screaming and singing and protesting all at once. “move,” you breathed, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck.

and he did, alright.

the pace he set was in no way gentle, knocking the breaths out of your lungs with each push and pull of his hips. that was the thing with vere–he liked to watch you unravel inch by inch, until your body stopped obeying you and started responding to him.

he grabbed your thighs, pushing them up to your chest, the change in positions allowing him to drive further and deeper and you could barely breathe–

your nails dug into his back, leaving scratches behind as proof of your pleasure, and you didn’t even know when you had wrapped your arms around his neck, but you wanted him closer, closer, closer till you could somehow meld into his bones.

“that’s better,” he crooned, pressing open mouthed kisses down your neck, hips snapping against yours with bite he left at your skin. “keep screaming for me, pretty thing.”

you didn’t even have it in you to protest, moans and gasps tearing their way out of their throat without your permission. until you were babbling against his neck, legs trembling from the relentless way he coaxed you open, again and again, like a ritual.

he worshipped, then devoured. drew gasps from you that you couldn’t hold back, licked sweat off your skin like a man starving for something he couldn’t name, and didn’t want to.

you hadn’t realized you were clinging to him until your vision blurred, until your hands trembled where they gripped his back. until you felt him smile against your throat again and say–almost softly, almost–

“you always break so pretty.”

you hated how much you liked hearing it. hated the raw, aching warmth blooming in your chest at his words.

when you came–again (when did you come the first time?)–he bit your shoulder hard, just shy of blood, and groaned like he’d been waiting for it. like that sound, that sight, was what he was really after all along.

and when it was over, when he finally pulled out and sank down beside you, his body warm and boneless and far too still, he didn’t say anything at first. just looked at you.

“you’re warm,” he murmured finally, voice rough and utterly satisfied in a way that would’ve irritated you if he didn’t make your brain melt just five minutes ago. his fingers trailed a slow path, from your shoulder to your neck, pausing to trace your pulse like he was counting it.

you didn’t answer.

not out of defiance–but because you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

he moved closer, a lock of damp hair brushing your cheek as he leaned in. you felt him inhale against your temple.

“still breathing,” he said, almost to himself. “good.”

you let out a tired scoff.

“you say that like you weren’t the reason I almost stopped.”

that earned a chuckle. a low, pleased sound that vibrated where his chest pressed against your side. “I could’ve,” he mused. “that’s the game, isn’t it?”

and there it was again–the edge. submerged just beneath the softness. you didn’t flinch. but your heart did something uneasy in your chest.

his hand moved again, this time brushing sweat dampened hair off your face with a touch that was far too careful. his gaze lingered on your features like he was memorizing them. or.. evaluating.

it should have been intimate. maybe for someone else, it would’ve been. for you, though, it felt like being studied before being shelved. or eaten.

“do you think I’m cruel?” he asked softly, and the simplicity of the question made something in your chest tense. you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. pink and gleaming and impossible to read.

“I think you like pretending to be gentle. it makes the bite worse.”

he blinked once. slowly. then–

he laughed.

but it wasn’t mocking. not fully. it sounded like surprise. like you’d taken a bite out of him for once.

his hand cupped your cheek then, warm and terrifying, and his thumb brushed just beneath your eye with a faux tenderness that made your skin crawl.

“maybe I do like you,” he said quietly. “wouldn’t that be awful?”

you didn’t respond.

because it would be. and you couldn’t wait for it.

[mhinsanity]

baby, you're divine

gn reader x anaxa. word count: 2.1k words. I'm still trying to figure out how tumblr works so forgive me for the possibly atrocious formatting :,)

--

when you decided you simply couldn't be anymore, frost settled on the sacred pillars of your temple like a reminder.

you and anaxagoras had been a lot of things.

annoyances to each other. begrudgingly understanding each other, and eventually, in love with each other.

did you expect to fall into the arms of someone who stood against everything you were? not exactly. yet, you persevered. yet, you loved.

yet, it ended.

the temple was silent when anaxagoras entered.

at first glance, nothing had seemingly changed. the temple was still as stagnant as it had been, the air cold and empty, like it couldn’t sustain something like life. it wasn’t the first time he’d wondered just how you managed to live here. the ever present silence, and the quiet thrum of your decay wrapping like silk around the stone pillars. and yet, through the emptiness, your presence hummed in the air like a quiet prayer.

he never believed in gods. not in their prophecies, nor their worship, nor the honeyed words that dripped from the lips of those who bowed to them. but you–you had never called yourself one. had never needed to.

your blessings were more poison than miracles, he knew, you knew. yet, in the face of desperation, countless people sought your presence. they wanted you to make it better, to soothe the ache that they thought only the divine could ease. even when you never quite called yourself a deity, the world did it for you. perhaps that's why you hated the divine.

still, anaxagoras had never been one of those people. he had never bowed, never prayed. and yet, he still wanted you. had traced his fingers over the curve of your jaw in the dim candlelight, had still whispered your name like a man on the precipice of revelation.

he had known, from the first time he met you. he had seen the rot beneath the surface–the slow, creeping thing that festered beneath your touch, hidden behind the veneer of something beautiful. it was only natural, the rot inside you would begin to love him as well, just as you did.

and still, he had wanted you.

still, he had loved you.

there you were, at the center of it all, seated upon the cold stone, bathed in the soft glow of flickering lanterns. you looked the same, eyes half lidded, expression unreadable, the weight of something ancient in the way you held yourself.

for a moment, neither of you spoke.

then–softly, almost amusedly–you murmured. “you came back.”

anaxagoras exhaled, stepping forward. “of course I did.”

because even after all this time, even after everything, he knew the truth.

there had never been a world in which he would not return to you.

it felt almost natural, his movements as he came to kneel at your feet. not for your miracles, but for you–the only one he loved. he let his head rest on your lap, his silver-pink gaze observing you quietly in that reverent way he always did. you tilted your head, considering him. “did you miss me?”

anaxagoras hummed, lifting a shoulder in a lazy shrug, feigning nonchalance he knew you could easily see through. “miss you? perhaps.” he looked up at their eyes, lidded and heavy with the thrum of decay. “or maybe I simply had a few questions you might be able to help me with.

you laughed at that, airy and amused and real in who knew how long. “of course. what did you need?”

he raised his brow, surprised at the easy acquiescence. that wasn’t like you. normally, you would’ve ribbed him at least a little before indulging him. “that’s it? no witty remarks, no teasing? just a simple offer to help?”

you smiled, a playful twinkle in your eyes that you hadn’t felt in years. “who says I won’t bother you when you ask?”

anaxagoras huffed, amused. “touche.”

he shifted in spot, his arms coming to wrap around your legs, almost as if he was afraid if he let go, you’d disappear, like the whispers of a longing dream. one that he had woken from too many times, perhaps, his bed empty beside him and room cold. he didn’t look at you again, instead, fixing his gaze on the flickering flame of a nearby lantern.

as the silence between you grew, he found himself at a loss for words for once, struggling to find the right way to say everything he wanted to say. it was almost laughable. the great anaxagoras, one of the seven sages, out of words in front of his one and only heart and soul.

he decided to start with a less daunting question. “how long has it been since I last saw you?” even that, he regretted almost immediately, seeing the curious raise of your brow, but he played it cool (to the best of his abilities, in front of you).

you simply hummed in reply. “four years.”

four years.

he exhaled sharply, the only crack in his facade of nonchalance. four years spent without you, without holding you in his arms. it was the longest you had ever gone without seeing each other.

“four years,” he repeated, turning to face you finally, his gaze travelling over your face, taking every minute detail. you looked more tired now, he thought, the dark circles under your eyes more pronounced than he had ever seen. for a terrifying moment, he thought your rot had creeped in too far, that you didn’t have time anymore. he brushed that thought aside quickly, instead choosing to say, “I missed you.”

you smiled, and his heart skipped a beat. almost. almost.

“as have I,” you murmured, your hand reaching lower to caress his cheek. he leaned into the touch like an affection starved dog, wondering for a moment how far he had fallen. he found himself not caring. your hand was cool against his skin, a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the summer night. “and yet,” he started, his eye closing as he pressed into your palm. “you didn’t seek me out. you could have come to me at any time. but you didn’t.”

you smiled, small and amused. he never was able to rattle you in any way meaningful. it was both frustrating and endearing to him. “pinning the blame all on me?” you teased, pinching his cheek how you always used to whenever you wanted to annoy him. he huffed, swatting your hand away like an irritated cat. so perhaps it was a bit petty of him to drop the blame on you squarely, especially since it was he who had left. he knew you didn’t mind.

he opened his eye, narrowing it at you. “just an observation.”

he reached up, taking your hand and resting it back against his cheek, his fingers idly tracing the inside of your wrist. your pulse had always been faint–an effect of the rot pulsing within you. he had always disliked it. he felt the faint thrums of your pulse under his fingertips, trying to reassure himself you were real.

his gaze softened, looking up into yours, studying you intently. “but I suppose I could’ve sought you out, too,” he admitted begrudgingly, a content sigh escaping him at the sight of your answering smile.

you turned your hand, holding his fingers between yours, squeezing gently. “why did you come back now?”

his breath escaped him in a low huff, frustrated and resigned. everything in him told him to hide, to not let you know the full truth. but your gaze was sharp, piercing enough to see through any tales of falsehood he might have spun, and he knew he had lost. “I needed you,” he admitted quietly, as if the words were shameful.

he had expected judgment, perhaps you laughing at him. he left you, and now he was back because he realized he couldn’t live without you? instead, you caressed his cheek, gently, reverently, and you said again,. “I missed you.”

he leaned into your touch, a desperate sort of need welling up within him. he covered your hand with his, pressing it tighter against his cheek. “I never stopped thinking about you,” he murmured, his voice soft, barely above a whisper. “four years.. and I still craved your touch.”

you sighed, the sound coming out shakier than you would’ve liked. he always did hold the power to make you weak. “you still hold my heart in your hands,” you said, soft, like a confession that could blow away from a breeze. like you weren’t meant to say it out loud. the words stilled in the air, stagnating, waiting, and he caught it in his hands like it was a holy relic. it was worth way more than anything holy, if you asked him.

his fingers tightened around yours, an unconscious movement. the words settled in his chest like a physical weight, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. “and you, mine” he replied, his voice a quiet murmur. he looked up at you, his expression almost conflicted. he didn't know what to do with this feeling in his chest. like flowers in full bloom, sinking into his lungs till he couldn't breathe. you always left him feeling like the ground beneath his feet was pulled from him, like he was falling and floating and flying all at the same time, and he didn't know how to bear it.

so he did the only thing he knew how to do with you.

with gentle hands, he guided you off your seat, pulling you to lie on the ground with him. the temple had always run cold, but your presence, even if it was colder than the temple walls, warmed him to his heart. he'd rip it out of his chest, offer it to you till nothing of him was left, he knew. you knew. “I missed you,” you murmured again, like saying it once, twice, a hundred times would not be enough. his breath escaped him shakily, a traitor to his calm veneer, and he held you closer. “I did too.”

you laid there for a long while, simply basking in each other's presence. he didn't need words. didn't need to defy doctrine and beliefs. didn't need to speak an I love you out for you to hear him. you always did anyway.

he knew your mind was still working away, trying to meld this moment into your bones, as if it could keep you going for the rest of time. as if when you pushed him away, you'd at least be warmed by the memory of his touch.

he let you, for a bit. let your mind run and poke and prod everything about his presence. at least, until he figured you'd run yourself ragged if you keep going. “thinking again,” he murmured, not a question. his fingers sifted through your hair, trying to soothe the inevitable overthinking.

you sighed, your cheek resting against the ground as you looked up at him. if you tried hard enough, you could keep this image inside your head forever, you thought. “do you think I'm living if I am but a vessel for decay?” the words tasted like ash in your mouth, and you knew the answer already. yet you asked.

his gaze softened. it wasn't pity in his eye, yet, it stung for some reason. your divinity was your downfall, and here he was, holding you as you crumbled. “you're already living,” he said, as if it was the simplest truth in the world. “you're here, aren't you?”

you blinked.

he smiled, a quiet divine revelation of its own. “you're barely alive because you're dying,” he said, his voice soft in the quiet night. “I'm barely alive because I love you. they're not the same.”

you had never considered yourself as something that could nurture life. you tried to hold it in your hands and it fell away like sand. you couldn't hold anything if your hands were cracked after all. and yet, here he was. this stupid, foolish man, who'd laugh in the face of the divine, yet hold you like you were a miracle in the same breath. you laughed, incredulous. “we're both barely alive.” it wasn't exactly a lie. you, with your divine rot, and him, giving his body away to find the truth, both barely clinging to the flames of life. yet, clinging onto each other like you were the very air needed to breathe.

you took that answer. tasted it in your mouth, bitter as it was, like it could wash away the pain of the past four years. come tomorrow, you'd have to part ways again. his path was a lonely one, while yours was filled with life that was never really lived. he knew. you knew.

but for now, in each other's arms, this was enough.

[mhinsanity]

burn theory

for all of anaxagoras' heresy, he seemed almost like a devotee when it came to you.

you, with your silk robes and whispered prayers. you, with your divinity that was never meant for a mortal to carry. you, and the rot inside you, divine and alive and screaming.

he always knew it would touch him one day as well.

whenever the rot surfaced, when the decay started weaving through your bones in that suffocating way you never could quite free yourself from, he would be there. anaxagoras, the blasphemer. the heretic. the lover. he'd hold you as if you were something precious, something to be revered instead of worshipped. because he knew you were never meant to be put on a dais. yet, he couldn't help but look at you like you hung the very stars in the sky.

he felt it some nights when he woke, the slow, steady creep of your rot. curling and writhing and desperate for him. you loved him, so it was only natural your rot would too. he'd never say a word about it, never let you know about how some nights, after you slept, his nose bled quietly, the weight of the divine pressing on his chest.

you always asked him why he stayed. why he didn't look away from something as insidious as your poison. he never really had an answer.

for him, you were a constant. the beat of your heart, the thrum of your decay, the smile lines on your face. for him, you were everything.

you kept telling him to look away. to find something that wasn't rotten. yet, he didn't. he never did.

"I was never meant to live untouched," he told you. "I was meant to choose what consumes me."

you had told him one day, the story of icarus and the sun, and he'd scoffed. the divine wasn't nearly as alluring as to fall to ruin for. you'd called it a romance. he’d disagreed.

there was no salvation in plummeting to your own demise, he had said. you'd simply smiled. “some things are worth falling for.” is what you said. he wanted to argue, to say the gods are not worth your demise. but something in your eyes stopped him.

he didn't bring it up again, the conversation quietly locked away in his mind for him to pick at, to prod till he got all his answers. a researcher’s mind that was not to be dissuaded.

and yet, when you'd kiss his fingers at night, all your love spilling from your lips like the hymns you sang for the gods. he'd say this felt more divine.

"I'll find a way to take it back," you'd say, ink stained fingers pressed to your lips. "I'll find a way to make this decay mine again."

you always spoke like this when you thought he was asleep. he never corrected you.

withered flowers, submerged in ink. the smell of rot. the taste of it in his mouth. he'd love this rot back, as long as it held their shape.

it took the decay consuming him for him to find his answer.

because anaxagoras was a lot of things, and one of them was the icarus to your sun. even when you were too bright. too sick. too much.

when they asked why he carried this weight, he'd always have the same reply. because I love you, maybe.

he was a blasphemer. a sinner. a fool who took the leap in the name of love, even if he didn’t know quite how to believe in it.

and he fell happily. let the rot take him. let it love him. let him consume him entirely, if it meant holding you for one more night.

maybe this was the romance you talked about.

[mhinsanity]

me in 60 years