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I feel as though yan! Anaxa would not only act strange around his darling, but that the man would have a full on epiphany when he realizes that he's caught Feelings™

He is absolutely disgusted with himself for falling into such an unfathomable state, but he's still human, he reckons.

Granted, he's the best of the bunch but even so...

Doesn't matter. Now he'll just pester you till the end of time. It's your fault for this and he'll make sure to rub it in your nose as much as he can.

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Don't you just want to Hug Dan Heng's tail?

By all means his third form. His tail is more, visible, no? His Imbibitor Lunae form isn't really, visible.

So, sit down and hear me out.

AND NO, I have not continue the Amphoreus quest. This is simply just a brainrot.

Dan Heng just minding his own business, doing his own thing. Feeling comfortable as he continue doing his job, unintentionally lowering his guard down—

And then something just—

Plop!—..

A sudden weight felt on his tail, making him jolt on the spot as he immediately sense a threat at the sudden weight— only to see his lover clinging onto his tail when he turned to see the culprit.

He let out a soft sigh as soon as you came into his vision, "It's you," he softly stated as he then reach out to you to pat your head.

"Why are you hugging my tail?" He asked, quite curious of your choice of suddenly hugging his tail. Instead of him. "No reason, just wanted to hug your tail." Your response made him raise a brow. Staring at you skeptically, as if he doesn't entirely believe there's no reason behind your actions.

"Okay then.." he stared as he sat down now, looking at you who seemed to be happy about how he doesn't seem to be bothered with you clinging onto him, "Is it comfortable?" He suddenly ask as he started to fidget on the spot.

Oh? What's this? Is he Jealous? Of his own damn tail?

Now, that's cute.

"Your tail?" "Yes" "I mean, yeah.. it's quite comfortable." Silence occur as he then stare at you again, his mouth doesn't spat out any more words— but his eyes. His eyes says everything. His tail twitched in your hold, and he, did not say anything. And do you want to know what he did next?

He just casually drag his tail that has you who's clinging onto it towards him, and immediately took you off from his tail and wrap your arms around his neck, his arms then wrapped around your waist as he nuzzle his face at the crook of your neck. He exhaled softly before whispering—

"My tail worth nothing of your warmth, but I do."

Oh dear. He is jealous of his own tail.

©onlyyourhallucination — 2025 || Do not Copy/Translate/Use for AI

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height difference

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reposted with permission, please participate if you can!

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The empty hallway gives way before you, pristine white walls decorated with the insignia of the Knights of Favonius, their swords and shields a solemn vow to keep you safe from any danger which might loom.

A bitter chuckle goes past your lips as you feel your knees give in, small droplets of spit at the corners of your lips as gentle footsteps echo behind you. Like the man himself, they are slow, precise and oh so soft as you feel him crouch next to you, a warm palm now on your shoulder. His gloved hand inches closer as he carefully removes some of the saliva off your sensitive lips, his fingers toying with the liquid for a brief second.

"You had a stronger reaction than I anticipated." he muttered to himself. Even in such a miserable state, he still looked so disgustingly ethereal, his golden hair framing his beautiful face.

He could not be human, you rationalized. No one so perfect yet so wicked could walk on this Earth, not like he can. Like a whisper in the wind, this determined man would find you no matter where you tried to hide.

The bastard.

His hands go around your shoulders and waist, his grip surprisingly strong despite his short stature. Like a doll, he held you with the utmost care, eyes glimmering with devotion and curiosity, as if he truly was holding a precious toy to take home.

"I've already packed some things. I'll need your input on the rest."

Fascinating how he was speaking so candidly, as if this whole ordeal was not a literal kidnapping. Just where did he get the nerve to pull off such a stunt?

You could already feel the snow on your lips, sense the crackle of the warm fire, the air of Dragonspine beckoning you to come back. Albedo had once promised that he would build you a home there, where no one could bother the two of you.

It was a mistake to not take him seriously.

You could hear him ramble on that it would be hard to adjust at the start, but it was not impossible. He could bring you all you need and if need be, perhaps you could go hunt together.

If the situation was any different, perhaps you would have said yes to him.

However, the choice to choose had been stolen from you, those gorgeous eyes of his staring down at you in wonder. It was the closest thing to glee, you realized.

It's a shame how beautiful you found it.

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𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮 𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝒀 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑺

FEATURING : Yandere!Professor Anaxagoras (Honkai: Star Rail) X Female Reader.

WARNINGS : Contains explicit sexual content, professor/student, psychological tension, obsessive behaviour, dubcon undertones, and possessive intimacy. This is a work of fiction meant for mature audiences only (18+). Do not read if you are uncomfortable with manipulation, non-verbal consent, or dominant-submissive undertones within academic settings.

✧ SYNOPSIS : You never meant to catch the attention of Professor Anaxagoras. You were just another name on his list—until his gaze found yours in the second row and never let go. At first, it was academic. Specific. Focused. But when the syllabus began to mirror your thoughts and your name echoed in every lecture, it stopped feeling like coincidence. Now, every word he speaks feels like a test you didn’t agree to take. Every stare, a quiet unraveling. And when you’re finally left alone in his office, with nowhere else to run, you learn exactly how far obsession can hide beneath professionalism—until you’re pinned under it, breathless, and marked as his. You should have walked away. But you didn’t.

WORD COUNT : 2163

Enjoy :>

—

The first time Professor Anaxagoras walked into the lecture hall, you didn’t expect to feel anything. After all, he was just another name on your schedule—an elective you’d added last-minute, the sort of course you assumed would be all dense theory and dry readings. You didn’t know what he looked like. You hadn’t bothered to search his face. But the moment he entered the room, the air changed. Something about the way he moved—precise, purposeful—cut through the student chatter like a blade through silk. He carried no laptop. No bag. Only a leather folder and a pen that gleamed faintly in the light. His coat was folded over his arm, and his shirt cuffs were perfectly buttoned, his collar sharp. Not a single thread was out of place. His eyes swept the hall, cold and unreadable.

And then they landed on you.

It wasn’t the look of a professor cataloguing his students. It wasn’t casual, or vague, or passing. It was direct. Exact. Like he’d been looking for something and found it—there, in the second row, right where you sat. You weren’t fidgeting. You weren’t even making eye contact. But still, his gaze lingered. Long enough that your skin prickled under your jacket. You glanced down at your notebook, fingers curling slightly, unsure why your heartbeat had suddenly picked up.

When he finally began to speak, it wasn’t to the room. It felt like it was to you alone.

“This course will not be easy,” he said. His voice was smooth and deliberate, every syllable calculated. “You are expected to think critically. Speak precisely. And above all, to remain present.”

He let the last word hang in the air.

You looked up.

He was still watching you.

—

It wasn’t a one-time thing.

By the second week, it became clear—he had memorized your name without ever asking for it. You’d never introduced yourself. Never approached him. Yet each lecture, without fail, he’d pause mid-explanation and say it aloud. Always at a moment when your head was down, or when you were trying to disappear behind someone else’s shoulder.

“Miss L/N,” he would say. “Your thoughts on this?”

It didn’t matter if you had been paying attention. It didn’t matter if you had your hand up. The question was always yours. You’d stammer your way through an answer, half-formed and shaky, trying not to blush under the weight of his gaze. And every time, he would respond the same way—without praise, without smile. Just a calm, measured “As I expected.”

It wasn’t flattery. It wasn’t even encouragement.

It was like he already knew what you were going to say.

Like he’d studied you long before this.

—

The others noticed, of course. How he singled you out. How his eyes returned to you, again and again, even when you stayed silent. At first, it became a joke. Someone whispered behind you once, “He’s got a crush.” You laughed along nervously, brushing it off. Professors had favorites. It didn’t mean anything.

But then he started using you in his examples. Hypothetical arguments where “Miss L/N” was always the subject. Always the focal point. Always under his lens. It wasn’t just academic anymore—it was pointed. There were lectures where your name came up four, five times in an hour. It was subtle, wrapped in professionalism, buried in metaphysics. But it didn’t feel like philosophy anymore.

It felt like he was watching you think.

—

You tried to hide. You changed seats. Sat in the back one day, behind two taller students. He still found you. His eyes slid right through the others like they were mist. The moment he asked his first question, he called your name.

Another day, you skipped class entirely. You told yourself it wasn’t because of him. You just needed a break. Time to catch up on other work. But when you returned next week, there was something new in his voice.

“I see you’ve rejoined us, Miss L/N,” he said at the beginning of class. No warmth. No sarcasm. Just quiet finality. “Good. I prefer when my students remain… consistent.”

You swallowed hard and didn’t respond.

But for the rest of that lecture, he never looked away from you.

Not once.

—

Things changed after that.

You started noticing him outside the classroom. At first, it was little things. A glimpse of his coat near the faculty building when you were heading back from the library. His voice—quiet, composed—floating from a corridor when you thought you were alone. You told yourself it was coincidence. He worked here. You shared the same campus.

But then it became harder to explain.

One evening, you stayed late in a quiet corner of the humanities wing. You hadn’t told anyone. No friends, no messages. But when you stood to leave, you nearly jumped.

He was at the end of the hallway.

Just standing.

Not reading. Not typing. Just… there.

Your breath caught. He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He just nodded slowly as you passed.

“Working late?” he said.

You tried to smile. “Just catching up.”

He held your gaze. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

And “You’re more valuable well-rested.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t know how to.

—

From that point on, his presence grew more precise. He began assigning readings that aligned exactly with the themes in your private research. Topics you hadn’t spoken about. Ideas you had only ever written in your personal notes. Once, he even referenced a line from your high school essay—an old piece you’d posted online years ago, long deleted.

You didn’t ask how he’d found it.

You didn’t want to know.

The worst part was how calm he remained. How professional. He never raised his voice. Never threatened. Never said anything you could report. But the pressure kept closing in. Quiet. Steady. Relentless.

Like the hand of a clock ticking toward something inevitable.

—

You should have walked away.

You told yourself that the moment Professor Anaxagoras walked into the lecture hall for the first time — tall, deliberate, his coat flaring like ink in water and his eyes, sharp and silver, locking onto you as if the entire class didn’t exist. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just looked, straight through you, like you were a secret he already knew how to unfold.

You ignored the first time he said your name. Thought it was random. Coincidence.

But then it was every class. Every single week. His voice wrapping around your name like silk on glass — “Miss L/N. Your thoughts?” — no matter whether your hand was raised or your eyes were anywhere near his. Even when you stared at your notes and prayed to disappear, you could feel it. His gaze. Slow. Steady. Starving.

You never stayed after class. You never asked questions. Even when you didn’t understand, you preferred silence to the way his eyes lingered on your mouth when you spoke. Like he was memorizing your lips, not your words.

But now, backed into a corner by a fast-approaching deadline and no time left to stall, you found yourself standing at the edge of his desk as the last student filtered out. Your voice caught in your throat.

“I need to ask about the assignment,” you said, soft. Too soft.

He looked up slowly, pen stilled in his hand. His eyes flicked across your face like he was watching something inevitable begin.

“Of course,” he said. “My office.”

You wanted to say no. But your legs moved before your mind could stop them.

⸻

The office was dim.

Books from wall to wall, ancient and heavy, their spines worn from touch. The scent was sharp: old paper, ink, cedar oil, and something else — something unmistakably him.

You hesitated in the doorway.

“I… I don’t want to take much of your time,” you offered.

“You won’t,” he said. “Close the door, please.”

It clicked shut behind you. You sat on the edge of the chair opposite his desk, notebook in hand, hands trembling faintly. He noticed. He always did.

You explained your confusion about the comparative analysis section. Tried to keep your eyes on the paper, not on the way he watched you — lips parted slightly, hands folded. Listening far too closely. Too still.

“You’re afraid of being alone with me,” he said, not a question.

Your pulse thudded.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. But not for the reasons you think.” He stood.

Your heart skipped. Your knees tightened.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he continued, circling the desk, slow like the ticking of a clock. “You’re afraid of what you’d let me do. What you’d beg for once you stopped pretending.”

“I think I should go—”

He walked to the door.

Click.

He locked it.

You stood too fast, panic rising. “You can’t—”

“I won’t touch you,” he said quietly, “unless you ask me to.”

The silence swallowed you both.

And he was watching. That stare — heavy, silver, ancient. Not leering. Not lustful. Certain.

You should have walked away.

But instead, your knees wavered. And you whispered, “Then touch me.”

He was on you in a breath.

His hand slid up your neck, under your jaw, tilting your face toward him with maddening gentleness. He kissed you like he’d been tasting the thought of you for months — slow, calculated, deep. Your breath hitched as his tongue slid into your mouth, claiming the space with possessive grace. You moaned softly, body instinctively pressing into him, your thighs clenching when you felt the solid heat of his cock through his trousers.

His mouth moved to your throat, warm and slow. “Take it off.”

“What?”

“Your blouse. All of it.”

You hesitated, and his eyes narrowed, cold and sure. “You said yes. Don’t lie to me now.”

You unbuttoned with trembling fingers, breath shaking as your skin was exposed inch by inch. His eyes followed every movement, like he was documenting it in ink — the curve of your breast, the line of your waist, your trembling thighs.

He pushed you gently backward — onto the couch lining the far wall. The leather was cool on your back. His hand trailed down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your skirt.

“Open your legs.”

You obeyed.

His hands slid beneath the fabric. No rush. No sudden movement. Just long, warm fingers pushing your underwear aside, slipping between your folds and finding you soaked.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Just as I expected.”

His thumb circled your clit with slow, deliberate pressure as two fingers sank deep into your cunt. You gasped, arching, his body pressing between your knees to hold you in place.

“You act so untouched,” he growled, mouth near your ear. “But this—” he curled his fingers just right, and you choked on a moan “—this is what you’ve been needing.”

Your orgasm crept up sharp, your thighs trembling, eyes rolling back as he kept his strokes precise, expert, relentless. You came hard, moaning his name in broken, breathless syllables. He didn’t stop until your body slumped, shaking and wet.

Then he stood.

And undid his belt.

Your eyes widened as he freed himself — thick, flushed, dripping with arousal. He stroked himself once, twice, and then leaned over you, grabbing your hips.

“You’re going to take all of it,” he murmured. “You’ll feel me for days.”

He guided his cock to your entrance, the thick head pressing slowly, stretching you inch by aching inch. You whimpered, biting your lip, hands digging into the cushions.

“Eyes on me.”

You looked.

And he thrust fully in — one deep, hard stroke that made you cry out. He groaned, hands gripping your hips tight as your walls clenched around him.

“Fuck, you feel—” he hissed, cutting himself off. He began to move, slow at first. Deep. Measured. He watched your face as you gasped and writhed beneath him.

His thrusts grew sharper. Harder.

Each one slapping against your skin, cock dragging across your most sensitive spots with unrelenting precision. You couldn’t stop the sounds. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, leaning close, his breath hot on your lips. “Every part of you.”

You came again — a sudden, uncontrollable climax that left you sobbing into his shoulder. He fucked you through it, groaning at how tight you were, how your body locked around him like it didn’t want him to leave.

“I’m going to fill you,” he growled. “I’m going to watch you walk into class knowing you’re full of me.”

Your legs wrapped around him. You couldn’t speak. Just nod.

And with a final, brutal thrust, he came — spilling deep inside you, moaning your name like worship.

⸻

He didn’t pull out for a long time.

He stayed above you, breathing hard, brushing hair from your face with reverent fingers. His cock still twitching deep inside your soaked cunt.

And then, as if nothing had happened, he whispered,

“Next time, come earlier. I don’t like to rush.”

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I do the opposite of gatekeeping, I’m not going to shut up until you like this thing as much as I do

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I am in tears laughing. my sister sold her couch on marketplace and accidentally gave them her cat too

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Persistent Persuasion

Yandere!Reca x Reader

You’re an actor who swore you’d never take Mr. Reca’s role offer. But Reca doesn’t take no for an answer.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒*⭒

“You’re the only one who can carry this scene.”

You cross your arms, shifting in the plush velvet chair that probably cost more than your entire apartment. “I told you, I’m not doing it.”

He sighs dramatically, as if your refusal wounds him deeply. “I know, I know. It’s just—” He pushes the script an inch closer, fingertips drumming on the cover. “You have this… gravity. Anyone else, and the audience will see right through it.”

You raise a brow. “You mean they’ll see right through you.”

He chuckles. “Is it so bad to want the best?”

Your apartment has become a graveyard of unwanted bribes. Flowers, boxes stacked by the door like barricades you never asked for. Your manager curses under their breath as they haul the last armful of jewelry cases back to the car.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

You’re watching the street from your window, half-expecting to see him lurking in some ridiculous disguise again.

Because he would. He has.

It started with the voicemails. The last straw was him showing up at your fan event, hidden under a cheap hoodie and sunglasses. “I’m your biggest fan. Can I get your autograph?”

His cologne gave him away before he even pushed the photo across the table. When you looked down, there was no photo — just the script, printed on glossy paper, your name scrawled over the title page.

And now your phone buzzes again. Another voicemail. He’s relentless — if he weren’t Mr. Reca, celebrated director and studio tyrant, you’d think he was just another obsessive fan.

You think of his last words at the event

“If I have to stand at your doorstep every day, I will. If I have to buy every seat in this industry until there’s no one left but you — I will.”

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

The studio lot hums with chatter and camera rigs clattering over concrete. You’re half hidden behind your script when you catch sight of him in the middle of a gaggle of fresh-faced actors clinging to his every word.

You roll your eyes and tug your costume tighter around your shoulders. It’s just a cameo role — two scenes, easy money.

You’re steps away from the soundstage door when you feel him before you hear him. “Your collar’s crooked.” he murmurs. He’s so close you can see the faint stubble he missed shaving this morning. He smooths the fabric with precise fingers, careful not to look you in the eye until he’s done.

“There. Perfect.”

You don’t thank him. You don’t look back. But you feel his eyes on you the whole damn scene.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

You almost refuse his invitation. But something about the way he’s ditched the entourage makes you curious.

A bar, what could go wrong?

He orders you a drink without asking what you want.

“If you want it me you can have it. Body. Soul. Every breath, every heartbeat.”

You study him across the rim of your glass.

“And what do I do with your soul, Mr.Reca? Hang it on my wall? Put it in my pocket?”

“If that’s what it takes. If it makes you stay.”

You push your glass away and lean back. “So this isn’t about the scene anymore.”

He shakes his head.

*⭒ ۫ .⭒ ۫ ˑ⭒

The bar closes behind you like a sigh when he gestures for you to follow him. Maybe it’s the faint haze of the single sip you did take or the low, lulling hum of his voice weaving promises through your resolve like threads through fabric.

“I want to show you something.”

You hate yourself for stepping into the car with him. Hate yourself more for not asking where you’re going. When the elevator doors part on the top floor of a hotel that costs more per night than your rent in a month, you stand there blinking while he slips the keycard in with a casual flick of his wrist.

You stand near the window while he tosses his coat aside, loosening his tie with a careless tug. For a heartbeat your mind jumps to something darker, but he just drapes it on a hanger, turning back to you with that same calm insistence.

You flick the AC on because it’s easier than asking why you’re here at all. You scan the coffee table — scripts stacked in neat piles, new covers, fresh annotations in his looping scrawl. You pick one up, thumb through the pages, realizing quickly this is not the same story you refused before. Your fingers freeze on a margin note: It must be Y/N L/N. No stand-ins.

You don’t notice him behind you until the faintest heat of his breath grazes your neck. Then his teeth press into the curve of your ear, a fleeting nip that makes your pulse trip. His fingers ghost over your waist, pulling you back just enough for your back to brush his chest.

The whisper spills out in that same honeyed tone you’ve grown to dread: “Play it... just once... and I’ll never ask again.”

You shove him away, the script slipping from your hands. “Enough, Reca!”

He stumbles back, a ghost of surprise flickering through that perfect mask, then it’s gone.

“You must take the role. You have to —”

But the words melt away because the suite dissolves around you like sugar in water. One moment you’re standing by his designer couch, the next you’re staring at your own bed.

The pages of his script flutter onto your nightstand, exactly where you don’t remember placing them. He’s still there, impossibly standing in the corner of your room. You wondered if it's something like bending reality. Just like in the films he created — illusions so real they leave you doubting which door you stepped through.

“There’s nowhere you can run from this. Or from me. You must take it, because this story doesn’t exist without you.”

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People are hungry for this man, oh my word. Take these humble crumbs, my little doves. Also fem reader because it's easier for me.

The soft glow of the moon cascaded down on the pair as the wind blew gently, soothing the raging heart in the girl's chest.

It was hard to focus when you were oh so aware of his stare. It was so easy to picture it - ruby red eyes, lost deep in thought as they skimmed all over your body, taking in absolutely every detail they possibly could... And yet, still somehow being able to be completely aware of the surroundings or any incoming attack. Every miniscule movement of the tiniest of bugs, any scarce leaf on the ground, all of it was easy for him to spot.

That was the power of a Servant, you figured. And your Lancer had many, many things going for him.

Being a participant in the Holy Grail War was never an ambition of yours. Your family had no real standing with the other mages as it was a relatively newly established group. You never even considered yourself a particularly impressive or strong mage, just good enough to survive.

And against all odds, the Holy Grail had picked you.

The bright red command seals on your hand were a painful reminder of your bloody predicament. Danger lurked in every corner and even if you tried to hide it, the quiver in your step was painfully obvious to your Lancer. To him, you were no better than an open book. In its own way, he found that endearing.

He took a shine to you almost immediately. While he would typically prefer a more outspoken and assertive Master, he couldn't help but to stir the fire which lay dormant deep inside you. You couldn't see the strength you possessed but that was alright. He could see it, smell it, almost taste it even. He wanted to push you into above and beyond, he wished to see you at your breaking point, only to rise from the ashes anew.

Such a delicious thought. His cute little Master, who didn't have a single clue of the plans he had for her.

Times like these, he really, really, loathed being a heroic spirit. Improper thoughts came to him like breathing, it was certainly no way for a Servant to admire their Master in such a manner but the man could not help himself.

You were far too delectable for your own good.

He was going to chain you, break you, show you just how much he cared for you in the most earnest way possible. He was going to present you with the Holy Grail and make you the true victor of this war.

He was going to make you even more beautiful than you could ever imagine.

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Hooked up with a British guy once and he said "awh that's propah" while I ate his ass

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I just had to draw his waist

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cookie yuri.png

(redraw from the trailer)

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A tiny AU where Kaeya is the darknight hero and Diluc the cavalry captain #Ragbros 🍓🫐

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