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heylittleriotact · 3 months ago

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𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐲.

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Rook never found out that at some point during the course of his enthusiastic undoing of her on his kitchen island, the culminated eroticism of her enraptured vocalizations coupled with the taste and smell of wetness of her had fully and properly gotten Emmrich off. Blessedly she hadn’t noticed the dark spot spreading that was beginning to spread over the front of his pants before he sent her up to bed.

He was initially mortified: cumming in his pants like an undisciplined teenage boy was not his intention, and it was clear from the suggestive glance Rook had thrown over her shoulder at him on her way to the stairs that she wasn't ready to call it a night.

Luckily, he was prepared, and he couldn’t help but give himself a mental pat on the back as he conveniently excused himself to freshen up before bed after he’d fed Manfred and cleaned up the broken snifter. Rook, already snuggled under his heavy duvet like she owned it, shrugged and said, 'Sure, I'll be right here,' and went back to scrolling through her phone.

One little blue pill, a lengthy shower, and a quick shave later, he threw himself on the mercy of the wonderful little pharmaceutical known as sildenafil, and found himself seamlessly tangled up with Rook until well after midnight.

The morning found them curled around each other, for the first time not at the whim of an alarm and the need to be somewhere other than his plush king-sized bed. Emmrich woke before Rook even without the alarm, abiding at a cellular level to the consistent schedule he’d built his life around.

He slipped from the bed, careful not to wake Rook, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead as she continued to breathe slow and steady in the dark. He pulled his bathrobe from the back of the door and threaded his arms through the sleeves, tying the front with such silent caution one would have thought they were made of tinfoil rather that terry.

Manfred was waiting for him right outside the door, displeased that he hadn’t been granted access to Emmrich’s room all night despite his determined scratching, caterwauling, and disgruntled hissing that by Emmrich’s reckoning tapered off around one in the morning.

A soft hiss - as though he understood that Emmrich intended to let Rook continue sleeping, but he was still going to give him a piece of his mind regardless.

“Surely you understand, my dear Manfred,” he whispered, picking up the leggy feline and tucking him under one arm, scratching the top of his small skull as he padded down the hallway and downstairs. “The presence of a new guest sometimes calls upon us to make some sacrifices in the name of hospitality… I’m skipping my morning yoga, for example.”

Deep, velvety purrs began to issue from Manfred, and even though Emmrich doubted he actually comprehended the importance of being a good host, he got the sense he was no longer vexed by Emmrich’s unusual deviation from the norm. He'd get used to Rook in short order - she would be petting him in her lap soon enough.

He flipped on the kitchen lights and put on the kettle for the coffee - Antivan press, of course - retrieved the Saturday paper from the porch, and got to work on breakfast, feeling a keen steadiness and calm that he had not felt in a long, long time.

It was always a bit disconcerting to wake up in someone else’s bed for the first time, but as Rook lazily wandered the path between sleep and waking, she became aware of the thick, heavy duvet she was huddled in while her fingers dragged over the luxurious texture of linen sheets she couldn’t even begin to put a price tag on. Then that fleeting confusion gave way to a warm sense of comfort and safety that touched every corner of her heart.

Granted, she had no idea where Emmrich had gone, but she was surrounded by him even in his physical absence: his sheets, his bed, his scent - even the subtle ache between her thighs was his doing - and it felt amazing.

Unsure of what time it was due to the black-out curtains over the windows, Rook reached over the bed for her phone on the nightstand, squinting into the bright screen until her eyes adjusted.

7:15… on a Saturday. Who gets up this early on a Saturday?

Emmrich, evidently. How long had he been awake? And why wasn’t he cuddling her?

Unacceptable.

She flung back the down-filled duvet and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, taking her phone with her to use the flashlight so she could find a light switch on the wall and illuminate the room properly.

When she had, she looked at her duffel bag on the gold damask chair in the corner of the large master bedroom - it contained enough clothes to last the weekend, and enough underwear that even if she managed to shit herself hourly before Sunday afternoon, she’d have fresh clean ones to spare.

She had brought along a pair of sweats and a couple of comfy tees, but…

Instead she went to the chest of drawers against the wall, tall and handsome like Emmrich, and she could tell by a glance that it sure as shit wasn’t comprised of pressboard and cheap dowels.

Solving murders for the cops as a side-gig is clearly not without its side-benefits…

Looping her fingers into the solid brass handles of the uppermost drawer, she was greeted by a plethora of designer underwear and socks in nearly every colour and pattern imaginable. Amused, she slid the drawer shut and opened the next one: ah, more cashmere sweaters - he likes his knitwear, doesn’t he?

The next one yielded a variety of casual chinos and one single pair of dark grey jeans at the very bottom that looked like they’d been in that exact spot for years.

The bottom drawer contained what she was looking for (amongst sweat wicking athletic shirts, and to her delight, a few pairs of breezy pants that wouldn’t have been out of place in a yoga studio): a stack of t-shirts, carefully folded like everything else, but bearing the same air of untouched neglect the jeans had.

Settling onto her knees, Rook pulled the stack out and balanced them on her lap, feeling utterly at home with the act of brazenly snooping through Emmrich’s dresser.

“Mhmmm…” she murmured, lifting the topmost shirt and unfolding it, holding it up before her. “I knew there was more to you than Beethoven…”

Pink Turns Blue - she wasn’t familiar with the band, but there was no mistaking that this was indeed a band shirt. It was old: the black cotton faded nearly to grey, the screen printed graphic cracked and lightened by countless washes.

Draping it over the edge of the drawer, she unfolded another.

Depeche Mode, nice.

Then another.

Bauhaus… ooooh…

Siouxie and the Banshees, The Birthday Party, The Legendary Pink Dots, The Velvet Underground

The Cramps…

“Ewww gross - The Smiths,” she wrinkled her nose and put it down. “Judging you for that one, Emmrich...”

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Einstürzende Neubauten…

“Can’t have one without the other, right?” She smiled at the purple and gold stylization of a stick-man and the crimson splash bursting out from behind it, the band’s name picked out in the same ochre shade that outlined the stick-man.

This one looked to be the most threadbare and heavily worn: the neckline was riddled with small notches where the elastic had deteriorated, and the material was so thin in places it might tear if handled too harshly. Sure enough, the seams under the armpits were lined with holes where friction had stressed the cheap garment the most.

She cast a glance over her shoulder towards the door to ensure Emmrich and his soft footfalls hadn’t snuck up behind her, and when she deemed the coast clear, she brought an armpit to her nose and gave it a tentative sniff.

Oh yeah. This smells like a favourite.

The fibres were steeped in the permanent, detergent-resistant musk of a garment that had been worn and sweated in and washed hundreds of times: the lingering ghost of Emmrich’s booze (and potentially other substance) fuelled escapades of youth.

An image of Emmrich, lankier even than he was now, clad in tight leather pants and tattered combat boots, grooving sullenly in an 80s goth club wandered through her mind. He was sweaty, bare-faced, and the amount of hairspray in his dark hair undeniably contributed to the hole in the ozone layer. A flat gin and tonic dangled at his side and he puffed on a dirty ass clove cigarette as he watched the band with half-lidded disinterest, swaying in place to the music.

She made a mental note to ask if he had any photos of those days.

Mind made, she slung the shirt over her shoulder and folded the rest with the same level of care she’d found them in before putting them back and getting to her feet, sliding the drawer home with her toes.

She pulled the shirt down over her head, and when she let go of the bottom, it fell halfway to her knees: she was taller than average, forever struggling to buy jeans with an inseam long enough, but she was still fucking swimming in it.

She liked that.

The slightly dusty stale scent of the shirt and the simple Emmrich-ness of it diffused in the air around her, and she snatched up her phone before wandering to the ensuite bathroom she’d used the night before.

Dawdling around aimlessly, aware of the savoury aroma of food being prepared downstairs, she pissed, dubiously eyed the bidet on the other side of the cavernous bathroom, washed her hands with soap that smelled of freshly cut lilacs, and proceeded to snoop through the aesthetically harmonious narrow medicine cabinets that bookended the round, brass framed mirror above the sink.

You could tell a lot about a person by the contents of their medicine cabinet, which was why Rook impulsively made a point of taking a peek into every single one she came across from the age of 9.

Let’s see… Band-Aids and Bactine - the new ones he bought yesterday are right next to these other ones…

She slid the opened box of Band-Aids from the shelf and peered inside. The box was half full.

Why buy more?

I dunno, I guess sometimes you run out of the size you use the most and just get left with the stupid weird ones. Manfred probably scratches the shit out of him… weird fucking cat - I don’t mind him though…

The box was set back on the shelf when her eyes landed on the row of translucent orange pill bottles that spanned the width of an entire shelf - half a dozen, all spaced equally apart, their labels turned meticulously outwards.

What have we here?

Lorazepam, bupropion, sertraline, lemborexant, zopiclone, and… sildenafil - what the hell is that?

Sticky fingers darted out without hesitation, snagging the bottle so she could read the label properly.

Emmrich Volkarin, mhmm, mhmm, Dr. Elizabeth Riley, okay, TAKE ONE TABLET 1 HOUR BEFORE SEXUAL ACTIVITY - ohohoho, pardon?

The bottle was full. The date on the label was… yesterday’s.

So that’s why he insisted on swinging by the pharmacy. Awww - is he that worried about not being able to satisfy me?

Rook put the bottle back, for the first time in her life feeling that she may have discovered too much during her discreet exploration of a medicine cabinet.

Guilt settled over her: shame was wrapping its gnarled, icy fingers around the doorframe of her psyche, prepared to drown her in second-hand embarrassment. It wasn’t quite able to dig itself in properly though, because despite the inherent awkwardness of accidentally finding out that your new partner is taking medication to up his performance in the bedroom, Rook actually found herself feeling somewhat… flattered?

He was that committed to pleasing her - and he was outrageously good at it to boot. Who cared if he needed a little something to keep him going from time to time?

She closed the door of the medicine cabinet without a sound, smiling to herself. She hadn’t expected to root through his cupboards and come out the other side with Emmrich Volkarin endeared to her even more than he already was, but the exhilarated flutter of her stomach told her otherwise.

He’s really, really into me, isn’t he?

Dudes being ‘into’ her wasn’t anything new to Rook, but the extent of their ‘into-ness’ was usually defined by what she could do for them with a smile on her face rather than what they could do for her.

Emmrich seemed to have taken the script and flipped it completely as if it was the most normal, natural thing in the world to do: talk of new jackets, expensive brandy poured without hesitance, mind-shattering, knee-wobbling orgasms dispensed to her back-to-back and without demand for reciprocation; and then going so far as to get fucking Viagra just so he could keep up with her…

Most guys were generally content to drop the chivalrous good-guy act once they got between her legs, but if anything, Emmrich appeared to be ramping it up.

No wonder she’d been dogged by the insistent desire to hear him call her a good girl again from the moment her eyes opened that morning: she wanted him to approve of her - wanted him to take pleasure in her delight. It almost seemed too perfect: a feedback loop of positive affirmations from one person to another.

It was also insanely fucking hot.

She hummed indulgently at the tingling bolt of arousal that seared through her courtesy of her love-chemical soaked brain, and left the bathroom in search of coffee and Emmrich. There had been talk of venturing downtown, and she had an assignment due at the end of the weekend that she needed to wrap up, but surely between those things there were room for other activities…

“Good morning, darling,” Emmrich said brightly when he spotted her descending the stairs. Oh he looked a treat with his hair mussed this way and that, dressed in an incredibly posh looking bathrobe, a wide strip of his bare chest visible between the satin lapels.

She was delighted when his eyes widened slightly at the sight of his dog-eared shirt on her. He finished scraping onions out of the skillet in his hand and into a bowl, setting the copper-bottomed cookware and spatula into the sink before pulling a mug from the cupboard and filling it with piping hot coffee from the stainless steel Antivan press within his reach.

“Here,” he said, rounding the counter and placing the mug in Rook’s hands, tilting her chin up to place a much welcomed good morning kiss on her lips. “Let me find you something more suitable to wear. I’ll be back in—”

“Wait.” She caught the sleeve of his robe as he made to move past her up the stairs. She pulled him back to her by the belt of his bath robe, careful not to spill piping hot coffee all over him. “I like this. It feels like a part of you.”

“It’s ratty as anything, dear,” he pointed out, looking unconvinced. “Surely—”

“Yeah, because you obviously love it - or did… for a long time.” She moved his arm for him, sliding it around her waist, and she nearly shuddered at the gentle familiarity of those long fingers of his against her spine. “I had no idea you had such good taste in music…” her smile widened at the droll curl of his lips.

“I wasn’t always boring,” he asserted.

“Could have fooled me - if I hadn’t taken it upon myself to go rummaging around in your drawers I would have never known.”

Maker, just being close to him made her unconscionably horny…

She ghosted her lips over the painstakingly groomed thatch of grey hair in the centre of his chest and inhaled slightly, beseeching herself inwardly to at least get through breakfast before shoving his dick in her mouth.

Emmrich seemed to be fighting a similar battle, because he closed his eyes with a soft groan and kissed the crown of her head before stepping aside and guiding her into the kitchen with his hand on the small of her back. “I can hardly say I’m surprised that you took it upon yourself to help yourself to my wardrobe.” He returned to the cutting board where he had already sliced a couple of tomatoes and had been working on an avocado before the onions finished.

“You’re not pissed off?”

“Should I be?” Emmrich frowned, using a spoon to separate the soft flesh of the avocado from the leathery rind.

Rook settled onto a bar stool, lifting her mug to her lips and sipping on the rich flavourful brew within. Manfred hopped onto the stool to her right and hissed softly: 'Good morning,' - she reached out to attempt to pet him but he ducked back in that weird, bendy way that cats are known for and she took the hint: they weren't quite there yet.

“I dunno. Some people are really protective of their stuff and their privacy. I didn’t think you’d be mad, but it wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong.”

“You trusted me in your home - it would be wildly hypocritical of me not to trust you in mine.” His hazel eyes - forever rimmed with dark shadows that made much more sense now that she’d seen the lamborexant and zopiclone bottles - met hers over the island he had her splayed over the night before. “Besides, you aren’t some stranger I invited into my space for a random fling or an impulsive one night stand,” he began with the same measured self-confident cadence he had when he was explaining an obscure funeral tradition or clever embalming trick. “You’re my…” his brow furrowed slightly in puzzlement, “you’re… hm.” The knife in his hand that could have paid Rook’s rent stilled. “I suppose that rather begs the question, doesn’t it?”

Rook reached down over the ledge of the eating bar and swiped a piece of avocado, sitting back down. She bit a piece off and shuffled the newspaper next to her closer. “Lover? Paramour? Squeeze?” She swallowed and unfolded the paper, examining the front page. “I could be your ‘partner’ I guess, but that sounds so uptight and self-serious, so I guess I’m your girlfriend.” She ate the rest of the avocado slice.

She might as well have told him world peace had been declared, hunger and disease were eradicated, and every single person alive was to receive a million dollars judging by the way his face lit up at her words.

Did he really think I thought this wasn’t what it obviously is?

“– And that means that you are my boyfriend.”

Maker, he looks like he’s about to blast off into orbit…

“And you’re stuck with me now, so… ha-ha.” She stuck out her tongue at him, keeping it playful, but inwardly thrilled at the reaction she got out of him with this innocent confirmation. She took another sip of coffee, smiling at the sappy grin on his face, and then resumed perusing the front page. “Oh - crazy!”

“What?”

She set down her mug. “The Grand Necropolis Museum of Mortuary Antiquities had a break-in.” Skimming the article, she picked out the key details and read them back to Emmrich. “The night before last - the night you stayed at my apartment. ‘Officials are still cataloguing the collection to determine what all was taken, but have confirmed the absence of one item in the expansive archive of funerary artifacts’ - something called a ‘Gloaming Lantern.’” Rook took a breath and continued. “‘No arrests have been made, but Nevarra City Police have released a still-frame of a person of interest captured on security cameras within the vicinity of the museum around the time of the incident. If anyone is able to identify the individual, they are asked to contact the Nevarra City Police directly or submit a tip anonymously online through their website.’”

Emmrich set the knife down and wiped his fingers on the rag next to him, leaning over to take a look at the grainy black and white image Rook had shifted around so it wasn’t upside down for him.

“Looks like some weirdo who’s watched too many spy movies - what’s with the dorky night vision goggles?” Rook laughed, but the smile died on her lips when Emmrich did not join her.

Instead he was staring bug-eyed at the photo of a lean figure, dressed head to toe in black, the only discernible details of their appearance being the weird goggles Rook had poked fun at, and a frizzy mass of curly white hair.

“Emmrich?” Rook prompted.

Emmrich only went a few shades paler, then murmured, “Maker’s breath, Johanna… what have you done?”

“Johanna?” Rook repeated. “You know this person? From this shitty ass picture?”

“I do,” Emmrich said solemnly, eyes locked on the image until Rook finally had the sense to flip the newspaper over. He blinked rapidly as if snapping back to reality, his gaze finding the girl in the ancient band t-shirt in front of him. “An old colleague of mine, I’m afraid - a friend first. We went to university together, and she worked at McDermott & Rafferty for her entire career until she was regrettably - but by her own doing - fired and stripped of her license by the regulatory board some years ago.”

“Oh shit!” Rook gasped, “I think I remember reading about that in the news a few years back. It was a huge scandal at the time - didn’t she get caught out for desecrating corpses that were in the care of the funeral home or something?”

Emmrich winced and picked up the knife again, returning to the avocado. “Yes, that was deeply unsettling business that nearly closed the doors of McDermott & Rafferty. I had no idea about it - never suspected her capable of such depravity: I knew Johanna as an acerbic, sharp personality who was in every conceivable way a terrible funeral director: her definition of ‘helping families’ was harsh and unsympathetic. She didn’t as such guide the bereaved through their grief with a compassionate and disciplined hand, but rather scruffed them by the neck and dragged them kicking and screaming through it without any thought to how such treatment might impact such vulnerable people. The sheer volume of complaints that we used to receive from families were a threat to the reputation of the business alone.

“But despite her deplorable interpersonal skills, Johanna Hezenkoss was unparalleled in the prep room: I’ve contributed my share knowledge and methodology to the profession over the years, but Johanna was nothing short of prolific in her creativity and skill when it came to not only the physical handling of the deceased, but the sheer chemistry of it. She theorized and implemented embalming techniques and processes that were collectively celebrated and embraced by the industry as a whole. Such skill she had with flesh.” Even despite the clear falling out they had, the admiration Emmrich had for Johanna was apparent. He slid the sliced avocado onto a plate and Rook stretched out her hand to him.

“Put that down for now and just sit with me and tell me about it.”

“But what if the avocado begins to oxidate and turn brown?”

“It’s a fucking avocado, not a little old Andrastian lady you’re setting up for a viewing: it��ll taste fine regardless, and you don’t get bonus points from me for Instagram-able aesthetics.”

Looking sheepish, Emmrich followed Rook’s hand to her side of the counter, sitting on the stool to her left and picking up his own coffee. His free hand drifted to her bare thigh and his fingers tightened over it comfortingly - whether for himself or her, Rook couldn’t say. It felt nice sitting next to him, drinking coffee.

“She had so much potential, Rook. She could have furthered the field in so many ways, and helped countless families to comfort and peace.”

“It’s always a kick in the balls to have someone you believed in turn out to fucking suck,” Rook agreed, “But like… how does all of this culminate with her formulating and pulling off a museum heist? What happened after she was de-licensed?”

“I don’t know,” Emmrich sighed, playing with the hem of the old t-shirt. “We fell out when I ultimately stood by the decision of the Board and refused to vouch for her character in front of the tribunal during her hearing. I haven’t heard from her since. Rumours through the grapevine over the years suggested she’d gotten wrapped up in some bizarre obsession with the occult, but to the best of my knowledge she disappeared from the profession and the public eye to lick her wounds.”

The way he spoke about her - Rook couldn’t help but ask…

“So like… there was… there was more going on between you two, then?”

Obviously they were fucking when this all went down. Or had fucked - nobody talked about a friend the way Emmrich talked about Johanna. She knew damn well that the same alarm bells would be going off in Emmrich’s mind about Leon if Rook was telling a story about him - not that it was a big deal or anything: sometimes you were friends with someone, and sometimes you fucked, and sometimes you went on a date or two and you both collectively decided that it was better to just stay friends at the end of the day, and your bond was stronger than ever - likely because you'd both seen each other naked.

Emmrich apparently was not familiar with this notion.

“Oh - darling, no! No, no, no - you mustn’t think that this is the heartbroken bloviating of a bitter, rejected man.” He turned in his seat to face her, cradling her face in his hand. “Per-perhaps once, during the hazy, uninhibited days of our youth, but we never had any romantic intentions towards one another - I speak for myself when I say that Johanna was far too cold and sharp-tongued for me, and I expect that I was always too soft and principled for her.”

He genuinely thought this was contentious for her: the words spilled from his mouth like a confession forced out under gunpoint.

“I’m cold and sharp-tongued,” she pointed out. “And I really don’t care, Emmrich - I just wondered if you guys fucked - that always changes things a bit - forever… whether you like it or not.”

“You don’t think that—?”

“That my romantic rival is a fucking wannabe cat burglar who was disgraced and ejected from her profession because she supposedly got a bit too friendly with some corpses? No, actually - it’s fucking wild to me that you know this person well and called her a friend, but I don’t think any less of you for it.” She shrugged and pushed the newspaper aside altogether - Manfred’s ears tilted back and he sniffed at the ink laden paper. “But you’re gonna phone her in, right? She robbed a fucking museum. And what the fuck is a Gloaming Lantern? Why would she want that?”

“It’s an ancient artifact that was uncovered decades ago during an archeological dig outside of the city. It’s been extensively studied over the years by the top brass at the university, but no one really knows the nature of its origin, nor what its purpose was.”

“Looks like your buddy has an idea of what it might do,” Rook posited, “Why else would she go to the risk of breaking into the museum for it?”

“I don’t know.” The muscles in Emmrich’s jaw were taught. “But Johanna wouldn’t have taken such a risk if her intentions were not well in hand.”

Neither of them spoke for a time. Manfred took the opportunity to dip his paw into Rook’s coffee and began licking his toes, slurping loudly.

“Well,” Rook grunted, dumping her coffee in the sink and balancing on the bar near the base of the bar stool while she rinsed out her mug and poured a fresh cup, topping up Emmrich’s too. “They’re asking for tips, and you can submit anonymously if you’re worried that Johanna might figure out you ratted on her.” She sat back down on the stool and curled her bare feet around Emmrich’s, deciding it was high time to change the subject. “You can do that while I have a shower, and then do yo still wanna take me downtown? There’s a really good leather place just past the mid-town square. If we get there early enough we can avoid the religious nut-jobs.”

Emmrich smiled, though it was thin and lacking the buoyancy it had before. He swept her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “That all sounds marvelous, darling, but breakfast first: I hope Eggs Benedict are all right?”

Rook slid off the stool and slotted herself between his legs, fingers twining into the heavy silk covering his thighs. “Anything is all right as long as it’s with you, handsome.”

She meant that.

She really fucking meant that - and she was going to make damn sure that he knew it.

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neurotica-tales · 8 days ago

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The Contract of Stone (Yandere Zhongli x Reader)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When you first meet Zhongli, it feels like coincidence—a quiet moment at Wangshu Inn, a polite exchange, a stranger with amber eyes too ancient to forget. But it’s not coincidence. It’s the beginning of something much older, much deeper, and far more unshakable than love.

Zhongli doesn't chase. He doesn’t beg. With impeccable manners and the solemn grace of stone, he simply becomes part of your life—one soft gesture, one remembered detail at a time. You never question the way he always seems to be there, never wonder how the world begins to fold neatly around your needs.

But you should.

Because behind every respectful glance lies a vow. Beneath every shared moment is a ritual. And in the depths of Liyue, beneath the mountain and the sea, your name has already been carved into eternity.

You are not trapped.

You are cherished.

And Zhongli has no intention of ever letting you go.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Up next: Yandere Zhongli Headcanon, Yandere Gorou Headcanon

To find my main masterlist, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The first time you bumped into Zhongli, the air hung thick and heavy with incense.

It kind of drifted around the big room at Wangshu Inn, getting in your face. It smelled like tree sap and sandalwood, but also something deeper – like old dirt and rocks after a rain.

You could hear the river outside humming away, mixed with the groan of the wooden floor under your feet. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, making the wood glow all warm. It felt really peaceful, like you should whisper and take deep breaths.

You were just there to drop off a scroll, nothing special. A delivery job. Normal stuff. There was no reason this day should change anything.

But there he was. Sitting by the window, all chill but proper, like he’d been around forever. His robe is made of deep browns and muted golds, trimmed with subtle elegance. Next to him was a cup of tea, untouched, steam curling up.

He didn’t seem to see you at first, too busy with some old writing on the table, touching the symbols like they were precious. But the second you walked in, he looked up. His eyes were amber. Not like fire, not like being cozy. More like something preserved. Something eternal. Like he’d been waiting – not for a delivery, not for any reason. Just for you.

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the scroll with both hands, his voice resonating like a bell struck once at dusk—deep, low, echoing with the weight of centuries.

You nod politely. There’s nothing more to say. Nothing else to do. You turn to leave. But you feel it—his gaze doesn’t follow you.

It anchors you. Not possessive. Not expectant. Just there. Unmoving. Watching with a patience that stirs something dormant in your chest. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That he was merely being polite. That his gaze wasn’t unusual—wasn’t personal.

But later, as you ride the ferry across Dihua Marsh, you keep thinking about it. About him. About how a stranger’s eyes could feel so ancient, so heavy with quiet understanding. The ferry rocks gently beneath you, but something else unsettles you much more: the strange feeling that you’ve just become part of something older than yourself.

That night, you dream of stone corridors. Of unfamiliar symbols glowing faintly along cavern walls. Of golden light pulsing like a heartbeat through darkness. You sense the tremble of tectonic memory, the sound of your name spoken in a voice too old to name.

You don’t remember the details, just the weight of something vast, something ancient brushing against your soul. When you wake, the dream clings to your skin like morning dew. And you are not the same. You attribute it to exhaustion. Coincidence. Maybe you’ve been working too much, too long, in too many old archives filled with forgotten myths.

Perhaps your mind is conjuring shapes from fog and memory. But you return to Wangshu Inn a week later, and he’s not there. You hadn’t realized you were expecting him until you scan the dining hall twice.

You leave quickly, pretending it’s the tea that doesn’t suit your taste. But the image of him—amber-eyed, composed, as still and solemn as carved stone—refuses to fade. And far beneath the ground, something old has already begun to shift.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A week later, Liyue greets you with sunshine and market noise. You’re helping a friend sort through old temple scrolls tucked inside a dusty annex in the upper terraces. It’s tedious work—marking notes, logging fragments, cataloging wax-sealed records that haven’t seen daylight in years.

The sun is nearly at its peak when you step outside to stretch. The harbor below sparkles, golden and slow. You shield your eyes with one hand.

“You seem far from the market today.” The voice gently draws you back.

You turn, squinting in the light. He’s there. Zhongli stands a few feet away, his hands neatly folded behind his back. His robes rustle faintly in the breeze, the deep colors catching the light in subtle ways—bronze, sepia, hints of vermilion. His expression is calm, as if he merely paused mid-thought to greet you.

“It’s been a while,” you say, blinking.

He inclines his head. “Liyue is a city of intersections. One simply needs patience to find the right crossing.”

It’s a strange way to phrase it, but elegant. You smile, and he smiles back. You tell him about the scrolls. He listens with such genuine interest that you linger longer than intended. The light shifts. The shadows stretch. Still, the conversation flows as if you’ve spoken like this your whole life.

You don’t realize until you return to your work that the quiet ache in your chest—the one that began at Wangshu Inn—has softened. He had been a stranger. And now, in some way, he is not. You start seeing him again. And again.

At first, it’s infrequent—coincidental, you tell yourself. But then it becomes routine. He’s outside the tea house when you arrive to meet a friend. He’s browsing a scroll vendor’s wares the same morning you run errands near Yujing Terrace. He’s seated on a stone bench by the pier, reading quietly as lanterns are lit for evening festivals.

Never intrusive. Never inappropriate. Always showing up at the right time. You greet him each time—a small nod, a polite smile. Sometimes a short conversation, always pleasant, always insightful.

And always, he remembers.

He remembers the tea you prefer. The poem you misquoted and laughed about. The scar on your finger from when you dropped a ceramic lid three weeks ago. He speaks of these things not as curiosities but as truths—stones firmly set into the foundation of who you are. When you tease him about it once—“You’ve got quite the memory, Zhongli”—he only smiles.

“Liyue has always prized memory,” he says. “To forget is to dishonor history.”

It’s poetic. Noble. And it explains everything. So you don’t question why he’s always nearby. Why he seems to appear when you need company, when you’re tired, when the world feels a little too loud. You start to expect it.

You feel something like comfort when you spot him nearby, walking with that quiet grace, hands tucked behind his back, eyes never demanding, only present. You never notice his obsession because it is wrapped in the language of history. Of civility. Of perfect self-control. It never feels strange. Only inevitable.

And so you let him closer.

Not because you’re forced, but because it feels right.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Zhongli slides into your life--deliberate and gentle, like a song you start humming without realizing it. He's not pushy. He just...becomes a part of things, like the air you breathe, or that one comfortable chair you always sit in. He never forces his way in. Instead, he becomes part of your surroundings, your schedule, your breath.

It starts with gestures so subtle that you don’t notice they’ve become habits. A cup of tea, always brewed to your liking, appears at your table when you’re too distracted to notice who brought it. A book you mentioned in passing is placed on your doorstep, its leather spine still warm from sunlight. You thank the innkeeper, the neighbor, the courier. No one ever confesses. But deep down, you already know.

It’s him.

Zhongli doesn’t win you over with flowers or grand declarations. His affection is rooted in ritual. Everything he does follows an ancient rhythm—refined, sacred, impossible to decipher unless you grasp the weight of tradition. The way he pours tea is a rite. The way he places a book in your hands is a vow. The way he stands beside you, hands folded neatly behind his back, is not casual. It is respectful.

He never says that the tea he brews for you is the same blend used in ancient wedding rituals. He never explains that the poem he quotes casually was once recited to seal soul-binding oaths between lovers. He never mentions that accepting his gifts—these seemingly innocent tokens—means something much deeper in Liyue custom.

And because he never tells you, you never know.

You never see the trap.

Days become easy and predictable. Zhongli shows up again and again. Not so often that it's weird, but just when you could use some company.

Overwhelmed at work? He's there with tea to calm you down. Want to watch the festival? He’s ready when you are. You never ask him outright, but it's like he knows what you need. He's always listening.

He picks up on things you don't even realize you're saying: quiet comments, small sighs, a lingering look at something in a window. He locks them away in his head, remembering it all.

The first time you invite him inside feels natural. It's a cold day, beginning to rain. He asked to walk you home, and you said yes. You don’t think he’ll stay, but he does. He does not touch anything without your permission. But his eyes—those ancient, ageless eyes—observe every detail: the arrangement of your books, the tea set you prefer, the loose seam in your curtain, the smell of your soap.

“You’ve made this place your own,” he says, and you smile at the compliment.

But in his mind, the sentence continues: "And now, it belongs to us both."

He sits in your home like it’s a shrine, and for a while, you forget he’s even there. His presence is so calm, so composed, that it doesn’t interrupt your space—it reshapes it. When he leaves, hours later, after a polite farewell and a promise to return a book you lent him, the silence he leaves behind is heavy. Not empty. Just… different.

Your home feels changed. The corners feel watched. The stillness feels full. You tell yourself it’s just the warmth of good company, the echo of a shared evening.

But in the hills beyond the harbor, beneath a starlit sky, Zhongli kneels before an unmarked stone altar older than the harbor itself.

He writes your name into the dust. He lights incense made of sacred resin and salt. He speaks your name aloud once, then lets the silence absorb it.

He does not need your permission.

The rites are not for you.

They are for the contract he believes has already been signed.

You do not know this, of course. You continue with your life, pleasantly unaware of how the earth hums in agreement beneath your feet. You do not feel the ley lines stir. You do not hear the distant echo of your name whispered in the caverns below Mt. Tianheng.

But he does.

Zhongli watches you with quiet devotion, never stepping too far. Never speaking out of turn. He never crosses the invisible line you keep between acquaintance and something more.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you keep inviting him closer—with your kindness, your trust, every smile, every story, every casual touch lingering a moment longer than necessary.

And in his mind, these are not accidents. They are affirmations.

To love you is to serve. To serve you is to protect. To protect you is to bind your existence to his.

And he will do it without breaking a single rule.

You don’t feel it when the world begins to shift around you. When merchants offer you better prices. When the path to your door is always cleared, even in heavy snow. When people greet you with a quiet respect you never asked for.

Zhongli says nothing. But he is always near.

The mountain has moved.

And you are already standing atop it, whether you realize it or not.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It begins with a smile not meant for him.

You’re speaking to a visiting merchant from Fontaine. They’re charismatic, a little clumsy, but quick with their jokes and full of stories from far-off lands. Their accent is strange to your ear, but charming. You laugh once—just once—but it’s a sound bright and unguarded, the kind of laugh Zhongli has never seen in person. Only heard echoed faintly in the steam of shared tea, or in memories that aren’t his to hold.

He sees it from across the square.

He does not interrupt. He does not make himself known. He merely watches, his arms folded neatly behind his back, posture as still and regal as ever. To any passerby, he is just another observer, standing in thought among the crowd.

But something in the air shifts.

The wind stills. The chatter around him softens. Even the sound of the harbor seems to dull, as if the world holds its breath. Zhongli says nothing. His gaze does not harden. He does not glare or frown. But the force that stirs behind his eyes—unseen, immense—presses into the space between you and the merchant like the weight of stone.

You never notice.

Later that evening, Zhongli is beside you once more, his steps quiet and measured as you walk through Yujing Terrace. He speaks softly of seasonal traditions and the hidden meanings behind regional dishes. His voice is warm. Measured. His presence familiar and calm.

When you mention the merchant, he nods thoughtfully.

“Newcomers seldom linger long in Liyue,” he says, not unkindly. “The harbor is kind, but… it does not always welcome everyone.”

You think nothing of it.

Two days later, the merchant vanishes.

No farewell. No explanation. Their stall sits abandoned, a few crates hastily stacked. Their room at the inn is found empty at dawn, the bed unslept in. The innkeeper shrugs. Travelers come and go. It’s not unusual, they say.

But something nags at you.

Zhongli never mentions it again. When you bring it up in passing, he merely lifts his teacup, brows gently furrowed.

“What a shame,” he murmurs. “The world is… unpredictable.”

Then he changes the subject.

You never dwell on it for long.

But something starts to feel… smaller. As if the edges of your life are gently being trimmed. People you once saw often now visit less. Letters from friends are lost. Appointments are quietly rescheduled. Paths that used to take you past the docks now reroute through quiet stone alleys—and Zhongli always seems to be there.

Not intruding. Not imposing. Just present.

Liyue begins to feel narrower, more curated. But in a comforting way. Familiar shops. Familiar voices. Familiar hands offering you the same books, the same herbs, the same delicate trinkets that Zhongli once explained in passing.

And always Zhongli, walking beside you. Speaking with careful reverence. Offering his presence as easily as the air you breathe.

He never raises his voice. Never makes demands. Never tells you not to speak to others.

He never has to.

Because the world around you begins to move differently. Like a river redirected by unseen hands. You don’t realize how much your life has begun to flow through the carved channels of Zhongli’s quiet will.

Your landlord offers a renewal without asking. Vendors give you discounts before you open your mouth. Invitations to events seem to multiply, but always with Zhongli listed as a guest—sometimes even the host. The more time passes, the more seamless it becomes. The city knows you. The city serves you. The city sees you as Zhongli does: important.

You never question it. Why would you? Liyue has always been a place of structure, of contracts and order. If the city now bends gently around your needs, it must simply be fortune.

Zhongli remains as he always is: poised, attentive, respectful.

But the look in his eyes, when they linger too long on your face, when your hand brushes his in passing, is not merely friendly. There is something sacred in the way he watches you—as if your very presence is a ceremony.

You never see the depth of it.

You never notice the quiet rituals he performs in your name. You never see the carved stones buried in gardens beneath fallen leaves, marked with your initials. You never hear the prayers spoken in languages dead for thousands of years. You never notice how people who cause you distress simply stop appearing in your life.

Not because he punishes them.

But because the land remembers.

And Zhongli, ever the steward of the earth, ensures that memory is honored.

You walk beside him as though the choice is yours.

And in a way, it is.

Because he never makes you stay.

He simply builds the world around you so carefully, so lovingly, so completely, that the idea of leaving never enters your mind.

There is no chain. No cage. No lock.

Only a path paved in smooth stone, lined with lanterns, always leading back to him.

And you follow it.

Gladly.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Zhongli is not a man who needs to chase. He does not grasp, does not plead, does not coerce. His love is too ancient, too refined for such base tactics. And so, as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks into months, he allows the illusion of choice to wrap around you like silk.

You think you stay by his side because you want to. And in a way, that’s true. Nothing he’s done has ever crossed a line. No boundary has been shattered. No demand has been made.

And yet.

You see him almost every day now. Not because you arranged it that way, but because his presence has simply woven itself into your life like thread through cloth. He’s the one who walks you home from the archive. He’s the one who sits beside you during lectures and evening performances. He’s the one who knows the names of your favorite street vendors, the festivals that matter to you, the rhythm of your life so intimately it feels like he belongs there.

And he does.

He never oversteps. When your friends ask if you and Zhongli are… involved, you laugh. You shake your head. He’s just kind, you say. Gentle. Someone you feel safe with.

But it’s more than that.

He listens to you the way no one else does. When you speak, he hears more than your words. He hears the thoughts beneath them, the silence between them. He responds with perfect timing, with wisdom that settles into your bones. He makes the chaos of the world feel quiet.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, you start to depend on that peace. You seek him out when you’re tired. When the city feels too loud. When your thoughts are tangled. You don’t notice how often you reach for him until he’s already there, waiting with a calm gaze and hands that never tremble.

He never rushes you. He never assumes.

But he is always there.

The stability he offers is intoxicating. A pillar in the rushing current of life. You don’t see it as control. You see it as care.

You don’t see the way the world bends to keep him near.

When your favorite spot at the tea house is always open. When the ferryman delays just long enough for you to catch the boat he’s already on. When the elder at the archive suddenly requests joint assistance for translations, with Zhongli as your paired scholar. You laugh at the coincidences. You say fate is strange.

But the world of contracts is never built on coincidence.

And Liyue’s oldest contract is already written in stone.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

One afternoon, you fall ill.

Nothing serious. A passing fever. But Zhongli arrives before your neighbors. Before your healer. He steps into your home with the ease of water meeting its riverbed. You don’t question how he knew. You’re too tired to wonder.

He brews medicine without asking where you keep your ingredients. He cools your brow with a cloth dipped in chrysanthemum water. He hums an old lullaby you’ve never heard but somehow recognize. His presence fills the room without weight, like a temple filled with incense.

When you wake the next morning, he’s seated by your side, reading a scroll. He smiles when you stir.

“I apologize if my presence disturbed your rest.”

You shake your head. “It’s… comforting.”

You mean it.

You never ask why he stayed the night. You never wonder how he prepared remedies from herbs you didn’t own. You don’t ask why your landlord didn’t object, why your healer never came.

The answers wouldn’t occur to you.

Because you feel safe.

Because Zhongli has never hurt you.

Because his manners are impeccable.

And so you trust him.

Your world becomes very small, very gently. Not in a way that isolates—but in a way that solidifies. Like sediment settling into stone. And in that stone, Zhongli writes a future he never questions.

You belong here. With him. Among stone and memory.

And you are content.

But Zhongli never forgets the fragility of mortals.

And so, he prepares for what even you have not yet imagined.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It happens on a quiet evening—the kind that settles over Liyue like velvet. The sun has dipped beneath the mountains, painting the harbor in dusky golds and purples. Lanterns sway gently in the wind, and you’re walking beside Zhongli without a destination, your path lit only by the hush of familiarity.

You ask him, offhandedly, if he ever gets lonely.

The question isn't weighted. It's light. Casual. Born of a shared silence that has become your language. But the way Zhongli pauses, the way he watches the horizon as if reading something carved into the sky—it makes your breath catch.

"I was, once," he says.

You turn to look at him, but he’s not watching you. He’s watching the water. The sway of lanterns drifting outward into the distance, their flickering lights echoing stars.

"But not anymore?" you ask, voice soft.

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s not with words.

He reaches for your hand.

His touch is gentle. No urgency. No pressure. Just the warmth of skin, the steady pulse of his heartbeat beneath fingers refined by centuries. You don’t pull away. You never have. You don’t realize how natural this has become—how easily his presence wraps around you like stone softened by time.

"You are here," he says finally, and in those three words, you hear the full weight of everything he has never spoken aloud.

Zhongli does not need to say that he has built his world around you.

He doesn’t tell you that the earth itself has shifted to keep you near.

He doesn’t reveal that your name has been written into stone tablets buried beneath Mt. Tianheng—your face immortalized in carvings no one else will ever see. That he kneels before them nightly, fingers brushing stone, whispering your name as if it’s a sacred text.

He doesn’t tell you that the reason you feel at peace is because he has removed every ripple, every tremor, every possibility of change from your life.

He doesn’t need to.

Because you are smiling. Because you are here.

Because to him, this moment is fulfillment.

You never notice the weight of his devotion—not truly. Not how it presses down like bedrock, anchoring your every step. You never notice the prayers he speaks into silence, or the way he traces protective sigils into the walls of your home while you sleep. You never see the offerings he leaves at unmarked shrines in your name.

To you, he is dependable.

To him, you are divine.

You speak of future travels—distant lands, new scholars to meet, new books to find. Zhongli listens, his eyes half-lidded. He nods. Smiles. Encourages your dreams. He even offers recommendations. But in his mind, none of these paths truly diverge. They all circle back to Liyue.

To him.

Because wherever you go, the land beneath your feet will answer to him.

You do not run.

Why would you?

There is no fear. No pressure. Just tranquility—carefully maintained, endlessly curated. A life so serene you forget chaos ever existed.

You are not trapped.

You are treasured.

And Zhongli, ever the gentleman, ever the god, ever the silent keeper of all things sacred, has vowed that nothing will ever disturb this peace.

Not fate.

Not time.

Not even death.

For if you grow old, he will revere every wrinkle like a scripture. If you fall ill, he will summon herbs known only to the oldest mountains. If you die—

No.

You will not.

He will preserve you.

Through memory, through stone, through rites known only to the Adepti. He will speak to your spirit beneath the earth and bind your name to the stars. You will live on in quiet corners, in carved lanterns, in the stories whispered in temples long after your body is dust.

And he will wait.

As stone waits for pressure to become diamond.

Because in Zhongli’s mind, you are not a fleeting mortal.

You are eternal.

And the contract is fulfilled.

#dark romance #zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli #yandere morax #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader

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