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lovesickeros · 8 months

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☆ decadence divine [ act I ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, neuvillette, furina {☆} notes yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings yandere content, stalking (implied), kidnapping (implied) {☆} word count 2.3k

ARLECCHINO

Arlecchino was wont to leave social gatherings to her subordinates– the private meetings were where she thrived. It was so much easier to lure your prey into a trap when you didn't have prying eyes and ears waiting for the barest hint of blackmail.

She clicked her tongue in distaste, her eyes narrowing beneath the mask of the fox as she set down her cup sharply. It was difficult as it was to draw them from the safety of their bubble– at the slightest hint of danger, her quarry would run. A chase would be fun, but she couldn't risk getting caught here. The political nightmare it would cause..it already gave her a headache. She had to be discreet.

They weren't making it easy, however.

Which is why she never liked crowds. But this chance didn't come by every day. She wasn't going to simply let it pass by because of a little danger. She'd have them eventually, it was just a matter of how. There were already numerous of her own lingering in the crowds, hidden beneath the masks that every patron bore. It was difficult to stand out amongst the flurry of masked patrons constantly shifting around the room, moving from one conversation to another, gliding from one dance partner to another.

Her heeled boots clicked sharply against the tile as she stalked through the crowds, keeping a wide berth yet always lingering nearby– she was sure they could feel the vague sense of being watched, but with the huge crowds..her lips quirked into a grin with the barest flash of teeth. There were a great many ways to break them in– she'd spent a great amount of time and mora to get anything she could for blackmail, if she so wished. She had the backing of the Fatui as well if she played her cards right– it wouldn't be difficult to convince them that they were a valuable target, and none of them would dare to question just what she did with them afterwards.

Perhaps a bit of play, first. Test the waters. She was familiar with playing the polite gentleman, despite her status as a Fatui Harbinger. Stage something for her to intervene, perhaps, to look the hero. The look of shock when she revealed the wolf beneath the wool..she could see it already. That wide, doe-eyed look as they realized the monster they've followed blindly like a lost lamb..she was beginning to see the appeal.

All it took was a few hushed words and subtle signals before the tiles started to fall in place, her hand gliding along their lower back as she leaned over their shoulder with a thin, predatory smile. She'd have to organize for the agent to be released later, her eyes following as the Gardes dragged him out of the room in a flurry of curses, but for now..she tilted her head to peer down at them, polite and almost apologetic.

"You aren't too startled, are you? Now now, there's no need to look so..scared, poor thing. I won't let another lay a hand on you," She cooed in a sickly sweet tone, the husky rasp of her voice whispered in their ear like dripping honey. "You have my word. Now, why don't we get you some fresh air? Come. Allow me to escort you."

Her lips pulled into a jagged grin at the relief in their eyes– the blind lamb following the shepherd as it led them into it's maw. Just a little longer, and she could finally have her own caged bird– a pretty thing to admire, to protect, to possess.

Something no one else would ever touch again. Something hers.

NEUVILLETTE

Neuvillette was not one for parties. The intricacies and delicate handling of public relations he oft left in the capable hands of Furina, rather then himself. It was only at her behest he even attended at all, but he still felt rather..out of place amongst the bodies constantly shifting through the ballroom like a constant rush of water from one end to the other, no rhyme nor reason to the flow. The only thing that kept him afloat among the tides was the mask of the deer obscuring his face– even if it was exceedingly difficult to truly hide himself among the crowds, most passed over him without second thought.

Though he had to be honest with himself, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it to Furina despite her insistence that his attendance was mandatory. He had his own reasons for coming– selfishness that left a sour taste in his mouth. It was purely by chance he'd seen the briefest glimpse of them prior, and he..was intrigued, that was all.

He refused to let his thoughts linger on the sleepless nights he spent prying every piece of information he could from loose tongues and obscure documents, every moment he managed to squeeze in between trials spent lingering in their most favored locations– cafes, stores, restaurants, the like.

Now a masquerade.

He tried not to let the guilt gnaw at his conscious, but it lingered like an age old scar that still ached.

So he relegated himself to simply residing in the further corner, nursing a goblet of water like a fine wine, trying not to let his eyes stray to the brief glimpses of them through the ever moving bodies filling the center of the room, dancing like puppets in music boxes.

Still, his hand twitched in an instinctual desire– a need to clasp his hand in their own, to touch his lips upon their knuckles, to indulge in a moment of reprieve and unshackle himself from the mantle that bears heavy upon his shoulders. He seeks reverence, worship, but not of himself– but towards the one who had drawn the eye of the dragon amongst the waves of humans he'd seen come and go for a great many years.

No one could compare, he is certain. None have left him as breathless, as hopelessly infatuated, as the one who made him wish only to kneel at their feet in senseless reverence until he could no longer speak. A hopeless man, indeed, if he has never even truly met them.

Instead he's spent his time prying into their life from the shadows. Caution, or simple cowardice?

He dares not ponder.

Yet in his ceaseless pondering he'd blocked out the world without, failing to notice the figure stepping up beside him until their hand brushed against his elbow– just the briefest touch, but it had his pupils narrowing and his entire body tensing like a coiled spring. That touch..bliss. It left him breathless and lightheaded as he tilted his head to regard them, his lips parting in a shaky sigh. They are as beautiful as he remembers– even with their face obscured beneath the mask, he would never forget them.

"Greetings, Monsieur– I hope I didn't frighten you too much." Their laugh made him feel rather faint, just the sound of their voice making his hand tighten around his cane. "..Not at all. I was simply lost in thought." He admitted apologetically, trying to reign in the urge to cup their face between his palms. A dangerous thought. He didn't want to scare them off when they'd provided him a priceless opportunity.

"My apologies, you must have needed something. It was rude of me to have been so absorbed in my thoughts to have ignored you." He continued, gently turning to set his goblet down– offer them his full attention, be a gentleman. The words rang in his skull like a ceaseless alarm, blaring and rattling his thoughts as he gently took their hand in his own. It was a split second decision– an indulgence, but he could simply not help himself. Even with his gloves between them, he felt like he was going to lose his composure just from such a brief touch..

He truly was a hopeless man before an altar, praying for a salvation he intends to bury deep beneath the waves– to keep it hidden in the darkness of the depths that only he can reach. A selfish man, he must be, to even think of it, but it is an itch that he cannot scratch. A need that must be satisfied. He cannot allow any hands but his own to tend to them, to know what it feels to touch them, to hear their voice and see their eyes as he prays– prays like a man starved, devotion born of desperation.

"I hope I did not make you wait too long." He smiles, soft and affectionate, like the bloom of spring beneath the winters chill– yet just as deadly, only masked by the sweet fragrance of flowers.

He had waited too long.

No longer.

FURINA

Furina was right at home amongst the crowds– where the masks obscured the identities of most, it was impossible to not recognize the charming banter of the Hydro Archon beneath the mask of the lamb as she graced the masquerade with her presence, speaking with a silver tongue to any who would listen. A truly enthralled audience fitting for the grandest of performers in Fontaine.

But her eyes lingered not on the people who's praise dripped from their lips like honey– yet so very bitter upon her tongue. Even the mask obscuring her expression did little to hide the longing that had her visibly deflating like a popped balloon. She hated all the eyes on her, really– it was suffocating. She was only putting on a show in the foolish hope that they'd finally pay attention to her. Just her luck, she supposes, that instead she's had to throw herself straight into the role of Archon without a pay off..

They hadn't even spared her a glance! It would be infuriating if not for the fact she couldn't even keep her composure just seeing them across the room. They didn't even have to look at her and she could feel the heat rush to her ears as she forced another smile at the crowd gathered around her. It was unfair how easily they could fluster her without even knowing it– her heart was thumping so hard against her ribcage she felt like it might burst.

Her only solace was the fact none of the patrons seemed to realize she'd clocked out of the conversation, her thoughts and eyes lingering on the distant figure– what a lovestruck fool she makes..it was a chance encounter she'd seen them during one of her outings. That was all it took to enthrall her, evidentially, try as she might to have ignore it for months.

They never left her mind for longer then a day, in the end, and she had to face the fact they had managed to enrapture her so deeply she felt like a newborn lamb learning to walk whenever she so much as thought of them. What an embarrassment! She..she was the Archon, she had a reputation to maintain, she couldn't be seen fawning over a human.

But oh, she still longed for it, beneath the veneer of a God. She'd watched them more times then she'd admit even to herself, wishing to find herself in place of those who'd hands were cradled so casually in their own– to hear their voice, their laughter, as often as she pleased..like a fine delicacy she so badly wished to taste, yet so far from her reach.

Would they think her pathetic for her infatuation? She pursed her lips at the thought, trying to bury the sour mood beneath her faux image of the Archon. Yet it lingered, and with only the quietest of excuses, she slipped into the crowd like a ghost– she needed to leave before she did something..stupid. Neuvillette would surely have a few choice words with her if she did, and she was inclined to avoid such a fate.

She..she just needed a moment to collect herself was all. That was it. She could go back to playing Archon for a little longer, she just needed a moment to herself. At the very least, the balcony had been regarded as off limits so late into the party– which gave her an opportunity to slip out of the public view for the briefest of moments. A welcome reprieve– she was starting to feel suffocated amongst the crowds.

Perhaps on instinct, she reached for the mask, lifting ever so slightly away..only to let out a startled yelp at the touch of a hand on her shoulder, the mask slipping back into place far too easily. It made her lightheaded, even now, but she dared not to dwell on it.

But when she turned sharply on her heel to chew out the person who'd followed her and had the gall to scare her..oh, she was done for, her ears flush with heat. The brief glimpse of their eyes beneath the mask, the curl of their lips as they smiled– her heart stuttered in her chest, and she was certain it had stopped all together when they clasped her hand.

"Y–you.." She wanted to be angry, to brush them off and leave with her rationality in tact, but the warmth of their hands on her skin rendered her speechless. She was no better then a fish on land, struggling to fill her lungs with air as she drew in a shaky breath. "Ahem, you caught me off guard. That's all. Surely you do not make it a habit to sneak up on people?" She huffed in indignation, trying to mask the fluster that threatened to break through her carefully crafted facade.

Ah, what a cruel twist of fate..she'd slipped away to escape their allure, but here they were, dragging her back into their orbit without even knowing how deep her infatuation ran. They were alone, too..it was a chance she wasn't sure she'd ever get again.

Maybe, just this once, she could do something for herself rather then everyone else.

She buried her guilt, the fear– buried it beneath the need to be seen.

"But if you want to make it up to me.."

#genshin impact #genshin impact yandere #genshin yandere #neuvillette x reader #yandere neuvillette #yandere neuvillette x reader #arlecchino x reader #yandere arlecchino #yandere arlecchino x reader #furina x reader #yandere furina #yandere furina x reader #fic tag #pats neuvillette this noodle dragon can be so pathetic #aiming for pathetic desperate and slightly guilty. it gnaws at him knowing he's keeping you like a bird in a cage #esp if you react extremely negatively hes like a kicked puppy #not outwardly but internally hes a MESS. sobbing crying wailing #furina and neuvi sopping wet kittens u found in a cardboard box in an alley #vs arle thinking abt all the crimes shes going 2 commit in the process w/o an ounce of guilt. blackmail? check. kidnapping? check.#a little murder for flavor. as u can see im coping horribly w being practically snowed in rn i need 2 be put down #its like 4 degrees out rn (fahrenheit) and getting colder ueueueue i am dying..........#only thing keeping me going is my furinameow plushie coming. eventually. staying strong just for her.................#also needs 2 be mentioned all the stories r separate ksjfkhdsf #no not everyone in fontaine is yan and trying 2 kidnap sorry for getting ur hopes up..#yet #anyway u cant convince me arle isn't bribing (or just straight up forcing) her agents into doing stupid shit so she can “save” you #and make you owe her #two silly goofy little creatures vs the personification of gaslight gatekeep girlboss (heavy on the gaslight)#also split this up in 3 parts bc. lol. lmao. im not writing 9 characters at once goodbye #also all the masks do actually have significance i have an entire essay on why i gave each animal to specific characters okay

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whisperprime · 2 years

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Note: Archdemon from previous entries now has a name. If you get to the end of this and wonder, “Who’s Mammon?” that would be him. I’ll be editing previous entries to include the new change.

Hob allows himself his pity party, unfair that it is to call it that. He has been through a traumatic series of experiences and he understands the necessity of allowing himself time to recover.

In so much as recovery is ever possible after nearly a century of being tortured by a literal demon.

It likely doesn't help that he can't quite decide if staying in his friend's home for any prolonged period of time is a good or bad thing for him.

Oh, he is more than aware that you don't turn away a safe haven when you need to rebuild your life from neatly the ground up.

He's also aware that being in this house when his friend who has very much never stated they are indeed friends in this timeline is going to tear his fool heart to pieces.

The first night after Dream left, Hob had made his way back to the master bedroom, listless and restless at the same time. He'd found himself staring at the bed until his eyes burned, first from not blinking, then by the first hint of tears.

He is many things over his beloved, but he has not been brought quite this low for him.

Hob had taken the clothes from the wardrobe and set up base in the guest room downstairs. The bed didn't hold a candle to the one upstairs, but his dreams were haunted enough without the reminder of whose bed he was sleeping in.

Hob begins the arduous task of rebuilding his life in stages. It has been a very long time since he had to build it up from quite this near to from scratch.

He always had his contingency plans. They all had the emergency plan built in if he needed to disappear for a hand full of decades. Most humans that might hunt him would either have long given up or died by then, not having the same gift of a long life span like him.

He could afford to be patient when all he had was time.

A hand full of decades, though, is a very different beast than a century, though. Not the worst, but hardly the best, though.

It will be more trouble than worth to come back as a relative of who he was back during World War I. Better to start off fresh. It will be good to clear up any loose threads he might have left laying around. He is only sorry for the effects that he will have lost in the process. Some of those objects he had originally managed to hold onto, even into the 22nd century.

The best thing he has going for him is that he has already lived through this time period once before. The outside world isn't going to blindside him with technical advances. If nothing, it's going to feel a bit primitive.

But that's him getting ahead of himself.

After dragging himself out of the three day old cocoon of blankets and pillows he's made for himself, Hob feels ready to tackle the next stage of his plan: figuring out where Dream's house actually is and how much travel it will take to get him to one of his caches. Most of them are in the UK, but there are a few scattered between the United States, France, and Germany, respectively. As long as he’s not too far from any of them, it shouldn’t be too hard to get to one.

He goes out to the kitchen, grabbing himself a banana to snack on as he stares at the leather pouch that had appeared on the counter the day Dream left. He had found it along with a pantry full of food to easily last a single man several weeks, even with a generous appetite. It contains a generous amount of money, more than enough for transportation and lodging, but Hob does not want to dig into it if he doesn’t have to. His cache will be more than enough to get him back on his feet while he reestablishes himself.

There is only so much he can stand to accept. The clothes on his back, the roof over his head, the food in his belly, they are more than he could have asked for. Any money that he accepts will be only what he needs to get to his cache and to carry it with him back to London.

With a grunt, he grabs a bottle of water and then the pouch, the latter of which he stuffs into the pocket of his sweater. He finds some shoes that fit him as perfectly as everything else by the door. A key ring with a key to what must be the front door is swiped from the hook it hangs off of. He is all set to go, and yet he still lingers, a hand hovering over the door knob.

He hasn’t been outside in over a century. The thought is sort of mind boggling. Oh, he’s gotten near the windows, but he hadn’t felt like opening them just yet.

And now he’s going outside. Completely of his own free will. There is nothing keeping him here beyond the general effort it takes to open a door and walk through it.

Needless to say, he stops hesitating and near throws him outside.

He pauses on the door step, breathing in the crisp air of what appears to be either a fall or spring day. Whichever it is, he has caught it on a sunny day, and he feels no shame as he tilts his head back and lets the light of it soak in.

Humans are creatures of the light. They need it to combat fatigue, boost their mood, and to strengthen the density of their bones. Although Hob does not have to worry about the last on the list, he has felt the lingering touch of what felt like an ever lasting seasonal depression.

If it didn’t feel like it was 7°C out, he would absolutely go sunbathing about now.

He reigns in the urge, shuts the door behind him, locks it, and then makes his way down the drive way. Halfway down the driveway, he pivots to get a good look at the house. If he’s not mistaken, it appears to be a Victorian era style house. Old enough to be from that era, from the looks of it, although effort has been made to upkeep it. Hob half expected it to be predominantly black in color, but it’s blue-grey walls and dark grey roof tiles are more color than he thinks he’s ever seen from his friend.

Not by much, but still more colorful than black.

The house isn’t secluded, but it isn’t right up on top of any other properties, either. At the end of the drive way, he glances left and then right. Neither particularly look more promising than the other, so he simply shrugs and picks a direction. He makes note of the house’s location and starts walking.

It’s not a terribly long walk, but his ankle is still smarting by the time he reaches civilization. It doesn’t take long from there to figure out where his old friend dropped him and he has to laugh a little.

His friend has property in Scotland, as it turns out. Aberdeen, to be exact.

Oh, this is not nearly as terrible as he had feared. He kind of hoped he’d be closer to London - that’s still a eight hour trip one way by train - but at least he’s still in the United Kingdom.

It’s easy enough to get his hands on some luggage. Everyone is sympathetic to the story of the traveler who’s luggage has gone missing. He thinks it helps that he’s wearing what looks like high end clothing, because nothing Dream makes can be otherwise, apparently. The cashier who rings him up regales him with a time her husband had the same thing happen and how they never did see that suitcase ever again, thank goodness nothing of true value was in it.

He parts from the shop feeling better for the pleasant chat with a friendly soul. He lingers around the shops, buying some lunch and a simple pay-as-you-go phone to tide him over until he can get one with a plan. He chats with some more friendly locals and reacquaints himself with the early 21st century.

The sun is setting by the time he drags himself back to the house. While making dinner, he considers his next move. He is tempted to remain another day. To linger in the library or hide away in the guest bedroom until he is forced to leave. The offer was made that he could stay as long as he needed.

But if he stays, he will not want to leave. And what he wants most, he will not find here.

The next morning, Hob goes through it and clean the areas he's inhabited. He saves the upstairs bed - Dream’s and, for a single night, Hob’s bed - for last, pulling the sheets off, dragging them down to the washer and dyer on the first floor. He takes them back upstairs and erases the final traces of his visit as he sets the bed back to right. He laughs at himself in self-deprecation because here he is getting worked up about a bed his friend who is not his friend has likely never even laid in.

He takes a few changes of clothes for himself, packs his necessities along with the phone and pouch of money he will have to find some way to return at some point, and leaves the house, locking the door behind him. He forces himself to walk away, never once looking back no matter how much he wishes to.

By 9:52AM, he is sat on a train on a one way trip headed for London. By 11:00PM, he has found his closest cache and a room for the night.

Over the next several months, Hob pieces together who he wants to be for the next 20 years. On paper, he becomes Robert Gadsen, 31 years old. He’s just moved to London after getting his Master of Education in Teaching and Learning in the United States. He tacks on a Bachelor of Arts in History to have an excuse to get him in the door for history classes when he applies to teach at a local college for some teaching experience.

His biggest risk, he is aware, is when he purchases the building that, in another life, had been The New Inn.

He had not been surprised when he went looking for what had become of the White Horse Tavern and had found it completely gone. In this timeline, Hob had not been there to slow down the closure of the tavern. No one had petitioned for it to be declared a historical site, which had tied the hands of the demolition team for the better part of a decade. Eventually, Hob and his team had lost, but not before delaying things long enough that The New Inn was up and running with a sign pointing from the old meeting spot to the potential new meeting spot for Dream to find.

Because he does not want to have to dig another cache too soon, he decides to move in to the building from the first day instead of living in his own flat near by. When the Inn is up and running, he might revisit the idea of moving out, but for now, he will save money where he can.

The first day after moving in, Hob sits on the floor he has just finished sweeping and simply allows the moment to sink in.

He does not know why he is insistent on doing this. There was no indication that Dream will meet with him in 2089, as there was no indication he even came to the 1989 meeting. This could all be for nothing.

But Hob had built The New Inn the first time on nothing more than a hope and a prayer, the offering little more than an out stretched hand should Dream ever wish to take it. And perhaps it will become that again, in this new timeline.

Most of all, it had become his lode stone, after Dream’s death in the other timeline. It was the place he returned to when the loneliness of his immortality got the best of him and he needed to reflect on why he wanted this life. He hadn’t always lived there or even near it, but knowing it was there - this place where he had once been able to be honest with who he was and how he lived - was enough.

And so, the next day, he hires a contractor and got to work. Like the first time, he is just as involved with the construction and the creation of the blue prints. The contractors are a little skeptical at first, but it helps that this time, he knows what he’s doing. Remembers what worked and hadn’t worked. It saves time, even if it takes out some of the charm of the original build.

It is six months to the day of his rescue from Burgess’ henchmen that things take another turn.

The construction of the New Inn coming along nicely, his teaching job secured and ready to begin with the fall semester. The flat above the Inn has not received quite as much love as the pub, but it is not that far behind it. He is bone tired and he is almost asleep before his head hits the pillow.

In the time since the seal broke and his ability to dream like every other person returned, Hob has revisited the basement at Fawney Rig quite frequently in his sleeping hours. He visits it nearly as often as he does not get rescued and finds his way to the bottom of the English Channel instead.

He has tried his best to keep up his ability to lucid dream, but with the Dreaming now fully able to draw him in, he finds himself able to move around his dreams as if they are mere sets rather than events he is reenacting. He hasn’t gotten the hang of changing things, but he takes what he can get.

On this night, however, he does not open his eyes to a familiar basement with Mammon standing over his naked self, unable to escape the archdemon’s wrath for the binding circle. Nor does he find moments from being from some horrific death he will not stay dead from. Nor does he find himself moments from a dip in the water.

No, on this night, he opens his eyes to what is still that familiar basement, but instead of an angry archdemon, this one has a glass and metal sphere hanging from the ceiling. A stone walkway provides a way to cross the moot that has been built to isolate and protect a circle painted in yellow under the orb.

Hob presses his back to the metal gate behind him and stares, horrified, because this nightmare is not based on a memory that belonged to him.

It is based on a memory that belonged to the Dream of the other timeline.

Interlude

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