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harmonysanreads · 1 year

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Thinking about Yandere!Sumeru Boys and the sweet, lovely bartender who's become the talk of Sumeru recently.

After receiving the news of the Sage's downfall and Lesser Lord Kusanali's rescue, you, who'd been out venturing Teyvat to learn about its global gastronomy and arts, decide to return to your homeland and help your father's busy Tavern. The knowledge you've gained from your travels prove to be fruitful as Lambad's Tavern reaches a new peak of popularity. Though, not everyone's point of interest is the menu — no no, in fact, many have become frequent patrons simply to get a glimpse of the new face behind the counter.

You and Kaveh click almost immediately. Your shared views on arts and beauty is one thing checked off, but the way your actually understand him? Unlike most people when they hear his story, you're not quick to put a lable on him ; instead, you make him feel heard and normal for the very first time. Listen patiently and don't throw factual advice on how to fix his life. No wonder he poured out his entire life story to you, all on his first conversation. He's left wondering where you've been all his life as you share a portion of your own struggles, views on life and snippets of your adventures. To this day, Kaveh recalls the conversation along with your benign smile and feels his heart thump as if he's become a teenager again.

Every ensuing visit to the Tavern has his belief strengthen as well : you two must be soulmates. He's even started (half) jokingly calling you one as well, which never seems to move you the way he wants though as, all you do is adorably giggle and ask him to pay for his order. Oh well, he supposes that's an indication that you do not pity him solely because of his financial status. Kaveh's life had gotten a lot better with your presence ; he no longer drinks himself to oblivion, sleeps better than before and doesn't even pay heed to his roommate's sharp comments that'd otherwise end in a massive argument, thoughts preoccupied with what kind of trinket he could bring to impress you. For a brief period, Kaveh had felt like he'd finally found his light, his reason to keep living. He'd only wish he hadn't introduced his friends to you.

You first ‘officially’ met the dusty-rock-of-a-roommate of Kaveh (his words) when you took the responsibility of dropping him to his place of residence after the architect had passed out from taking a sip of the Sneznayan Fire-Water. You weren't sure what you were expecting from Alhaitham, but a talk over books that spiralled a little too late into the night and ended with him walking you back home certainly wasn't it. You can see where Kaveh came from, The Acting Grand Sage did not have the countenance that invited friendships. You'll have to thank your profound interest in all genres of books and an equal ease to share your opinions to not be at the recipient of that attitude. It takes you a little too much time to notice that since that night, the Scribe has found himself a second home in your radar. You see him at Puspa Cafe, the Grand Bazar, the streets and after a little while, even at your father's Tavern almost frequently. So much so, that calling him something of a friend might not be as far-fetched now.

In Alhaitham's defense, he's simply intrigued, it's not everyday he meets someone who can keep up with him. It took him only a glance at you to realize you're the person who has Kaveh blushing and giggling like a madman at random times. The architect's creepy behavior aside, at least, it seemed as though some of your sense of responsibility had rubbed off on him so, less headache for Alhaitham. You're easy to talk to ; granted, you don't always have agreements but that doesn't pose as an impediment from keeping the conversation flowing. In fact, you treat him no different ; neither his status nor his prolonged disappearances that'd no doubt affect anyone else can change your easygoing persona as he approaches you, the coffee and dishes you make are rather good too and— ah. Alhaitham understands now why Kaveh is so smitten with you.

Lambad's Tavern is a prominent destination for fans of Genius Invocation TCG, you like the game, too. But because of your duty, you can only resign yourself to watching from the counter as some rejoiced in victory and others had their heads in their hands from loss. It's entertaining to a degree, frustrating to another as you have to remain silent while the players make dumb choices. You digress, whatever they do is none of your business. But if you had to pick one group that produced the most entertaining show out of this game ; it'd be the friends Kaveh brought along with him. Most of the times, they'd just be reduced to Kaveh's ranting pillows and really, only one of them—and by that you mean the General Mahamatra who seemed to truly care for the game. You're curious about him, actually. He seemed so different from the rumours that were floating around. And thanks to Kaveh's impulsive announcement that you'd be dueling Cyno one night, you had the opportunity to satiate that curiousity — and flex a win against the master of TCG altogether.

To say Cyno was flabbergasted would be the understatement of the century. He'd repeatedly demanded for a second match that time (all the while Kaveh looked like he could die of pride) but you'd shut it off with the (not really) threat of charging extra for your lost time. Since then, he'd been hot on your tail, too. Trying to coax you into a second match with every strategy he can think of : bribing, bargaining, cracking awful jokes to befriend you — his hard work paid off, but the sight of a win against you still seemed to be far. At one point, those concerns were lost as you both simply found fun in each other's presence. Cyno, in the meantime, had noticed that your amiable personality was both a blessing and a curse. Do you not see the corrupt glints in their eyes? The wanton touches and disgusting saccharine lacing their words? No can do, they do not deserve your courtesy. Do not blame him for taking matters into his own accounts or show any semblance of concern after the personnel mysteriously disappear the next day ; its just a little favor for his TCG buddy.

Out of all of them, Tighnari took you the longest to get to know properly. Given his usually passive personality in the presence of others, no wonder he'd strayed a little from your attention. The forest ranger wasn't behind in knowing you, though. In fact, it seemed as though he had been picking up on clues his other friends were missing. Tighnari had been the first to take notice of your ennui, which he had surmised to be a result of all the people you have to deal with everyday. Turns out even you have your moments. One evening as Kaveh, Cyno and Alhaitham were preoccupied with debating over who-knows-what, Tighnari took the opportunity to approach you about it. He couldn't ignore the darkening circles under your eyes or the brightness in your optics dimming any longer — he's glad he did ; in truth, your life had gotten crazier than it was back when you were traveling, you'd confessed. You no longer felt truly...alone, even in moments that you're sure is securely private. Tighnari listened intently, for once the roles being switched. He sent hand-made remedies to help with your stress, frequently wrote to you to check your well being when he couldn't visit personally, anything within his power.

He felt sympathy for your state, such a precious person like you doesn't deserve this, you should be treated better, he could treat you better — now if only you're at arms reach to the forest ranger. Alas, for now he'd have to be content with this development. Tighnari has an inkling about who is, or are, responsible for your building misery. Does he intent to do anything with that knowledge though? Yes, coaxing you to his side, preferably.

The innocent, nameless wandering boy you'd taken with you on your return to Sumeru, suddenly returned home with a glowing anemo vision in the span of a few hours one fine afternoon. Nothing really seemed out of the ordinary though, he was still as glued to your person (though nowadays he seemed to venture out more than usual), he was still the harmless boy you'd grown accustomed to. So then, why did it feel like something was amiss? Was it how often he'd find himself at the brink of an angry customer's fist? Or was it because that only occurs when you leave the counter to get something and that same customer just so happened to have been pushing you for a date beforehand? Your suspicions always end up fleeting though, you can never even raise an eyebrow at the boy, not when he looks at you with those glossy puppy eyes. In the end, it's always the other man that's handed over to the guards, it's always the others, in general at the face of your displeasure — not Wanderer, never Wanderer. If only you could see the same grin he directs at the retreating men behind your unassuming back.

You never did regret letting him trail behind your person (except maybe the bombarding allegations from your family of him being your significant other, it took one whole week to convince them otherwise, after all.) ; he was sweet and so.. clueless, as if he were but a newborn child. Your heart couldn't resist the poor thing and that's what brought you to this situation. Wanderer revels in the others' jealousy at the sight of you two's closeness (who could guess this same man had tried to take over Sumeru). He can do many of the things your other admirers can only dream of ; lean on your shoulder, fall asleep on your lap, play with your hair as you prepare a drink, whisper things in your ear with a purposefully lowered voice and get away with anything. All is well with the lost boy you'd picked up from the last turn of your travels, it's just that, you can't quite shake off the feeling of a strange familiarity everytime you look at his otherwordly eyes.

what do you call this? a love hexagon? 🤔

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pin-k-ink · 1 month

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Chrollo! There isn’t enough dark content about him. I want to see how Chrollo is, compared to Yandere Chrollo. I love both, but we don’t get enough dark content of Chrollo.

Chrollo is seen as manipulative, and cold. Considering he’s a mass murder, and his empathy is nonexistent to people outside of the phantom troupe. Though, he’s able to act like a gentleman, and a curious man who seems sweet. He definitely isn’t stable, but catching his attention would be terrifying. He collects what he’s interested in. Being in a relationship with him would be interesting, but complicated.

entropy // chrollo lucilfer

tw ⇢ emotional abuse/manipulation, psychological trauma, toxic relationship, mention of self-harm, suicide attempt, dub-con, non-consensual/coercion, stockholm syndrome(?), mention of violence and criminal activities, power play, some unspecified mental health issues, rough sex, cunnilingus, begging, idk kinda rushed ending, narrator’s pov

wc ⇢ 7.1k

a/n: i really liked this idea, anon, so i present you with 7k words of chrollo brainrot. i really tried not to make chrollo a cliche, run-of-the-mill yandere but im not sure i did a good job. its also my first time using y/n and i hated it

The dim lights of the crowded bar cast an amber glow across the room, the air thick with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. Perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, I nursed my whiskey, the smooth glass cool against my palm, the rich amber liquid swirling hypnotically as I lifted it to my lips. The first sip burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from within as my eyes scanned the crowd out of habit, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

That's when I saw him.

He moved with a fluid grace that stood out amidst the tipsy stumbles and raucous laughter of the other patrons. Dark hair fell across his face in an artful sweep as he leaned in close to whisper something to the bartender, who nodded knowingly and slid a drink across the polished wood, the crystal tumbler gleaming under the soft light. As if sensing the weight of my gaze, he turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat, my fingers tightening reflexively around my glass.

A polite smile curved his lips as he approached with measured steps, sliding onto the stool next to mine with a nod of acknowledgment. "Good evening," he said, his voice smooth and cultured, with a faint lilt of an accent I couldn't quite place. "I hope you'll forgive my forwardness, but I couldn't help noticing you from across the room."

I felt a flush creep up my neck at his directness, a heat blooming under my skin that had little to do with the whiskey. But I maintained my composure, lifting one eyebrow in a practiced arch. "Is that so?" I asked, taking another sip of my drink, letting the smoky flavor linger on my tongue. My heart fluttered in my chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness at the attention from this intriguing stranger.

"Indeed. It's rare to find someone so comfortable in their own solitude. It speaks to a certain strength of character." His eyes held mine, dark and fathomless, seeming to search for something beneath the surface, beneath the mask of cool indifference I wore like armor.

I smiled slightly, intrigued by his observation, by the way he seemed to see beyond the carefully constructed facade. "And what would you know about my character?"

"Very little, I admit. But I'd like to learn more, if you're willing." He extended a hand, long fingers elegant and strong. "Chrollo Lucilfer, at your service."

"Y/N," I replied, placing my hand in his. His grip was firm, his skin cool and smooth against my own. A shiver raced down my spine at the contact, a spark of something electric and unfamiliar. I found myself drawn to his enigmatic aura, the hint of danger that lurked beneath his charming exterior.

As the evening wore on, Chrollo and I fell into easy conversation, trading stories and opinions over drinks, our knees brushing under the bar in a way that felt both accidental and deliberate. He was articulate and well-read, with a keen insight that made me feel like he could see straight into my soul, past the walls I'd so carefully constructed. There was a magnetism to him, a pull that I couldn't resist, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I felt a connection growing between us, a sense of understanding and shared secrets that left me both thrilled and unnerved.

We began seeing each other regularly after that night, meeting for dinner at quiet candlelit restaurants or for coffee in cozy bookshops, the rich scent of roasted beans and old pages enveloping us as we talked for hours. Chrollo was always the perfect gentleman, holding doors and pulling out chairs, his manners impeccable, his attentiveness unwavering. But there were moments, fleeting glimpses, where something else seemed to flicker beneath the surface, a darkness that both thrilled and unsettled me. I found myself drawn to that darkness, to the mystery that surrounded him, even as a part of me whispered warnings in the back of my mind.

One evening, we were walking through the city, the pavement damp with recent rain, the neon signs reflecting in puddles at our feet. A man stumbled out of an alleyway, clearly drunk and disoriented, his clothes rumpled and stained. He lurched towards us, mumbling incoherently, his breath sour with the stench of alcohol. I tensed, expecting Chrollo to step in and help, to offer the man a steadying hand or a kind word. Instead, he sidestepped the man neatly, his movements fluid and precise, not even sparing him a glance. There was a coldness to the action, a calculated indifference that left me feeling chilled despite the warm summer air. A flicker of unease stirred in my gut, a sense that there was more to Chrollo than met the eye, but I pushed it aside, not wanting to shatter the illusion of the perfect romance.

Another time, we were at a restaurant, a trendy spot with exposed brick walls and industrial light fixtures. The hum of conversation and the clink of silverware against plates filled the air, a pleasant buzz of activity. A commotion broke out at a nearby table, a woman's voice rising in pitch as she gestured wildly at her companion, her face flushed with anger. Chrollo watched the scene unfold with a detached sort of interest, like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen. When I expressed concern, my brow furrowed with worry, he simply shrugged, the movement languid and unconcerned.

"Some people thrive on drama," he said, his tone indifferent, almost bored. "It's best not to get involved."

I tried to brush off the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right, telling myself that no one was perfect, that everyone had their flaws and quirks. Chrollo was attentive and affectionate, showering me with gifts and attention, his touch always gentle, always reverent. It was easy to get lost in the romance of it all, in the heady rush of new love. But even as I surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, to the tender caress of his lips on my skin, a part of me remained wary, a tiny voice whispering doubts in the back of my mind.

But the doubts continued to gather at the edges of my mind, like storm clouds on the horizon, dark and ominous. There were inconsistencies in the stories he told, small details that didn't quite add up, pieces that didn't fit into the puzzle of his past. He was evasive about his work, about his family and his childhood, always changing the subject with a charming smile and a clever turn of phrase when I pressed for more. I tried to ignore the growing sense of unease, the feeling that I was only seeing a carefully crafted facade, a mask that hid the true nature of the man I was falling for.

It all came to a head one night when we were out for a walk, the city streets quiet and still around us. A police car raced by, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing against the buildings. Chrollo tensed, his body going rigid beside me, his eyes tracking the vehicle with a sharpness that made me pause, my heart skipping a beat in my chest. There was something in his reaction, a hint of fear or guilt that I had never seen before, and it sent a chill down my spine.

"What is it?" I asked, searching his face for clues, for some hint of the thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes.

He relaxed just as quickly, his expression smoothing into a mask of calm, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Nothing, just lost in thought for a moment."

But I saw it then, in that brief unguarded instant. The hairline fracture in his facade, the glimpse of something raw and real beneath the polished surface. The realization hit me like a freight train, stealing the breath from my lungs - I didn't really know the man I was falling for at all. He was a mystery, a puzzle with missing pieces, and I had no idea what secrets he was hiding behind that charming smile and those fathomless eyes. Fear and doubt coiled in my gut, a sickening sense of dread that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that everything was fine.

The doubt became an itch I couldn't scratch, a constant presence at the back of my mind. I found myself watching Chrollo more closely, looking for clues, for any sign that might confirm my growing suspicions. He was as attentive and affectionate as ever, his touch gentle, his words sweet. But there was a guardedness to him now, a sense that he was always holding something back, always keeping a part of himself locked away. It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, always slipping through my fingers just when I thought I had a grasp on the truth.

One evening, we were at his apartment, curled up on the plush leather couch with a movie playing on the large flatscreen TV. The room was dimly lit, the flickering light from the screen casting shadows on the walls. Chrollo's phone buzzed with an incoming message, the screen lighting up on the coffee table. He glanced at it, his expression hardening for a split second, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly before he smoothed it away, reaching for the device with a casual hand. My heart raced in my chest, a sense of foreboding washing over me as I watched him, a part of me desperately wanting to believe that it was nothing, that I was overreacting.

"Everything okay?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Just work," he replied, his thumb swiping across the screen, his eyes scanning the message quickly before he slipped the phone into his pocket. "Nothing to worry about."

But there was a tightness to his smile, a strain around his eyes that belied his easy words. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me, some secret he was keeping locked away. The doubts gnawed at me, a constant ache in my chest that I couldn't ignore, no matter how much I wanted to lose myself in the fantasy of our perfect love.

As the weeks passed, the distance between us grew, an invisible chasm widening with each passing day. Chrollo would disappear for hours at a time, offering vague explanations about meetings or errands, his tone carefully neutral. He was increasingly evasive about his activities, changing the subject with a practiced ease or deflecting my questions with a charming smile and a clever quip. I felt like I was losing him, like the man I had fallen for was slipping away, replaced by a stranger wearing a familiar face.

I knew I should confront him, demand answers, but a part of me was afraid of what I might uncover. The man I had fallen for, the gentleman with the quick wit and the electrifying touch, felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face, a mask that was starting to crack at the edges. I was torn between the desire to cling to the illusion of our perfect romance and the need to know the truth, to see the man behind the mask, no matter how painful it might be.

The final straw came late one night when I was leaving Chrollo's apartment, my mind whirling with unanswered questions, my heart heavy in my chest. As I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps, I nearly collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. He was tall and lean, with cold eyes that seemed to look right through me, his face all sharp angles and harsh lines. A shiver of unease ran down my spine, a sense of danger emanating from him like a palpable force.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, trying to sidestep him, my skin prickling with unease.

But he blocked my path, his large frame filling the narrow hallway, his gaze flicking past me to Chrollo's door, a flash of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. "He's expecting me," the man said, his voice flat and emotionless, sending a chill down my spine.

I glanced over my shoulder, but Chrollo had already closed the door, the sound of the lock clicking into place loud in the sudden silence. A wave of dread washed over me as I hurried past the man, my heart pounding in my ears, my hands shaking as I jabbed at the elevator button. Questions swirled in my mind, a growing sense of fear and unease that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it away.

I didn't sleep that night, my mind racing with possibilities, with questions I was afraid to voice aloud. Who was the man in the hallway? What business did he have with Chrollo at such a late hour? The not knowing was almost worse than the truth, my imagination conjuring up all manner of dark scenarios, each more terrible than the last. I tossed and turned, my sheets tangled around me, my heart aching with the growing realization that the man I loved was not who I thought he was.

The paranoia grew like a cancer, spreading through every aspect of my life, tainting every interaction with Chrollo. I found myself watching him constantly, analyzing every word, every gesture, looking for some hint of the truth behind the mask. Every phone call he took, every message he received, every unexplained absence became a clue in a puzzle I was desperate to solve, a mystery I couldn't let go. I was consumed by the need to know, to uncover the secrets he was hiding, even as a part of me feared what I might find.

I started making excuses to drop by his apartment unannounced, hoping to catch him off guard, to glimpse the man behind the facade. But Chrollo was always one step ahead, his mask of charm and civility firmly in place, his explanations smooth and plausible. It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, always slipping through my fingers just when I thought I had a grasp on the truth. I felt like I was losing my mind, like I was trapped in a maze of lies and half-truths, with no way out.

The strain began to take its toll, the constant state of heightened awareness, of second-guessing every moment. I was distracted at work, jumping at every unexpected noise, seeing shadows in every corner. My friends noticed the change, commenting on my withdrawn behavior, the dark circles under my eyes, the way I seemed to be constantly on edge. I brushed off their concerns with a forced smile and a wave of my hand, not wanting to voice the suspicions that consumed my every waking moment.

I started to pull away, to put distance between us, needing time to clear my head, to make sense of the tangled web of lies and half-truths. I made excuses to avoid seeing him, claiming work obligations or family commitments, my voice shaking only slightly as I lied through my teeth. I needed space, needed to step back and look at the situation objectively, without the haze of love and desire clouding my judgment. But even as I tried to distance myself, I found myself drawn back to him, like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the pull of his magnetism.

But Chrollo wouldn't let me go so easily, his presence a constant pull, a magnetic force I couldn't seem to resist. He showed up at my work, at my favorite coffee shop, always with a bouquet of flowers and a contrite smile, his eyes soft and pleading. He promised to be more open, to answer any questions I might have, to lay his secrets bare before me. And for a moment, I wanted to believe him, to fall into the warmth of his embrace and let the world fade away.

I started to dig deeper, to research Chrollo's past, looking for any clue that might explain the inconsistencies, the blank spaces in his history. Late one night, huddled over my laptop with a mug of coffee growing cold beside me, I found it. A news article, buried deep in the archives of a local paper, a few scant paragraphs that made my blood run cold. A string of high-profile thefts, linked to a shadowy group known as the Phantom Troupe, their methods as elusive as their identities. And there, in grainy black and white, a photograph of a man with dark hair and piercing eyes, a face I would know anywhere.

My heart stopped in my chest as I stared at the screen, the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place with a sickening clarity. The man I loved, the gentleman with the silver tongue and the devastating smile, was a thief. And not just any thief, but a member of the most notorious criminal organization in the city, a ghost in the shadows, a phantom in the night. I sat back in my chair, my hands shaking as I tried to process the truth, to reconcile the Chrollo I knew with the man in the article.

The reality of my situation crashed over me like a wave, cold and unrelenting. I was in love with a lie, a beautiful fiction wrapped in a tailored suit and a charming smile. The future I had imagined for us, the life I had started to build in my mind, was nothing more than a house of cards, ready to come tumbling down at any moment. I felt like I couldn't breathe, like the walls were closing in around me, trapping me in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

And I had no idea what I was going to do about it.

The truth hung heavy in the air between us, a suffocating presence that filled the room and pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart raced as I confronted Chrollo with the article, my voice trembling with a potent mix of anger, fear, and betrayal. He sat across from me, his posture relaxed, his eyes downcast, his hands resting calmly in his lap. The silence stretched on, broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall, each second an eternity of agonizing anticipation.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even and measured, devoid of any discernible emotion. "I never intended for you to discover the truth this way," he said, his gaze meeting mine, his dark eyes revealing nothing. "I considered telling you, explaining everything, but I couldn't find the right approach."

Disbelief and heartache surged through me, constricting my throat and stinging my eyes with unshed tears. "Explain what, Chrollo? That our entire relationship has been built on a foundation of lies? That the man I fell in love with is nothing more than a carefully crafted illusion?"

His expression remained impassive, unfazed by my accusation. "The connection between us is genuine, Y/N. My feelings for you, the moments we've shared, none of that was a deception."

A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped my lips, echoing harshly in the oppressive stillness of the room. "But everything else? The thefts, the Phantom Troupe? How can you claim that's not an integral part of who you are?"

Chrollo sighed, a subtle indication of impatience rather than genuine weariness. "It's not that simple. The Troupe is like family to me. We have each other's backs, keep each other safe. What we do isn't solely about financial gain or the adrenaline rush. It's about survival, about carving out a place in a world that's never given us a fair chance."

As I sat there, my mind reeling, a chill crept down my spine, raising goosebumps on my skin. Chrollo's dark eyes bored into mine, a glimmer of something cold and dangerous lurking beneath the surface of his composed exterior. In that moment, the true depth of his detachment became starkly apparent, sending a fresh wave of fear washing over me.

"You need to understand, Y/N," he continued, his voice low and even. "The Phantom Troupe is more than just a gang. It's a way of life. A family bound by blood and loyalty. I've committed heinous acts in the name of that loyalty. Acts that would make your blood run cold."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a trapped bird. "And what about me, Chrollo? Was I just another pawn in your twisted game? Another plaything to be discarded when you grew bored?"

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "No, Y/N. Never. What I feel for you is the closest thing to genuine emotion I've ever experienced. But I won't deceive you. I am what I am. That's not going to change, not even for you."

With shaking legs, I stood up, my entire body trembling with a mixture of fear, anger, and despair. "I can't do this, Chrollo. I can't be a part of your world. The things you've done...the person you truly are...I can't turn a blind eye to that."

He nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I expected as much. I knew this moment would arrive sooner or later. I merely hoped..." He trailed off, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "It's irrelevant now."

I took a step back, my mind struggling to process the revelation of Chrollo's true identity. The man I had fallen for, the charming and enigmatic gentleman, was nothing more than a meticulously crafted facade, a mask concealing the cold, ruthless criminal beneath.

"I can't be a part of this, Chrollo," I repeated, my voice quivering with a mixture of fear and resignation. "I can't be with someone who lives a life of crime, who has no regard for the people he hurts."

Chrollo's expression remained inscrutable, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Y/N. You see, you've become quite an intriguing diversion for me, a delightful puzzle to unravel. And I'm not in the habit of relinquishing things that keep me entertained."

His words, spoken with chilling calm, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of threat that turned my blood to ice in my veins. "What are you saying, Chrollo?"

A smile devoid of warmth or humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's quite simple, really. You have two options. You can choose to stay with me, to accept me for who and what I am, and continue to be a part of my life. Or..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "You can refuse, and face the consequences."

My heart raced, a sickening realization dawning on me as the true nature of my predicament became clear. "And what consequences would those be?"

Chrollo shrugged, the gesture casual and unconcerned. "Death, of course. I can't risk you going to the authorities, exposing me and my associates. If you can't be with me, then you can't be allowed to live."

The words hung in the air between us, a chilling ultimatum that left me feeling trapped and utterly helpless. I searched Chrollo's face for any sign of remorse, any hint of the man I had thought I knew, but found only cold, calculating resolve.

"I...I need time to think," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper, my throat constricted with fear and despair.

Chrollo nodded, his expression impassive. "Of course. Take all the time you need, Y/N. But remember, the clock is ticking. And I'm not a patient man."

With those words, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone, the weight of his ultimatum crushing down on me. I sank to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me, as the full horror of my situation crashed over me in relentless waves.

I was trapped, caught between a love that had turned to ashes and a fate worse than death. And no matter which path I chose, I knew that my life would never be the same again.

I sat there, numb and disbelieving, as Chrollo's words echoed in my mind. Stay with him, or die. The choice was no choice at all, a cruel mockery of free will in the face of his cold ultimatum. With a heavy heart and an overwhelming sense of despair, I realized that I had no other option.

"I'll stay," I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue, tasting of ashes and defeat. "I'll stay with you, Chrollo."

He nodded, a glimmer of satisfaction in his dark eyes, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "A wise decision, Y/N. I knew you'd see reason."

But even as I agreed to his terms, a part of me rebelled against the idea of being trapped in this nightmare, of living a life shackled to a man who saw me as nothing more than a possession, a plaything to be discarded when he tired of me.

In the days that followed, I went through the motions of my life, a hollow shell of my former self. I smiled when Chrollo was around, played the role of the dutiful girlfriend, but inside, I was screaming, my soul withering with each passing moment. The weight of my despair pressed down on me, suffocating me slowly, day by day.

I couldn't bear the thought of living like this forever, of being forever bound to a monster who held no love, no true affection for me. In a moment of desperation, I made a decision. If I couldn't escape Chrollo in life, then I would find my freedom in death.

I sat in the bathtub, the steaming water lapping at my skin, providing no comfort to the icy numbness that had settled in my heart. The razor blade rested against my wrist, the metal cool and inviting, a whispered promise of release from the nightmare my life had become. My hand trembled, the weight of my decision bearing down on me, tears streaming down my face and mingling with the bathwater.

But even as I sat there, the razor poised to end my suffering, I couldn't bring myself to do it. My hand shook, the blade biting into my skin, drawing a thin line of crimson, but I couldn't find the strength, the resolve, to finish the job. Sobs wracked my body, my chest heaving with the force of my anguish, as I sat there, paralyzed by fear and despair.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

My head snapped up, my heart leaping into my throat at the sound of Chrollo's voice. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a look of detached amusement on his face, as if he'd stumbled upon a mildly entertaining scene.

"Chrollo..." I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken, barely recognizable to my own ears.

He pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the bathroom, his movements casual and unhurried. "Did you really think I wouldn't know, Y/N? That I wouldn't sense your desperation, your pathetic attempt at escape?"

I lowered my gaze, shame and despair warring within me, my cheeks burning with humiliation. "I can't do this anymore, Chrollo. I can't live like this."

He crouched down beside the tub, his dark eyes glittering with a cruel sort of amusement. "And yet, here you are, unable to even commit to your own demise. How tragic."

With a sudden motion, he grasped my wrist, yanking the razor from my fingers. I gasped, more from surprise than pain, as he held the blade up to the light, examining it with a detached sort of interest.

"Did you really think this would be the answer, Y/N? That you could escape me, escape your fate, with something as trivial as this?"

He tossed the razor aside, the metal clattering against the tile floor, and cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You're mine, Y/N. Forever. And no matter how many times you try to run, to hide, to end your own miserable existence, I will always find you. I will always bring you back."

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the bathwater, as the hopelessness of my situation crashed over me anew. Chrollo was right. There was no escape, no way out of this hell I had foolishly walked into.

He stood, looking down at me with a mixture of pity and cold amusement. "Clean yourself up, Y/N. And let this be a lesson to you. Your life is mine, to do with as I please. And I'm not done with you yet."

With those words, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the bath, my skin pruning in the cooling water, my heart shattered beyond repair. I had gambled everything on Chrollo, on the love I thought we shared, and I had lost. And now, I had to live with the consequences, forever trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

Chrollo led me from the bathroom, his hand wrapped around my wrist in a grip that was both gentle and unyielding. I followed him numbly, my mind still reeling from the events that had transpired, the razor's bite still stinging on my skin. He guided me to the bed, the plush comforter soft beneath my bare legs as he lowered me onto the mattress.

I sat there, my hands clasped in my lap, my eyes downcast, as he moved about the room, his presence a tangible force, a weight pressing down on me from all sides. Fear and despair coiled in my gut, my heart racing as I tried to anticipate his next move, dreading what new torment he might have in store for me.

"Look at me, Y/N," he commanded, his voice soft but firm, leaving no room for disobedience.

I obeyed, raising my gaze to meet his, my breath catching in my throat at the intensity I saw there. He stood before me, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair falling across his brow in a way that was both casual and calculated.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, as if we were discussing the weather rather than the complete and utter destruction of my life. "Do you see the futility of your actions, the pointlessness of your resistance?"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with unshed tears. "I understand that I'm trapped," I whispered, my voice hoarse and raw, barely recognizable to my own ears. "That there's no escape from this nightmare, from you."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. You're learning."

He reached out, his fingers ghosting along my cheek, tracing the curve of my jaw with a touch that was almost tender. I shivered, my skin prickling with a mixture of fear and revulsion, my stomach churning at the unwanted contact.

"You belong to me, Y/N," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, sending a chill down my spine. "Body and soul, heart and mind. There is no part of you that is not mine, no corner of your being that I do not possess."

I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping to trail down my cheek, the hot sting of it a bitter reminder of my helplessness. He was right. I was his, wholly and completely, a moth caught in the web of a spider, helpless to resist the pull of his power.

Chrollo's lips brushed against my skin, trailing a path of fire down the column of my throat. I gasped, my hands fisting in the comforter, my body responding to his touch despite the revulsion that churned in my gut, despite the voice in my head screaming at me to fight, to resist, to do anything but submit to his twisted desires.

"You will never leave me," he whispered, his words a dark promise, a vow etched in blood and tears. "You will never escape. You are mine, now and forever."

And as his mouth descended on mine, his hands roaming over my body with a possessiveness that bordered on violence, I knew that he was right. There was no escape. Not for me, and not for anyone else who crossed his path.

I was his. And there was nothing I could do about it.

His kiss was like a drug, the taste of him addictive, the feel of his hands on my body intoxicating. I tried to resist, to push him away, but it was a futile effort. My body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving more.

He broke the kiss, his eyes dark with desire, his breath ragged against my skin. "You can fight me all you want, Y/N. But in the end, you'll give in. You'll surrender to me, just as you did before."

"I won't," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

He smiled, a cold, cruel smile that sent a chill down my spine. "We'll see about that."

With a growl, he claimed my mouth again, his lips rough against mine, his teeth nipping at my skin. I cried out, my nails digging into his back, my body surrendering to the pleasure even as my mind screamed in protest.

I knew this was wrong, that I should resist, should fight him with every fiber of my being. But the line between pain and pleasure was blurred, the boundary between fear and desire a thin and fragile thing. And as he ravaged my body, his touch bruising, his voice a low and menacing growl in my ear, I realized with a sickening jolt that a part of me wanted this.

A part of me craved the pain, the darkness, the twisted power play. And that realization, more than anything else, was the final nail in the coffin of my doomed resistance.

Chrollo's hands moved over my body, his fingers tracing the lines of my hips, the curve of my breasts, a strange mix of gentleness and possessiveness in his touch. I gasped, arching into him, my pulse racing, a dull ache building between my thighs.

"That's it," he murmured, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck. "Give in to me, Y/N. Surrender."

His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. I moaned, my fingers tangling in his hair, his name a whisper on my lips.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice rough and low. "Say that you're mine."

"I'm yours," I breathed, the words tumbling from my lips without hesitation, a damning admission of defeat. "I'm yours, Chrollo."

He kissed me again, hard and possessive, his tongue delving into my mouth. I surrendered to him, my body and mind consumed by the raw, primal need that burned between us.

He pulled back, his gaze dark and hungry, a satisfied smile curving his lips. "Good girl," he murmured, his thumb brushing across my swollen lips. "Now, let's see just how much you're willing to give me."

He moved with a predatory grace, his muscles rippling beneath his skin, his body a weapon honed to lethal perfection. He knelt before me, his fingers deft and sure, as he spread my thighs, his lips ghosting across my heated flesh.

I cried out, my back arching off the bed, as his tongue flicked over the sensitive bundle of nerves at my core. He growled, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place as he feasted on my body, his tongue and lips working their dark magic on me.

Pleasure rippled through me, hot and urgent, my skin tingling with electricity. I gasped, my hands clutching at the sheets, my body writhing beneath his touch.

"Chrollo," I moaned, my voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, please..."

He laughed, a dark and dangerous sound, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and amusement. "Please what, Y/N?"

"Please," I begged, the word a broken whisper, a plea for release. "I need you."

"What do you need?" he asked, his tone mocking.

"I need you inside me," I gasped, my body aching with desire, a dull, throbbing heat pulsing through my veins. "Please, Chrollo, I need you to fuck me."

His eyes darkened, a look of pure, animalistic lust flashing across his features. With a low growl, he rose to his feet, his fingers digging into my hips, lifting me effortlessly, and drove himself into me, the sudden fullness tearing a cry from my lips.

I clung to him, my nails scoring his back, my body shuddering with the force of his thrusts. He claimed me, his mouth hot and hungry on mine, his hands gripping my flesh with a bruising intensity.

The room was filled with the sounds of our bodies colliding, the scent of our desire hanging heavy in the air. I cried out, my voice hoarse and raw, the waves of pleasure crashing over me, drowning out all thought, all reason.

I lost myself in the moment, in the feeling of him inside me, filling me, completing me. For a brief, shining moment, there was nothing but us, our bodies moving as one, the line between pain and pleasure blurred and meaningless.

And then, with a cry, I shattered, my body convulsing, the release tearing through me, an explosion of sensation. I felt him follow, his movements growing erratic, his breath a ragged gasp in my ear, his release hot and intense.

We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, the sweat cooling on our skin, the aftershocks of our shared pleasure still rippling through us. I lay there, breathless and spent, a strange mix of emotions churning within me.

I was disgusted with myself, with the way I had surrendered to him, with the pleasure I had found in his arms. But beneath that revulsion, buried deep beneath the surface, was a sense of shameful satisfaction, a twisted sort of gratification.

I had given in to him. I had surrendered to the darkness, the madness, the primal desire that raged between us. And as his arms tightened around me, his breath warm against my skin, a part of me reveled in the knowledge that, no matter what happened, he would always be a part of me.

"Are you satisfied?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning, with implications. I glanced at Chrollo, my gaze flicking over his naked form, his skin still flushed with the aftermath of our encounter. He was watching me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the challenge clear in his dark eyes.

"No," I replied, meeting his gaze evenly, a thrill of anticipation running through me. "I'm not."

Chrollo raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest sparking in his dark eyes. "Oh? And what more could you possibly want, Y/N?"

I swallowed, my heart pounding in my chest as I forced myself to hold his gaze. "I want the truth, Chrollo. The real you, not the mask you wear for the world."

A slow smile spread across his face, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Careful what you wish for, my dear. The truth can be a dangerous thing."

I shook my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I knew the risks when I chose to stay with you. I'm not afraid of the darkness."

Chrollo chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Brave words, Y/N. But we both know that's not entirely true, don't we?"

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin, his fingers trailing along the curve of my jaw. "You may think you want the monster, but can you truly handle the reality of what I am?"

I met his gaze unflinchingly, my pulse racing with a heady mix of fear and desire. "There's only one way to find out."

With a sudden movement, Chrollo pinned me to the bed, his body covering mine, his eyes glittering with a dark hunger. "Then let me show you," he murmured, his mouth descending on mine in a searing kiss.

As the hours passed and the shadows lengthened, we lay there, entwined, our bodies slick with sweat, the air heavy with the scent of our mingled desire. Chrollo traced idle patterns on my skin, his fingers moving over my body with a familiarity born of countless encounters. But there was a distant look in his eyes, a contemplative expression that I hadn't seen before.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, curious despite myself.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze focused on something far away. "I was wondering," he said at last, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "how things might have been different, if we had met under other circumstances."

I felt a flicker of surprise at his words, a strange sensation of hope and longing stirring in my chest. "What do you mean?"

Chrollo sighed, his fingers stilling on my skin. "If I wasn't who I am, if I wasn't a criminal, a member of the Phantom Troupe... could we have had something real, something genuine?"

I swallowed hard, my heart aching at the wistfulness in his tone. "I don't know," I replied honestly. "But I'd like to think so."

He smiled then, a sad, fleeting thing that barely touched his eyes. "In another life, perhaps I could have truly fallen in love with you, Y/N. Without the lies, the secrets, the constant threat of danger hanging over us."

I reached up, cupping his cheek in my hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my palm. "But this is the life we have, Chrollo. The one we've chosen, for better or worse."

He leaned into my touch, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. "I know. And I don't regret it, not really. But sometimes, I can't help but wonder..."

His words trailed off, the unspoken possibilities hanging in the air between us. I knew what he meant, knew the bittersweet ache of imagining a different path, a different fate. But we both knew that there was no going back, no changing the choices we had made.

"We have each other," I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Here and now. That's what matters."

Chrollo smiled, a real smile this time, his eyes warm and fond as they met mine. "You're right," he murmured, pulling me closer, his arms tightening around me. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything."

#hxh #hxh x reader #hxh x reader smut #chrollo smut #chrollo lucilfer #hxh chrollo #chrollo x reader #chrollo x reader smut #hxh smut

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mistymem0ryy · 11 months

Text

Yandere Arlecchino x Ballerina Reader

‘Oh who is She’

Summary: As a ballerina in Fontaine’s most prestigious dancing Academy you have lived your life with the intent to serve the arts and being able to provide to your family a next meal. Life in the Opera house flows with the same old mundanity until the growing number of Fatui agents within the country alongside the death of one of your coworkers begins to solidify the already running distaste for the Shneznayan ‘diplomatic’ lackeys. Your opinion about them is as unsavory as the next guy, that is until you meet one of the grand patrons of the Theatre, Arlechinno, whose interest in you and your talent grows concerningly more fierce with every passing performance.

Author’s Notes >>> at the end of the post! please check it out for some clarifications!

Warnings: discussions of pr0stituti0n and the unsavory sides of performance arts, mentions of murder and your common yandere sketchiness

No beta we die like any teenage girl with Slavic ballet teachers

I. A misty memory

The memory of the Genesis of your own downfall has never faded completely from your straying recollections. It possesses a freshness that stings and contorts. It is partially hidden by a cape of fog, a mist deep enough to make you look twice and yet, within its frailty, to provide you with a rough silhouette of that which now inhabits the realms of the unconscious.

Sometimes you wonder if its repression won’t be for the better. You have, for the first time in your life, genuinely reached the understanding that ignorance is truly bliss.

If you had known that a single glance could have harbored the power to throw you into the scorching depths of hell, you would have blinded yourself by the age of 9.

If you had known that the only way out of such an inferno would be through the merciless mountain of purgatory, you would have preferred for your limbs to be frozen whole alongside that six-eyed beast. Perhaps his flowing tears would have purged you of whatever sin you unknowingly committed in order to be cursed with such a fate.

She says she serves a God in her doings. You fear she has mistaken the voice of her unsightly desires for that of divinity.

But perhaps that must be the forbidden truth stuck within our suffocating throats—that our most grotesque and hideous desires are but a reflection of the Gods.

You were wearing black that day, a colour not unknown to your wardrobe, yet it was worn with a completely different intent, if memory serves you right. A girl around your age, red-haired with a blemish under her right eye. You had previously exchanged some vague pleasantries when alone behind the velvet curtains that could rival the tint of her reddening cheeks; she had once gifted you an arrangement of lavenders as a congratulation to your promotion into one of the highest grades within L’Academie and even went as far as to write one of your favourite poems upon the accompanying card attached to their freshly cut stems.

She had a name; you are sure of it, but for some reason you cannot bring yourself to recollect it now, the girl’s body had been found bloody and mud covered in a soiled ditch on Fontaine’s southern border exactly three days before you formally met Her.

She had been charming; even a blind fool would have been hypnotized by Her enticing aura. And you had been exactly that—an ignorant and mindless fool.

It wasn’t the first time she had visited the theater; you try your best to blur the faces of the audience into an unrecognizable blob of flesh during performances, but hers was too marking to dismiss. Her gaze scrutinized each minute move of your flowing limbs, there was a certain hunger behind her eyes that made tremors consume the entirety of your body every time you set foot upon that regal stage.

It was as if you were 8 again and praying that the examiners for the exact prestigious company you now work for took pity upon yourself and did not slander your hard work with a crude rejection.

For the first few performances you presumed her attention was, in the least, wandering through your dancing colleagues too, the recurring meetings between your eyes and hers perhaps purely coincidental. That was until your first solo was presented.

You have been witness to hunger and yearning countless times, having even seen them invading and ravaging the souls of those near and afar from you, the prologue of such fervorous and ardent emotions, always far away from being sweet and clean. Like all things should strive to be.

To mistake whatever plundered her mind for ‘hunger’ or ‘yearning’ would be a bland fool’s mistake, you had unwisely mistaken a building famine for a theater’s infatuation, and that was the first of the many errors you would commit along the line.

Deep within yourself, you knew that at some point between this game of cat and mouse the Opera house ceased from being a place for the upper echelons of society to converse and demonstrate their riches while underpaid artists feebly hoped for recognition of their labors, and it began to belong solely to the two of you.

The stage had become your own dissection table, and you did not know if it was pleasure or terror you derived from her dissecting gaze.

Perhaps your first solo had been the nail upon the coffin. You had refused to look towards her for the entirety of the arduous choreography, depicting the history of Chloé as she is taken unwillingly by pirates, eventually saved before the ravaging, thanking Pan for his graciousness, and once again reuniting with her lover.

Your eyes were directed towards hers only once the music ceased with a harmonious and thundering ending. You watched as, from within the silent public, her gloved hands came together and the first clap clamored through the walls, you felt a weird sense of pride and fear as she got up from her seat inside the private box, all while applauding your performance with an elegant smirk adorning her features, the rest of the audience followed suit, collectively getting up from their seats and filling the Opera house with the sound of resounding applause.

You always felt this clamoring sting upon your scapulae every time your gazes happened to cross; their meeting as quick as their departure, or so you liked to believe.

Even after the closing of the curtains, when the only sound that met your ears was that of ragged breaths and squeaking wood, when the only smell that filled your senses was that of a mixture of human flesh and whatever toxic atrocity held your hair in place, even then you could still feel remnants of her stare covering your body, as if becoming a second layer of skin with every passing performance.

You knew she was Fatui from the beginning; after all, the servants of the so-called Tsaritsa didn’t exactly hide their duties or loyalties, be it by manner of speech or that of dressing. They had good money, though. You knew it. The rest of the dancers knew it. The directors and associates knew it. And sometimes you had to turn a deaf ear to hushed whispers about people mysteriously disappearing in the night without a single trace to be found. Sometimes you had to kill your morals if you wanted your next meal to be within an evening and not within 3 days.

The jeweled and fur-adorned audience could be drowning themselves in luxury and splendour, but the little dolls they so merrily applauded at the end of two continuous hours of Tchaikovsky couldn’t be more far away from such a blissful existence. It had been common for some spectators from the upper balconies to take an interest in certain ballerinas; with time, this commonality became a tradition and eventually a business in its own right. But to discuss it in such a manner would have been blasphemous within the highly adorned walls of the prestigious Theatre, some called it pr0stituti0n, the directors called it keeping their loyal patrons satisfied.

After yet another performance based on local folklore that the rich over-intellectualise in order to differentiate themselves from the common folk, you and your companions sluggishly returned to the poorly lit room where your belongings and whatever remnants of your honour were housed. You were all substituting the attire of Tyrian purple silk with formal dress in the colour of grief. The entire theater was in mourning, or at least that was the image the directors wished to convey.

The death of your fellow ballerina had caused quite the stir within Fontaine’s journals; the cause of the death of this poor girl was being discussed by intellectuals in fancy cafés and by drunks in dirty taverns, and yet you knew there was no real mourning behind it all. Her corpse was their quirky theme for the weekend chatter; a life had been lost, and her memory too would vanish from public memory within a week or two. The headline writers pointing to a possible murder would die out with time and enough pocket money on the directors’ part. Perhaps this was your first direct contact with the fragility and lingering nature of the human experience—to be forgotten, you presumed, was but a logical step in the grander scheme of things.

Some hours before it all went astray, you and other members of the Theatre’s staff had decided to visit a nearby cathedral before beginning the preparations for the performance destined to take place that same day. You had cleansed yourself before entering, scraped your knees upon the humidity of the wooden floor, and even lit your votive candle in front of the mosaic depicting the Hydro Archon.

You selfishly wanted to pray for the health of your family, perhaps even for a better salary, and yet you found yourself solely asking why—what greater good could the death of such a simple and honest girl have brought into this world? Was there a greater meaning behind her early departure? Did she at least have the grace of a painless death? Wherever she is now, is she happy?

The silence you received from the other side was deafening, like slaughter.

You could feel the intensity of an unknown gaze upon the left side of your face. You refused to even cower in its direction, to whomever that glance belonged to, it was most probably of no God that could fulfill your wishes.

You still remember how your knees ached as you gathered yourself from a praying position. How you had bid a good day to the priest upon your hurried leave.

How you had petted the church’s cat that sluggishly showed you his black furred belly as you passed by his way.

How you had offered whatever lingering candy you still gathered inside the pockets of your ageing trench coat to some street kids that always went to you for their sweet tooth (the little rascals).

The commute towards the curving golden gates that encircled the greenery belonging to the theater was too mundane to serve as a presage. The Archons had sent you no omens, no foreboding whatsoever. The birds chirped away the same conjunction of clashing tunes, the melody of human society waking up from its slumber and beginning its unceasing movement was the same you had experienced on a loop for years.

Would you have entered the theatre’s doors if you had known what awaited you at the end of the day? Would you have been able to escape your future if only you had thought twice after the performance, after lingering gazes filled with want and something more?

Perhaps yes, perhaps no. There really is no use in pondering such things now, but you cannot deny that they do serve as interesting thought experiments to pass the time with.

No matter how many times you attempt to recollect the happenings of that day, they always re-emerge from whatever mental corner you’ve confined them in different forms, different silhouettes, different essences. Your memory has slowly lost the trust you had once graced it with, but no matter how many times you repeat that forsaken day in your diminishing mind, there is one thing that always resists change, one single constant within the writing of your doom.

The altar had smelled of chrysanthemums and lavender.

Author’s note: This will be a series of approximately 5 parts, some from Arlechino’s perspective and others structured as reminiscences such as the one just presented. Since Fontaine is still not out, the characterization of Arlecchino could with the coming of new information and lore become erroneous so I feel as if it is my duty to inform you that I am molding her personality based off of the new trailer and imbuing her with certain characteristics of fictional characters I personally think would be similar to her!

#arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #fatui #fatui harbingers #fatui harbingers x reader #Genshin #genshin impact #genshin x reader #fontaine #fanfic #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere arlecchino #yandere arlecchino x reader #genshin imagines

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rottendollface · 5 months

Text

Sons of Sin.

Request by: @bigtimesalt8196

Character: Childe Tartaglia | Ajax.

Warnings: NSFW; Little Red Riding Hood AU, different lore of Archons, werewolf yandere Ajax, narcissistic Aether with sadistic inclinations, female reader is a radical believer, Ajax was born from a different man, incest, crowd collapse, cannibalism, unwanted marriage, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, oral sex, bestiality, fingering, knotting, slight lactation kink, planned murder, voyeurism, 18+.

W/C: 9388.

Art by: Pixart AI.

When the hunger awoke there was nothing more, but pain – pain of cracked bones and stretched out joints. Not a scream, but a feral howl could be heard, as Ajax experienced his first transformation in the deepest of the impenetrable forest. You woke up from the echoes of roar that made windows in your room rattle. You froze in your bed in fear, but curiosity took over you and you got up, coming to the window on your tiptoes. You looked out, and the yard was clean, no sign of someone's presence.

Without a candle you stepped into the darkness of the corridor and rushed to the nursery, where Teucer and Tonya lived. “It's me,” you whispered, opening the creaking door; you heard both of them sobbing and tried to calm them. “It's okay, little ones. That's our Patron Saint howling in the forest, foretelling the Blood Moon.”

You came to their shared bed. Both Tonya and Teucer curled in dread, hugging each other. Their bed stayed against the wall, so you took the unprotected side, hiding them behind your figure. Like a young gentleman he was, Teucer had always let Tonya sleep against the wall, as she was afraid of the dark. You felt Teucer clinging to you, and Tonya did the same, but to him. You reached your hand, trying to hug both of them at the same time. With you by their side, your younger siblings felt safe and finally relaxed.

“Sleep, my ducklings,” you soothed. ”There is nothing to be afraid of. Your older brother will do everything right. Have faith in him.”

Before the festival of the Blood Moon the oldest son of the head of the village had to step into the forest to present the gifts to the Patron Saint – Ajax was the chosen one, and you were praying for him to return from the mission safely. You knew he would be alright, yet you asked the Patron to have mercy on Ajax and bring him back home.

You were humming a chant until Tonya and Teucer fell asleep, then you got up and left noiselessly. In the corridor you saw a glimpse of candle light and Aether, your groom, appeared in front of you immediately after.

“Is everything okay?” Aether murmured, anxiety on his face. You sighed – no more frightened children for you tonight.

“Yes. Please come to your bedroom, Aether.” You patted him on his bare shoulder. “You shouldn't walk in a negligee. Someone could see you.”

“I'm sorry. You know, those sounds…” Aether became confused at how you raised your brows in mock and disbelief, so he coughed to change the subject. “May the rest of the night be good for you.”

“Same for you. Now, please excuse me.” You hurried to your room. Again, you peeked through the window to see at least traces of Ajax on the white snow, yet again you saw nothing.

Ajax was special to you. Frequent touches and an urge to do everything all together: it were the reasons father started searching for a husband for you. Father knew how a woman's charm could make a man's head clouded, and Ajax, who was born from a different seed, could fall for it easily. Father's concerns towards Ajax's and your relationship were vile, yet they were true – both of you fell for the same sin of incest. Ajax was the result of your mother's first marriage, so everyone in the family counted him as an alien, a descendant of a different breed, despite the fact that all of the family's children shared the same mother. He was treated with the same love and respect, but deep inside everyone in the house, except mother, thought of him as a stranger at home.

Mother's silent approval of your relationship with Ajax was the starting point of the communication turning into a love affair. For you Ajax's attention was something you craved for. Ajax was reliable, kind and brave. He was always on your side, ready to protect you from everything: Ajax could sacrifice the world for you, and you knew no one would treat you with as much respect and care as him.

Ajax understood his affection towards you was different from teenage years. Your figure and your facial features were much more elegant than other brothers' and sisters'. Your steps were imponderable, your moves were extensively gracious, and your presence was radiating with vitality and joy. Smile on your lips could make everyone's day brighter, and the tender gaze of your glistening eyes was the only thing every village man dreamed of seeing. You had a supernatural charm and used it instinctively, making everyone fall in love with you from just one sight. You were precious: hospitable and selfless. Everything Ajax admired in women was collected in you, making you the most desirable one, and the temptation of forbidden fruit made him lose his head over you. He knew you would be a perfect mother. Your love was a glory to him, and Ajax was dreaming about starting a family with you. He wanted to see you nursing his offspring, wanted to come home, and be greeted by your kisses and hugs from his children. Ajax was ashamed to admit to himself that he thirsted to see you breastfeeding his child. Once he saw mother doing that, and a scandalous fantasy appeared in his head, never wanting to leave. Just the idea of a child sucking on your swollen nipple and your breasts round, full of milk, made Ajax blush from arousal.

Maybe your beauty and virtue were the reason why Aether, the named prince of newly founded territories of Snezhnaya called the Abyss, agreed to marry you without hesitation. Both, Ajax and you, were shocked at the news of your approaching wedding. You rebelled: you didn't want to marry and wanted to spend at least five more carefree years in your family, not to serve some stranger. Father was sure he needed to send you out of the house, and the Blood Moon was the best time to do so. Father found a perfect man for you – Aether, an outlander from the capital who owned a business of search and excavation of minerals. He was a few years older than you, handsome and wealthy to be counted as a good groom.

Aether arrived at the village not so long ago, his horses were resting at the same stable with yours, and his carriage was staying in the backyard. He was welcomed, settled in the best room of the house and got surrounded by care from elders and waggish affection from children. Your family accepted him and tried to make him feel like home in your house, yet Ajax and you weren't sharing the same excitement from Aether's presence. You were acting demure and cold, while Ajax didn't try to hide his irritation and hostility towards Aether. Ajax hated the way Aether was walking around the house and eyeing everything with interest and confusion: unlike people from the Capital, you, the residents of the village in Snezhnaya's outskirts, had different beliefs and traditions that baffled outlanders. There was an altar with a self-painted ikon (it depicted a creature with a human body, but a wolf's head), surrounded by candles and flowers, on every door frame there were carved out runes, all the kids in the village were wearing bracelets of black tourmaline, and no bibles of Archons could be found in the whole village. The difference between Aether and your family was clear: he believed in the Seven, and you believed in the local God, which was branded as false and destroyed by the Seven. In the Capital you were called heretics, in the village Aether was called traitor. Ajax was a radical believer and outlander's ignorance made him furious. You could call yourself a radical too, but you had patience and didn't have problems with heathens, until they respected your faith.

Maybe the roots of miscommunication between Aether and you laid in the different background, maybe it was a fear of Ajax's fervent jealousy that made you avoid your groom. You knew for sure that you would never be able to betray your heart and chose Aether instead of Ajax. You didn't want him as your friend even: Aether's presence made you nervous, but you had to act like a welcoming person not to disgrace your family. From his side, Aether showed you signs of affection and seemed to be genuinely interested in you – it made you nauseous. You were tired of smiling at him and acting happy for the gifts he gave you, but you didn't need him and his trinkets. It was the bitter truth, but your father chose to stay blind to it. He made a good deal and didn't want to lose any profit from it: Aether's company got permission to extract minerals from the village's abandoned mines and sell them, but the half of earned money belonged to the villagers.

You got up earlier than everyone else and searched for Ajax. You found him in his bedroom, sleeping tightly from night events. You kissed him on the forehead gently – you wanted to ask him so many things but kept your curiosity tamed. You closed the door to his room and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the family. Aether came down when you were in the process of baking sweet buns. You tensed up, but couldn't do anything about it.

“Happy Blood Moon, Aether,” you gave him a wide smile. Today was the day of the festival, and you were looking forward to dancing, music and contests. “Give me a minute, please, and I'll serve you something to eat.” You placed buns into the oven and began to bustle around the kitchen.

“Aren't we supposed to wait for everyone else and eat all together?” His voice sounded deliberately uninterested. You opened your mouth to answer him, but felt his hands squeezing your hips, then his figure pressing to yours. It was easy to take you by surprise, as you were standing with your back to him. He bucked his hips into yours, making you put your hands in front of you to keep balance. Aether's warm lips brushed against your neck, his agile fingers were reaching under your heavy wool skirt. “We have plenty of time, and I know a faster way to pass it. With pleasure, of course.”

“No!” You clung on his wrists, clawing into Aether's skin until he hissed. “I don't want to!”

“Come on, don't be such a coy, I'm your groom after all. Not all the methods include penetration, if you are afraid of it.” He giggled, moving one of his hands to your breast. You tried to break free, but he just pressed you tighter between his body and the corner. “Didn't your mother teach you what is happening between man and woman?”

“I'm on my period!” You made one more attempt and this one was successful. Quickly, Aether got his hands off of your body and excused himself. He left the room so as not to embarrass himself and you.

You weren't so coy and shy as Aether thought of you. You laid with man and were no stranger for passion, but the only one who had access to your body was Ajax. Aether's touches made you disgusted, and the responsibility of sharing bed with him made you frightened. He expected to marry a virgin, while you were so experienced you could teach him the true art of carnal love. What would Aether do after convicting you of obscenity? You were frightened at this point. The only way for you to find an answer to how to hide your past was to confess to your mother and ask for help. You knew she wouldn't make trouble from it, yet you felt ashamed.

You spend about an hour alone in the kitchen until mother came; Tonya and Teucer ran ahead of her. Mother kissed you on the cheek first, then on your forehead. She was calm as always, it seemed like nothing could disturb her tranquility. Then father came along with Aether: they were chatting about something, both obviously pleased by the topic. Your heart dropped. You were waiting for Ajax, but it seemed he was too exhausted to get up so early.

The family took places at the table, and Ajax appeared at the doorstep. “Brother!” You exclaimed, happiness on your face and glint in your eye. You ran to hug him, when your arms grasped him tightly, you heard a silent groan. Ajax patted you back weakly. “How did it go?”

“Like it should. Perfectly fine.” Ajax smiled, yet on his tired face it looked poorly.

“Hail to the Saint Werewolf!” You raised your hands above your head and folded them in a prayer gesture. “May the Blood Moon wash the sins from our village and bless another year with a good harvest and enough prey.”

“Hail to the Saint.” Ajax repeated after you and made the same gesture.

Father gazed down, perturbed by your religious enthusiasm. He looked at Aether slyly, trying to find a shade of disgust or anger on his face, but Aether seemed confused only.

“It's good to remember about your roots, but we don't bring any religious manner to the festival anymore, dear,” father spoke to you loudly. Mother scoffed, and Ajax frowned his eyebrows immediately. “We should worship The Seven only, don't forget about this.”

“On our land we should worship our God, not the usurpers.” Ajax demanded. He pushed you back and stepped in front of you, ready to argue. “Everyone who comes into the village should obey its rules, or go away with their ugly gods. There is no other option.”

“He is right,” You took your brother by his hand and pulled back gently, shortening his temper. “We have a great history and shouldn't be ashamed of it. Shame is the first sign of vulnerability.”

You held your head high, irradiating pride in your brother and the strength of your beliefs, so did mother, smiling with the corners of her lips only. Tonya and Teucer were busy playing rock-paper-scissors and didn't care about affairs of adult life. Aether just shrugged his shoulders, as he didn't want the conflict to continue. Even for him it was clear that father, despite being in rule in the village, was treated with neglect and skepticism by his own family, but he seemed to be perfectly fine with it. Mother was ruling the family from the shadows and you took after her. You got control over Ajax, making yourself a second authority figure, and was in charge of solving minor problems. Since the first day here, Aether noticed that your older brother was following you everywhere like a dog and looking at everyone with a wolf's gaze, full of anger, when someone tried to communicate with you. Maybe it was the traditions of your community, but Aether didn't like it at all. Aether believed that a wife should be humble and afraid of her husband, and you were an untamed horse. He was looking forward to breaking your character after the wedding. It wouldn't be easy work for sure, yet there was something exciting in restraining someone so impetuous and mentally strong.

Breakfast went surprisingly peacefully. Hours were left until the festival, so children were playing in the living room, while Ajax, Aether and you were watching after them.

“So what great history is behind the festival's origin?” Aether asked, trying to start the conversation.

"In the festival we pay tribute to the sacred protector of the village – the werewolf." You explained with a merry voice, preparing yourself to tell the whole legend. "The legend says that long before Archons descended to Teyvat, the long forgotten God created the world. The God created human creatures, a man and a woman. To protect them, it created a wolf and assigned him guarding humans, but the evil rose from the underworld. The evil assured the God that his creations were too perfect and it would lead the world to imbalance – so to keep the sacred balance, the God's every creature should have a gift from the evil as well. The God agreed, and allowed evil to spill his gifts to his creatures. The wolf was gifted with envy, the man was gifted with hubris and the woman was gifted with fear. Once, when the God left its children without care, the man started treating the wolf with neglect. In order to make the wolf fear him and respect him, the man was beating the animal. The woman, afraid of her husband, was just watching the process with tears in her eyes. The wolf was watching how the man and the woman lived together, and he felt envy for what they had: the wolf, too, wanted a mate, but the God forgot to make one for it. That's why deep at night, when the man tried to beat the wolf one more time, the wolf attacked him and killed the first man in the world, and took his wife as its mate. After this night the Moon in the Sky turned red from the blood of the man, and the wolf hid in the forest with its woman, where she birthed him many children, half-human and half-wolf, and they founded many villages, where they passed their genes from one generation to another; they protected each other, as well as everyone else, who asked for protection."

“How can you worship the one who killed the first man? Why didn't your god punish the beast for that?” Perplexed, Aether recalled the holy scripture of Archons and found it way more fair.

“Because he deserved this.” Ajax grunted, clenching his fists.

“No one deserved nothing,” you hurried to make up for your brother. “It was the natural order of balance. Hubris took over the man and made him sin which led to evil imbalance. The wolf atoned for the guilt by protecting people and honoring his children to do so. The balance was restored.”

“Never should an animal have power over a man.” Aether shook his head. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ajax clenching his fists.

“Our God was killed by Archons and Archons ordered us to forget our roots. They pursued us into the depths of the forest because our religion is different and they tried to rewrite our history. We suffered enough persecution, so don't start a fight over such a sensitive problem.” You blurted out, noticing Ajax's anger building up. One more word and he would sprang at Aether. “We want peace.”

Aether gave up. He switched his gaze to a burning fireplace, musing. You did as well, letting anxiety take over you. Historically, only villagers were allowed to participate in the festival. By inviting Aether, father did him a great honor, but Saint Patron could get angry at this. Was the wealth of the whole village worth the feelings of one man? If you were the one to rule, you would have never allowed an outlander to the festival. You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed heavily. Father was the only problem of your family. He led the village for twenty years, and during his ruling the faith was called into question. The movement of traitors, who believed in the Seven, became more popular with every year. Father tried to contain it, but gently, reluctantly even. You didn't know what to do. As an elder's daughter, you were acting the role of keeper of traditions. You finished the local church school and knew about dissent between priests, as you had seen it with your eyes while studying there. The village was falling apart slowly, and you were afraid the last day of it would come soon.

Before leaving for the festival, Ajax asked you to spare a moment for him. He waited until others left, then he took your hands in his, chattering indistinctly. Ajax told you he had to go and check for grandmother, then he pleaded you to be careful in his absence. You noted his hands were extremely warm and trembling, but Ajax assured you he was alright. He kissed you on your lips quickly and left. It was a simple kiss, yet you felt excited.

The celebration began after a solemn speech from father. Music filled the village, and the fair was full of delicious food, sparkling drinks and sweet pastries; on the main street a theatrical performance unfolded. Common happiness made the old grudges disappear. Aether was exploring bright intricate decorations with interest. Tonya cried to you to go to the contests, and you only managed to warn mother on where both of you were going.

Time passed quickly, but the festival was building up momentum. Tonya, excited after games, didn't want to go home and took you to the fair. Tired, you were following Tonya, who was running from one stand to another, choosing what to eat. She decided to have a slice of blueberry pie and a cup of hot tea. You paid for her, and finally took a place to rest. Tonya was full of energy despite hours of active games. After a short break she wanted to go see a performance on the main street. It was dark already, but lanterns of various colors and forms were lightened, making the atmosphere dreamlike – of course she wanted to stay for a little long.

Joyful, she finished her tea time. You returned dishes to the owner and took Tonya's little hand in yours. She was hopping and humming a song to herself. You stopped at the stage; actors were playing a scene from local myths: one of the actors was dressed in a wolf mask and fur, another had a red oblong devil mask. You weren't familiar with this story, so you focused on the performance. Tonya, who was waiting for something more funny, got bored. Skillfully made costumes and attention to details of the initial myth didn't impress her.

Performance moved to the conflict part: when the wolf-actor opened the mask's muzzle, a horrifying deep roar came out. Blood froze in your veins, at how naturally and loud the sound was produced. Actors stalled, both of them were confused and just looked at each other. You looked around and noticed an enormously big shadow approaching, but before you could do something, it attacked. In a moment a human howl of terror and pain covered the whole village, an uncontrollable panic started. Then followed frightened horses neighing and wailing of cattle. You almost managed to take Tonya up in your arms, and the crush started. Afraid, people from the front rows pushed everyone who was behind them; others, who were running to the main street were bumping into fleeing. You covered Tonya's head with your arm to protect it; it was hard for you to stay on your feet, as you tried to break out the crowd. Bodies pressed to you, didn't let you slip out, you got hit with elbows and the crowd was stepping on your toes. You were about to fall into hysteria, and Tonya's cry right near your ears made it worse. You pleaded to your God, and by attempt you slipped into free space, but you didn't run away for too long: the village fell in infernal chaos, the fair was engulfed in flames, and screams with running people made you lose your vigilance. Someone ran into you at full speed, knocking you down. You fell on your back, protecting Tonya, and hit your head badly. Your vision blurred, a piercing whistling going in your ears. You couldn't even understand the position of your body, but you felt how Tonya was shaking you, trying to bring you to your senses. You closed your eyes and her hands disappeared, so you opened them with great effort, yet it was so slow you saw only someone taking her away. You groaned and rolled over on your stomach, clenched into frozen ground and crawled. A bloody stain was left where your head laid.

You stood up on shaking legs, your head was pulsating with pain, making it more difficult to keep balance. In the distance you heard screams and roars. You looked down – snow was crimson with blood, and mutilated corpses with missing limbs and ripped out internal organs filled the street. The horrific scene made you feel uneasy at your stomach, yet it brought you back to a normal state, the pain didn't feel so intense anymore.

“Tonya!” You screamed, tearing your throat, but it was muffled by the deafening ringing of the church bell. You screamed again, hoping that she would give you a sign. You didn't care that you could attract the werewolf – it was the execution for sins, the fair end for non-believers and the retribution for the reckless deeds of your father. You were pure, but if in your destiny you were meant to die this night, you would meet your end with no fear. “Tonya!”

A shuffle started in the hangar and you rushed to check on it. Tonya looked from her hideout behind the straw bale. “I'm here…” she whispered and you fell on your knees in front of her, hugging her tightly. Tonya was shaking and crying, clinging to you – she was afraid that you died, but was too scared to go out and look for help. You were her last hope to keep her sanity clear.

“Hold on brave. Pray, Tonya. This is the only thing we can do.” You covered her ears, when there was a scream.

“What if Teucer, mommy?..” She didn't finish the sentence as tears made her throat spasm.

“We are pure, Tonya. Nothing will happen to us.” You cooed, caressing her back. Heavy steps behind the hangar made you strain. You stood up to check on what was going on and froze, when you saw a werewolf in front of you.

Tonya followed you and screamed after she looked from behind you back. For your whole life, you imagined a werewolf as a scary large wolf, but your imagination deceived you. It was a deformed ugly beast of a colossal size – it filled a big part of the hangar, making it impossible to leave. It had light fur, clumped with blood, its large mouth was full of teeth and long canines that protruded from the muzzle even when it was closed. Enormous paws were bigger than your head. Its blue eyes had no shine and looked wild, bloodthirsty. Its whole figure combined both features of human and beast in the most disturbing way: wolfish, yet still human muzzle with too sensible eyes and even emotions on it; beastly, yet humanly flexible body with long limbs. You made a step back, shielding Tonya.

“I know you want to save the faith, keeper of traditions.” The werewolf spoke to you, and you gasped in disbelief. For a moment you decided that it was a lie, an illusion of an inflamed brain, but it was true: the werewolf came closer, his muzzle up to your face, which made you back away in disgust. “Now it's time for you to perform your duty. You will go with me. I will be back in three days, waiting for you in a hollow. Keep silent about our conversation. Fail – and I'll kill everyone without mercy.”

Your eyes rounded and your breathing turned heavy. Did he mean you have to sacrifice yourself? You would do so immediately, if Tonya wasn't there… or was it just an excuse? You were exposed to death and nemesis that merged and embodied in the face of the Saint you worshiped, but you were filled with dread. You didn't want to die – only a look at ugly muzzle made tears pour down your eyes even though you didn't want to cry. It was an honor to die for your God, sacrifice yourself in order to save the whole village, but you weren't ready. Yet you nodded, and the werewolf roared, then retreated, moving his limbs like a spider.

Tonya clung on your coat, but you were standing frozen, trying to process everything that happened a moment before. Suddenly you regained composure, took Tonya up your hands and left the hangar. The whole village fell into dead silence: people were too scared to go outside and sat in safety, waiting for sunrise. The fair burnt out. By a miracle the fire didn't spread to the whole village and caused minor damage.

In the distance you saw Aether running from one house to another, searching for you. You wanted to scream for him, but couldn't – your voice betrayed you, letting out only a wheeze, so you headed to him, then your fast steps turned into running.

“By Archons!” Aether took Tonya from your tired hands carefully, his wide palm brushed hair fell on her face to check for wounds. “Are you both alright?”

The pain in your nape made you grimace. You were recovering from shock, and felt exhausted to the point of losing conscience. “Where's Teucer? And mom?”

“They are safe, hiding in the church with everyone else.” Aether shooed at Tonya, who started tossing and turning in his embrace, as she heard of another sibling. You looked at him with a gaze full of endless gratitude. “I… I wanted to say I'm sorry for my behavior. I've been vulgar… I just got too excited to know you better. I promise, I'll be a different man to you.”

“It's okay, Aether, everyone makes mistakes.” You didn't know what else to answer. His confession was so inappropriate, yet so sincere you couldn't let yourself break a rush of his soul. Maybe he was afraid he would die unforgiven and there was fear speaking through him at the moment – you didn't know, and you didn't want to know.

Ajax showed up on the street, bewildered at the scene in front of him. He bypassed corpses and puddles of blood, looking at it with interest. “What happened there?”

“A massacre!” Aether blurted angrily. “Where were you when all of this happened?!”

You looked at Ajax, then at Aether, not realizing the point of his outrage.

“He was at grandmother's. Why?” You shouted, a burning feeling in your chest, as you felt Aether tried to implicate Ajax in cowardice. Aether's eyes widened as he didn't expect you to snap at him.

“You chose the wrong time to fight.” Ajax stood between you and him, stopping the argument. “We have to carry Tonya home.”

Tonya pulled her hands to Ajax, and he took her from Aether with envy.

The night went like a fever dream and the morning after was even worse. From the earliest hour the mourning for the dead started and the whole village split in two radical opinions: old believers and traitors. The first demanded to send out the outlander and pray for forgiveness, then return back to original faith and worship the true God without looking back at Archons. Traitors claimed that the night revealed a true devilish nature of the former religion and recommended killing the beast and praying to the Seven. You took the responsibility and came to the crowd to declare the side of your family – as a keeper, you were wearing a red cloak with a hood, so people could see you easily. You tried to preach to the people, but most of them didn't want to listen to you. Crowd was screaming at you and calling you out to beg for forgiveness for every killed and explain why your family was safe and sound during the night. You were shocked to the point you lost your words, on which the crowd reacted with anger. Old believers, who were supporting you fully, started shouting insults at traitors; traitors lost their temper and started a fight. The brawl ended after Ajax took his rifle and made a couple of warning shots.

Even in one home there was a conflict of interests. Mother, Ajax and you chose the point of old believers, while father and Aether were insisting on the opposite. Aether was determined to take you and younger siblings to the capital, and father agreed with him. Father scolded you in front of all the family for your attempt to admonish the villagers, it was the first time he screamed at you. Yet it didn't last for long: Ajax jumped out from behind your back and seized father by the collar. You tried to pull Ajax back, but mother stopped you.

“He deserved this,” she whispered to you, looking at the scene with cold eyes. Mother had no pity towards her husband, her heavy hand was laying on your shoulder to prevent even a smallest attempt from you to stop Ajax: he was about to fight father, and for the first time father fend for himself and punched Ajax in his nose.

Aether tried to help father and in a moment the conflict changed its focus from religious controversies to jealousy over you. Madness that covered the village, made you fall on your knees and start praying, as there was nothing else left for you to do.

Disputes were lasting for the whole morning, until mother asked Ajax to go check on grandmother with her. You begged mother to go with Ajax instead of her – you loved grandmother dearly and didn't see her for ages. Despite her age she was lively, yet the way from her cabin to the village was too hard for her to go, so your family brought her provisions every month and visited her from time to time. Mother denied you, and they left the house.

Ajax and mother were coming through the dunes of snow and fallen trees in silence, as Ajax was depressed and only sniffed viciously, wiping away his nose the blood that was still flowing. Grandmother wasn't happy to see them together – it meant that something was coming off of the plan. She gave Ajax a long hug and a few kisses on his forehead.

“What happened to the boy?” Grandmother spat on the floor disgustedly.

“Stuck into a fight for the love of his life,” mother answered with a sneer, then clicked her tongue in irritation. “They're gonna drive me crazy. Everything goes wrong. Did you talk to her as a werewolf? What did she tell you?”

Ajax frowned. “Nothing. She was silent.”

“I don't think there will be any trouble with our dove,” grandmother squinted her eyes. “But with this capital's bastard, yes. I told you not to marry the village's elder. I hope now you understand why.”

“It was the only way for me to save Ajax after his father's death! There were times of hunger and stagnation, and he, as an elder, had always had a piece of bread at his table. How was I supposed to care for Ajax, hunt and birth other children for our plan?!” Mother cried. “And then I had to make them… fuck each other in order to save the bloodline! Do you think it's easy?”

“Yes, it is.” Grandmother stated, ignoring her daughter's roar. “I was able to marry a werewolf from another clan, but my sister had to lay with our brother, and she lived a happier life than I did. Unfortunately, after those seven usurpers appeared, they killed them all.”

“But she is half human… is it really going to work out?” Ajax said, finding his voice.

“You are worrying too much,” grandmother laughed at Ajax's perplexed face. “Yes, it will work after the ritual, dear. Just do it without thinking.”

“How can you say this?” Ajax was on the verge of tears. “Why does it have to be this way?!”

“Because this is the rules of our world. The world we inherited from our God. Keep your head up, Ajax. Don't worry about me and don't pity me. I lived my life here.” Grandmother laughed with a dry old voice.

“No!..” Ajax's hands started shaking. “What if she refuses… How is she supposed to react to that?!”

“Then we will kill her and wait for Tonya to grow up.” Mother stared intently at Ajax. Shivers ran down his spine at only thought of losing you and going through the same events again, but with Tonya.

“You are being too pessimistic.” Grandmother gave up on her and trotted to the cabinet. She took a vial from it and passed it to Ajax. “Three drops into her drink twice a day and she will be fine. Don't thank me.”

You ran away from the home and hid in the church, praying without pause. Blindfolded by your pride you thought of yourself as a holier than holies, when in reality you craved a vile sin of incestuous passion and hubris.

Aether tried his best to save his sanity, but he was on the limit. He was on the point of losing everything: starting with marriage and ending with his life – danger made him play reckless. Your presence was the only escape from that horror. He took you home from the church: you tried to stay, but Aether just grabbed you by your hand roughly and drew you out on the street. Aether felt that you were vulnerable – the perfect world you used to live in was falling apart, so his treatment became rough. From day to day you were more depressed and taciturn, you didn't react to his attempts to seek your affection and gave him meaningless kisses and hugs, lacking life and passion. Your despair drowned Aether in negative emotions as well, made him take love from you violently. He felt so useless, so unwanted here, it brought him so much pain he had never felt in his entire life. You were unfairly cruel to him – you made him burn with love and jealousy to your brother, who was basked in your care and support. Sometimes Aether thought that you loved Ajax like a man, but he didn't want to believe in it – Aether was so much better than him: Aether had power, money and glory; the fairest women from the capital were fighting for his attention, but he chose you. You should be grateful to him, you should fall on your knees and kiss his hands to express proper gratitude for his choice. You were no one, nothing, a descendant of some freaky family who worshiped a false God, yet you got arrogance suitable for a royal heir. Aether could do nothing with you, so he started to hate you. You rejected him – he would do even worse to you. He sacrificed so much for you, while you did nothing to please him back. Aether was done with it.

Despite the fact that you didn't want to escape, you were trapped in the village. Ajax made sure that you wouldn't be able to leave. Mother took care of Aether's horses – all of them were dead, and other horses in the village ran away or died in the Blood Moon massacre, cutting off all the possible ways of leaving. Clashes of believers didn't bother Ajax, but he had to participate in the religious processions to convince non-believers to return to their roots.

The night of the third day started. Tortured by his mind, Aether woke up and got to the kitchen to have a glass of water. It was dead of night, while everyone was sleeping and only chanting of priests could be heard from the street. Aether looked at the impenetrable darkness of the forest through the window. His vision started tunneling and he heard whispers. Suddenly Aether shivered and rubbed his eyes, then he heeded – and heard Ajax's voice. On his tiptoes, Aether followed the voice and happened into the corridor that led to the storeroom. The door was slightly open, so he peeked through the gap. He saw Ajax holding your face in his barbarian palms tremulously, and kissing you hastily.

“I don't care anymore!” Ajax snuggled to you, pressing you to his body like a doll.

“You know I will always love you. Why do you have to bring it now? We should go back… Ajax, please!” You pleaded, but he interrupted you with a desperate and impulsive kiss.

Aether froze, stunned, broken and disgusted. He didn't think of breaking your intimacy – Aether mercifully let you enjoy the last time you had Ajax in your arms. He watched Ajax rudely showing his hands under your skirts and destroy your fake shyness. Something made Aether stay and watch how Ajax was ravaging his bride. He wasn't gentle at all: Ajax tore your blouse so his hands could touch your breasts; pinching at your nipples, Ajax silenced your moans with his kisses.

Ajax knew Aether was watching. He smelled him long before he showed up in the corridor, but Ajax didn't care – on the contrary, he liked it. It was a simple way to show dominance to another male. Foreplay didn't last for long: Ajax was dying to have you, abstinence was mixed with approaching mating season, so he turned you to the wall and pressed on your back, to make you bend. Ajax unzipped his pants and put his fully erected cock inside you slowly, holding you by your hips. After making sure that you were okay, he took a fast steady rhythm. Ajax put all his frustration and desire to breed pounding into you. He needed to finish quickly not to wake someone from the family up, but he just couldn't have enough – he wanted much more than a quick fuck, his mind was clouded with wild arousal. Your wet cunt and shaky breaths mixed with his fantasies about you being pregnant with his children drove him insane. You were as needy as him, but the timing couldn't let you enjoy the moment the way you wanted. Your pussy was spasming around Ajax only to make him cum faster. Soon he came, filling you with his seed and fucking it further inside you. Aether left, while Ajax was helping you to clean yourself.

On the third day the village was covered with fights. No one could stay aside: fanatics involved kids even, so mother was hiding inside the house with Teucer and Tonya, while father and priests tried to calm everyone down. You looked at the crowd, embraced with fury, and doubted your decision of self-sacrifice. It would be better to destroy them, then build a new society from the ashes. Still, you said goodbye to Teucer and Tonya, gave a kiss to your mother, put on your red cloak and left the house, when the first star appeared in the sky. Ajax was absent for the whole day – you didn't want to go without talking to him, but you couldn't wait anymore. Immersed in your grief, you didn't notice Aether, who was following you with a shotgun behind his back.

You came to the hollow. Every step you made felt impossible and heavy, your heart couldn't keep a steady rhythm. When you were far away from the village, Aether took aim and made a shot. You screamed louder than he expected you to, and disturbed birds went up in the air with cawing. Aether grimaced – instead of killing you, he got you in leg. You fell on the snow, with your hand keeping pressure on the wound.

You looked back, and another shot followed, but it got into the tree, dangerously close to your head.

“Aether?..” You screamed in surprise. “Why?!”

“You know why.” Aether brought his gun up to his shoulder and pressed one the trigger, but nothing happened. He laughed maniacally and threw it aside. “You are a lucky one.”

“Werewolf will be here anytime! It'll kill us both!” Through pain and tears, you tried to come up with everything to save your life. Aether smiled widely and approached you.

“Archons, have mercy on her,” His voice thundered in between the trees. You tried to crawl away, but he stepped on your leg, piercing it to the ground, then kicked you in the chest, turning you over on your back. It seemed like Aether reveled in your scream, full of painful agony. “Do you know what they do in the Capital for incest? Execute.”

Aether sat on your hips, and grabbed your neck compressing it so hard your bones cracked. “Your father promised me a perfect woman, a dream of every man, and you seemed like one. Until I saw you and that bastard together.”

You tried to fight back, but it didn't help. Your vision got black and you felt that the pressure on your neck was unbearable. Just a little more and it would snap. His delirious rantings stuck in your head as a dull, repetitive echo.

A guttural roar sounded almost in your ear. Suddenly all the pressure was gone, your vision came back in unusually vivid colors. You closed your eyes, but unbearable pain and shortage of air made you open them. You breathed in avidly, gasping for cold air with your mouth and your chest felt like burning. You looked at the wound on your leg, it seemed like a bullet went through your body, making it even worse. An ugly torn mess of flesh and blood made you nauseous. Aether's scream made you search for him with your eyes, and you noticed his legs twitching under the werewolf’s body. Blood was gushing everywhere. Werewolf let go of the remains after his scream stopped and rushed to you. You looked at what was left and gasped: one of Aether's hands was missing, his lower jaw was torn off and all his body was covered in bites and lacerated wounds.

“Get on top of me,” it spoke to you and laid to aid you. You sat on the werewolf without wasting words, and it ran into the depths of the forest.

Soon you realized that you stopped at grandmother's cabin. You dismounted in disbelief and came closer to the door, then glanced back. Instead of a werewolf, you had seen Ajax in front of you. Puzzle in your head had formed into a whole picture, still you were taken aback. You would better believe that all of it was a delusion, a floating vision or just a fantasy.

“Why didn't you tell me?” You asked, but Ajax took your hand and walked you into the cabin.

“You chose the wrong time to ask. Sit.” Ajax was nervous, twitching. He put you on the chair and placed a bowl with something that seemed to be soup. “Eat this. Now.”

He sat in front of you and watched your every move with wide, insane eyes. You looked at the dish with suspicion and took a spoon unwillingly. It was too red, with pieces of lightly fried meat and boiled potato. You took a piece of the meat with a soup and some potato, and placed it into your mouth. The broth was impossible to eat, as it was too bitter and salty, and had a jellied structure. The meat was horribly tough and wiry. You felt vomit coming up to your mouth and wanted to spit that meat out, but Ajax ordered you to swallow in such a rough tone you shrugged and swallowed it in fear. You covered your mouth, trying not to puke, but you felt uneasy in your stomach and your throat started to spasm.

“Don't you dare do this!” Ajax jumped up from his seat and ran to you, pressing your hands to your mouth with his. “Don't waste it!”

His voice broke from deep to pitching, it was full of despair and resembled a lament.

“Why?! What is happening here?!” You drew his hands away, screaming, tears running down your face. “Where is grandma?!”

Ajax just gave you a blank stare, your face fell. You looked at him in disbelief, then another wave of hysteria covered you.

“Where is she?..” You went white at realization. The room fell silent for a moment then you cried out.

Ajax was confused. Grandmother promised that one bite would be enough, but he wanted to make sure and force you to eat more. All that was left of her was a bowl of soup, and you looked at it with dead eyes, as you tried to deny the truth. Ajax got you a glass of water with three drops of the potion. You drank it in one gulp and stared at the soup again.

“How could you do this?” You asked without looking at Ajax.

“Grandmother ordered me to do so. I had no other choice.” Ajax sat near you and took a spoon, then filled it with the soup. “Please, open your mouth. You need to finish this.”

Ajax couldn't look at you crying and being so broken. In one day you aged up on years from all the events that happened to you. Your wound wasn't treated yet and still caused you pain, but it couldn't compare with your storming emotions and grief. It was an inhuman and gruesome act of violence. You didn't even say goodbye to grandmother before she died in such a horrible way.

Slowly you started feeling tranquil. Your head clouded and all the senses dazed. Ajax managed to feed you the whole bowl. You watched him without interest and just sat in your place, before you fell asleep.

You woke up from a horrible dream, but found yourself in grandmother's bedroom. Your leg hurt, remembering you, that everything you saw in a dream was real. You just laid on the bed, looking at the ceiling and trying to accept what had happened. It wasn't easy at all and you didn't even want to leave the bed to search for Ajax. Was it planned by God? Was it your initial role you were created for? You got too many questions, but had no answers.

The whole week passed before you were ready to meet Ajax. You noticed that your sense of smell was keener and your hearing improved. You could hear Ajax walking in the house and detect in which part of it he was exactly. Bedroom was the back room of the house, so normally you wouldn't be able to smell freshly prepared food, and now you could smell it as if you were staying near the stove. To your surprise, your wound healed in a couple of days and left only a hardly visible scar.

Ajax gave you time for yourself and didn't bother you this week. Being alone did him good: he too let go of his worries and became mentally stronger. He wanted to explain everything to you and hoped you were ready to hear him. The story wasn't long: Ajax told you that mother and him were the direct descendants of the werewolf family that founded the village. Unfortunately, his father died and mother had to remarry to a human, hiding her true identity even from her children, as all the other werewolves were killed by Archons and their followers. To continue the bloodline, living heirs, you and him, had to inbreed, but your half-human origin was the sticking point: to awaken the werewolf genes and pass them to your kids you had to devour someone from your family, and grandmother volunteered. Yet you couldn't transform and had a limited number of abilities from being a werewolf.

You accepted the truth calmly, and your reaction frightened you. You didn't know was it normal or not. At least it made sense. You didn't want to think about it anymore and wanted to adapt to a new lifestyle quickly.

Ajax and you lived solitary, no one visited you, and you didn't come close to the village as well, leaving old life behind. It was hard to you to get used to Ajax's werewolf form, so Ajax tried to spend more time with you as a beast.

Ajax licked your face, and you giggled from the tingling. His tongue was nicely warm, yet covered in sticky saliva. It didn't scare you when he was this playful. When you were in the mood to have fun, you licked his nose back and hugged him, nuzzling into his soft fur. It wasn't rare for you to fall asleep on him, as his body was soothingly warm.

Intimacy became unusual due to Ajax's new size. Stroking his body, like you usually did, you were slowly letting your hand down to his cock. Kissing was strange: Ajax licked your lips and showed his long tongue inside, caressing the insides of your mouth with it. Your hand was stroking his cock gently, circling against the tip lightly and putting force at the shaft. Ajax was already leaking, so you broke the kiss and bent to his awaiting cock. Starting with licking the tip, you spitted on it, easing the slide, and took it inside your mouth. It was bigger, making it harder for you to suck him, but you tried to stroke other parts with your hands and rubbed on the knot to save the pleasure. Ajax felt his knot swelling, so he didn't let you to continue. His animalistic impulses told him to fuck you and he had no power to resist them. Ajax made you lay on your back, his tongue licked your pussy, prepping you for penetration. It swirled over your clit, sliding down to your hole, rubbing with pleasurable roughness. As a werewolf, Ajax scented your pheromones and your special smell, that busted his arousal. He noticed you biting your lower lip in anticipation and he didn't wait anymore. Ajax thrusted inside, your long moan made him catch a faster and rougher pace immediately. His beastly cock made you feel your insides stretching to accommodate the size. You were full of him and there was no escape from the pleasure, as your mind went blank, making you focus only on the sensation of being pulled on his cock. Ajax licked your face, and it ignited you, your moans became louder. You felt breathless in ecstatic bliss, every skim of the big tip of his cock through your folds made you move your hips for more. Your fingers reached down to your clit and you started rubbing it, as you felt that you were about to cum. Ajax made a powerful thrust and filled you fully with his knot just before he finished inside, groaning. Your pussy sucked him in fully, clenching and trembling around his cock. At the sensation of his hot thick cum stretching your womb you came next, your orgasm spurting around him. You were exhausted and breathed heavily, yet again you felt Ajax loading new portion of cum inside. He came several times, until your lower tummy bulged, only after that knotting ended.

During mating season Ajax didn't let you escape the bed. He didn't have enough of you both in human and werewolf forms, it was up to you to decide how you wanted to accept him. You were so full of his seed the bulge on your lower tummy didn't disappear for days and cum was leaking out of you whenever you didn't expect it to. Ajax made sure to give your pussy a relaxing massage, rubbing gently your insides and your clit at the same time. Curling his fingers he pressed knuckles against the most sensitive parts inside you, instantly felt your folds covering them. Ajax sucked on your nipples, licking them slowly, while his fingers penetrated your sopping hole. As a human Ajax was way more gentle: he gave you sensual kisses, lazily playing with your tongue, stroked the smooth skin of your belly, imagining it to be swollen with his pups. Ajax was the happiest man on Teyvat, as he had you by his side. The bond you shared with him was sacred, Ajax would kill anyone to protect you, the center of his world. Your embrace made him feel alive, he didn't need anything more, but to press his face at the crook of your neck and just inhale your sweet scent.

Ajax's dreams were destined to come true. Every time he was back home, his children ran to hug him, and you, pregnant with another kid, hurried to give him a kiss.

#genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin x reader #childe x fem!reader #childe x reader smut #childe x you #childe smut #genshin fic #yandere childe #childe fic

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princessanonymous · 1 month

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I love your platonic yandere vampire story!! One of the best that I have ever read ❤

So I'm just wondering what time period did the reader turn? If not modernt times, how would they react with the modern world (like in the 2000's)? Would the keep up with new technology, would they just not care, or would they be against it? And if they care, what would be their favorite thing about the modern world?

Once again, amazing work and i enjoy all of your stories <3

𝓝𝓮𝔀 𝓦𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 (Ask)

When Night Comes asks Platonic Yandere Vampire Story Chapter list

Hi, thx for the ask and sorry if it took some time! Btw, (Y/n) was turned during the Victorian Era. :)

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

"You want what?" Her father's disbelief dripped slowly from his lips, his brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to comprehend his daughter's request.

Undeterred by his reaction, the girl nodded excitedly, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as she pointed at her phone, a strange and amusing contraption she had only received a year ago after years of pestering her parents.

"A tablet and a digital pencil," she explained, her voice filled with excitement as she gestured towards the screen of her phone.

"Is that another of those things you saw on that clock application of yours?" He guessed with a roll of his eyes. She huffed in response, feeling insulted by his dismissive attitude.

"TikTok," she corrected him, her voice laced with exasperation. "And I don't see why that would matter."

He raised an eyebrow and answered, "Oh it does not."

She calmed down slightly at his words, relieved, but then she watched as his eyes landed once again on the book he was reading before she entered the living room. She awaited his decision with bated breath until she grew impatient. With each passing minute of silence punctuated only by the sound of pages turning, her anticipation grew.

"Well?" she finally interjected, unable to contain her impatience any longer.

He lifted his head once again, feigning innocence. "Well, what?"

Her glare intensified, and she snapped, "What do you say? Can I have it?"

His eyebrows rose, then he laughed; "Oh, of course not.”

"Why?" she demanded, her voice sharp with indignation, visibly bristled by his categorical answer. The dismissal of her desires stung.

"Why would you want such a thing?" He asked a question of his own, his tone laced with condescension, while pointedly ignoring hers. "I taught you how to draw and paint," he continued, his emphasis on the word 'taught' dripping with arrogance. "These silly things are nothing compared to good, traditional academic art," he declared.

His words carried the weight of superiority, as if her aspirations were frivolous and unworthy of consideration and she clenched her fists at that.

She now understood his reticence to it; her father prided himself as a connoisseur in fine arts. It was true that he had an appreciation for the arts, but only when they adhered to the strict confines of academic, structured, and figurative compositions. She still vividly remembered the first time he had encountered abstract art; the fury and disgust that flickered in his eyes had been unmistakable.

Her father's disdain for anything outside the realm of traditional art became painfully apparent when he abruptly ceased sponsoring any museum or gallery that dared to exhibit the works of artists like Wassily Kandinsky and those who followed in his footsteps. The ripple effect was significant; it sent shockwaves through the art community and made headlines across the globe. For generations, his ancestors, from Dorian I to Dorian IV — who were, in fact, all him — had been the most influential patrons of the finest museums, but his sudden withdrawal of support was unprecedented.

The abrupt departure from his ‘familial legacy’ left many puzzled and others outraged, but her father remained resolute in his disdain for what he deemed as 'frivolous experimentation' in the art world.

(Y/n), on the other hand, did not hate abstract art; she just didn’t really understand the meaning of it most of the time. It mostly looked like a mess of forms to her. She didn’t even particularly want to depict abstract things; she just wished to do art using a new medium, but she couldn't help but feel the weight of his disapproval pressing down upon her.

"It doesn’t have to be abstract. Digital art can be as good as anything we have in this house," she insisted, her voice laced with determination. But at his dubious look, she sputtered, the words tumbling out in a rush, "And I'll prove it to you!”

He chuckled dismissively, waving a hand in her direction before turning back to his book once again. “Of course, you shall do that," he agreed, his tone dripping with condescension, a clear dismissal of her ambitions.

She felt a surge of frustration bubble up within her, puffing her cheeks in defiance as she stormed off. She was not one to back down from a challenge, especially not when it came to proving her father wrong.

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere vampire #yandere father #yandere #vampire #platonic #x reader #reader insert #child reader #yandere x reader #fanfic #stockholm syndrome #(y/n)#female reader

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hana-no-seiiki · 1 year

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This is 💗 anon, your anon is turned off. Please let me stay anonymous. Anywho, I, uh, need Jing Yuan to just use me any way he wants. He needs to spit in my mouth? My tongue is out waiting for it. He tells me jump, I ask how high. He wants to ruin me in front of his officers who aren't allowed to look at me? I'll do it

That or I power bottom Sampo. Make that submissive little shit worship me

ON A PLATTER

YANDERE! JING YUAN x AMAB! SOLDIER! READER

plus a little Sampo addition (not smut tho) to the end.

hope everyone that pulled for him succeeded!!

©️ art and story belongs to me, character goes to hoyoverse. please do not redistribute, repost, or share my art without credit or permission.

warnings: noncon. spoilers for the jarilo iv storyline. anal seggs.

status: unedited

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. I BEG OF YOU.

Many exalted the drowsy general’s prowess and leadership across the Xianzhou Alliance. Under his rule, the Luofu Flagship developed into a powerhouse that petrified those who heard its name. An infamous red line that warned against those that sought immortality. A blade that stuck right next your jugular in case you dare so moved in a direction they do not want you to.

This general was hundreds of years your junior but had already accomplished far more than you have. That fact was the second biggest slap to the face.

The actual, most damaging slap was his patronizing attitude towards you.

How were you supposed to rise above your station and prove your worth as a knight when he assigned you as his measly bodyguard? It wasn’t as if it was a quiet career really, the man faced dozens of attempts at his life on a daily. It was moreso the fact that he never let you do your job in the first place.

You spent decades just standing around while he swung his massive sword at intruders before you could even blink. Somehow, the lousy man moved faster when defending you rather than with his own duties. It was as if he was the body guard not you.

Not to mention the perverse stares. You weren’t dense. You could feel his bedroom eyes from miles away, taking off the heavy armor you wore to work and leaving you bare. You felt like a lamb, or a tender piece of steak on a platter — and he, the most insatiable man alive.

Hundreds of years training — wasted, spent on being a trophy for him.

If remaining close to the master that misused you for several decades was bad enough, having to interact with him was like hell on earth. He was a vice, a poison molded into the shape of a man. One that could kill you in a instant, but looked oh so tempting. Only the heavens knew how you were resisted his charms for so long.

“Yes, my general? How may I be of assistance?” Your voice and words held a cordial, cold tone to it. If your employer could not bring a semblance of professionalism into the table, then you would tenfold. If he always closed in the distance between you two, you in turn would step further away in your relationship or whatever one might call this thing between the two of you was.

Despite your frigid temperament, Jing Yuan does not flinch nor back down. His eyes trained on a star-chess piece as he twirled it around. “I think it is about time we quell any sort of . . . resentment you have towards me is all.”

You had to give it to him. Jing Yuan was one of the most attractive people you’ve ever bared witness to. At nights like these where his mane of a hair was let down, giving him a relaxed and playful look, it was hard not to stare. “Pardon, my general?”

“You have no need to give me false face, [Y/N]. I know of your doubts and qualms. You see me unfit to continue being General. That I am incompetent, lazy. That I do not let you do a job you feel you are overqualified to even be in.” He listed off before carefully placing the star-chess piece down. His eyes then abruptly flicked to you, creating eye-contact and in turn, chills.

You are rendered speechless. How had he known? You had been so terribly careful. Never spouting about what you thought. Never even writing down such things. You knew better than to show your treacherous feelings outside of the seat of divine foresight, much less within.

So how, how did this wretched man know?

The General smirked as your hands tightened around your spear. “Why so shy all of a sudden, little warrior? Do not worry. I have a feeling you’ll quite enjoy what I have in store for you.”

“Come here.” He patted his lap.

And you quickly realized what was happening here.

Your whole career was a waiting game really. Each day you could only pray that the General had enough self-control not to take you. It seemed that today was the day all restraints were taken off.

Now, you could only pray for things to be swiftly over, or heavens forbid for him to not enjoy it so that it won’t happen again in the future.

Jing Yuan had long planned for this moment. What order he’d take off each piece of armor, how he’d do it, and every step following that. He was more meticulous in the way he’d have his time with you than anything else in his life.

Never did he put this much effort into anything. Not his studies nor training. He had to give it to you. You were right. He didn’t fully devote himself into playing General. How could he when he was already fully devoting himself to you?

“Perhaps little warrior was a wrong title for me to give you. With how drenched these are, wouldn’t little whore be better, hm?” Your skin, no matter what imperfections it may have, looked immaculate to his eyes. It was something Jing Yuan daydreamed about for hours on end and you did not disappoint. He should have done this sooner, he thought. Too bad it had to take a certain trigger for all his control to diminish.

His wasted no time when grabbing your cock. It was semi soft, though you didn’t want him this way your hormones said otherwise. He doesn’t falter for one second even after knowing so, predicting that its state would change once he began stimulating it. “My General, please — ngh — cease this at one.”

You legs kept moving around, either in pleasure or in a last ditch attempt at resisting, you didn’t know. Your body was moving on sheer instinct. Flight or fight mixing with euphoria. Fear and relief clashing against one another. It had been months since you last touched yourself. As a being close to a thousand years of age, your libido had long fizzled out. Or so you thought.

“You really are in need of a wake up call.”

Jing Yuan remained silent for the couple of minutes it took you to finally ejaculate. As the thick white liquid left your member, so did the remaining will to resist.

“I am your ruler.”

Jing Yuan suddenly stood up, causing you to fall forward unto his desk. Your chrysanthemum presented itself for him.

“My word is law.”

His left hands slid from your lower back to your shoulder as his right aligned his cock. You dare not look back to witness his size.

You hear the sound of a bottle being opened and of squelching while Jing Yuan covered himself in lubricant. He almost spends an entire minute just touching himself to your naked back. A sight he thought would only remain a mirage, a phantasm he will never see come to light.

“My desire will be met.”

But alas, you are here. Though he could easily reach climax just masturbating to this magnificent view, a taste was what this entire endeavor’s reason for occurring.

“And long have I waited for this moment to have you in my hands, Senior.”

He enters. Not gentle in the slightest. And to both your surprise he cums right there, not even lasting a second within you. Regardless of the surprise and sudden intrusion, you do not miss the way he addressed you.

A flood of memories fills your mind. “Xiao Yuan . . ?”

You do not get to think too much about it however, as Jing Yuan quickly regained his erection and began fucking your hole. Groaning loudly at your tightness which came as a result of your surprise. He picks you up by your arms and pressed your back to his chest.

“You finally remembered me, have you? But alas, catching up will have to wait. We have an audience waiting for the real show to begin.” He tilted his head away and looked beyond your form.

The guards — those who thought were your friends — that were stationed there weren’t dismissed. They were watching the whole time you were being jerked off and reached climax. Their eyes were glued to how Jing Yuan’s cock would disappear into your little hole, ears peeled to the lewd sounds of squelching, slapping and mewling, you bet that behind those helmets they were drooling over your misery.

But you didn’t feel an inch of anger at them at all, only at the man that forced you into this wicked situation in the first place.

“You lunatic—“ You yelled, but you do not move away, thrash or form any attempts at escape.

“Lunatic? No no, just authoritarian. A leader needs to assert himself in the face of . . . those who daringly gaze at my belonging. All while they’re stripped bare for me to partake in. If anything those lowly soldiers are the perverts are they not?” He paused from his thrusts, and you are ashamed to know that you made a small whine of disappointment at his lack of movement. He chuckled at your response before his face turned cold.

Golden eyes dripped in apathy as he commanded to everyone else in the room. “Helmets off.”

“Yes, general!” They all nodded in unison. No hesitation whatsoever.

“Look straight into their eyes, little warrior.” But who were you to judge when all you do to his commands were to follow blindly as well? You faced your comrades, you’re almost thankful for your arousal clouding your brain and stopping it from feeling too much shame and disgust. They stare right back. Eyes burning with lust and excitement.

Once he is assured of your eye-contact, Jing Yuan began pounding your ass again, this time he was somehow much more harsh than he was at the beginning. “Ngh — !”

“See all of them? These people would kill to be in my place right now. They’d beg for just a drop of your essence. And here you are, taking my cock like the good little warrior you are. Milking me for all I’m worth. Aren’t you greedy for me? Hahaha!” It doesn’t take Jing Yuan long to get jealous. Just several seconds later he shoves you forward and back unto his desk, forcing you to face somewhere else and your attention back to only the way his cock rearranged your insides and hiding the way your hole took him. His hand running itself through your hair, tugging once or twice every minute.

He leaned forward, thus allowing his voice to reach your ears and your ears alone, and his member to reach even further inside you. “Want more of my cum, [Y/N]? Tell me. Order me.”

“Give me - ah - more of your cum, you - ah - bastard!” You screamed, grabbing ahold of one of his scrolls and unintentionally breaking via the strength of your grip.

Your wish is his command.

Jing Yuan doesn’t slow down or stop as his cum filled you up. He wanted to make sure every corner of your hole was covered with him, that every spurt of his seed would decorate your rectum and make it its home.

“Satisfied with your general now, soldier?” He asked, his hips now slowly stuttered to a stop.

You do not reply, only panting in exhaustion. He does not part with you for a moment when he gave his command.

“Qingzu. Send this recording to Tingyun, then execute the rest.”

Your shock and terror overshadowed the doom of all your friends.

“Yes, my General.”

You only realized the weight of it all when he turned you around for an embrace. His genital already ‘recovering’ and almost ready for another round.

“How would you like their eyes served to you, hm? In preserve jars . . .

Or on a platter?”

Inside the void of space. Of the stars, the planets. The cradle of creation and dreams. You hear the sly voice of a man you once knew.

“What a pervert you are, reading a smutty story of that General from Xianzhou.”

What was his name again? Sam . . . Samuel . . . ?

“Sooo ~ did you enjoy it? Did you have fun?”

Sampo. Sampo Koski.

“ . . . What ?”

Yes, Sampo, your fellow actor. How could you forget? The support to your lead. The guy who always had your back.

“Oh my, you seem a little disoriented.“

In the cold embrace of the void, Sampo’s hands almost felt hot when he placed it upon your cheeks.

“Not to worry, dear friend! I’ll fix you right back up again. Can’t have our main actor ill-prepared for their next show, do we?”

And the curtain opens, revealing a sea of white.

[ TRANSLATION ]

chrysanthemum - lit. it’s a pretty flower ya’ll. slang wise it means anus.

xiao - lit. little. it’s a chinese diminutive, basically added to the name to make it sound cute. like little yun or little [y/n].

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

#yandere #yandere jing yuan #yandere hsr #yandere smut #yandere honkai star rail #yandere x reader #yandere x reader smut #yandere jing yuan smut #jing yuan smut #jingyuan #yandere jingyuan #yandere star rail #star rail #jing yuan x reader #jingyuan x reader #yandere x you #sampo #sampo x reader #yandere sampo x reader

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cartmankisser · 1 year

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I GOT YOU FAM!

I'd love a Wally fluff alphabet, please! 🥰

omg ur amazing for linking it. creds for the prompts are linked in pink text of the request!! :)

if you haven’t seen, i ran a poll on my account for what type of personality wally should have and the option that won was, and i quote, “normal wally but… just a little messed up and obsessive.”

so i guess this is like?? mildly yandere wally? haha i’m not sure.. he slowly gets slightly more deranged as this goes on,,

using the small font because these always turn out really long 😭

Activities - “What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?”

— wally isn’t too picky when it comes to hanging out. he’d honestly be content just sitting in silence with you!

in such a small neighborhood, everything is just a few minutes away! it’s not uncommon for you two to take walks around the neighborhood, maybe stopping at howdys shop for snacks before spending the afternoon sitting in a flower-filled field with books and arts and crafts material.

maybe you two could teach each other little crafts you’ve learned over the years!! friendship bracelets, origami, crochet, whatever!!

Beauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

— you’re just such a great friend to him! so caring and kind to him… he always feels calm whenever you’re around, just because of how loving you are!!

most of his uncertainties or insecurities just vanishes whenever he’s with you.. no one else ever could ever make him feel so special! it’s amazing!!!!

Comfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc?

— wally has a hard time picking up on your feelings if you don’t straight up tell him that you’re upset. however, if you’re ever crying or upset, he’d try his best to comfort you!

his go-to comfort methods are usually things that make him happy or calm him down. something like singing a song that barnaby has sung to him before or drawing happy memories to distract you from whatever is making you upset!

he tends to explain to you that he would never make you feel as bad as you do right now. he’s the only one here to comfort you! no one else cares that you’re upset, but he does!! because he loves you!!! :)

Dreams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

— wally dreams of a calm, domestic future with you! he loves his neighborhood and home very dearly, and i don’t see him wanting to move anytime soon (he has no reason to!), but he really can’t wait for you to permanently move in with him! sure, he keeps you at his house for as long as you’re willing to stay, but you still leave him at the end of the day!!!!

home is one of his friends too, and he would never abandon a friend! so hopefully you can get used to living inside of a sentient house.. (no matter how much home scares you)

other than that though, i don’t see him wanting to change too much? you two are already so happy together, so why would anything need to change? all you really need is eachother anyways!!!!

Equal - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

— i think that he thinks you two are equal. i mean, he tries to listen to you, but sometimes you just need his help!!! he believes that a relationship should be built on respect and understanding! dont you respect him? :(

you really should just trust him and know that what he does for you is for the best. he’s not trying to scare or control you or anything!! he’s just trying to keep you safe and happy with him!!! that’s all!!!! :)))

Fight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

— while he might be quick to forgive you, he doesn't easily forget the actions that led to the conflict. he prefers to work through disagreements for a compromise, that way you both can continue to be happy together!! albeit, he tends to be a bit patronizing and condescending when you two disagree on something,,,

he doesn’t get mad at you very often though. i can see him being awfully patient with you when it comes to misunderstandings and such. he knows you don’t mean to be rude about it!! you just need him to explain to you why he’s right!!!

Gratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

— he’s very grateful for you!! he enjoys the admiration, love, and support you show him, and he makes sure to show his appreciation and love back through small gestures, like surprising you with treats or leaving little notes around your house when he visits! that way, you’re always thinking about how much he loves and appreciates you!

Honesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

— wally values honesty in the relationship and doesn’t feel the need to keep secrets from you unless they would hurt you. and he knows you wouldn’t dare keep anything from him. not if you truly loved him, that is..

he doesn’t really understand secrets that much anyways.. everyone in the neighborhood is such good friends, why would they need to hide anything? (aka, wally unintentionally talks shit and causes drama /hj)

Inspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

— you’ve definitely inspired him to try out new mediums and techniques in his art. i mean, he usually just paints and draws things he likes! and there’s nothing wrong with that, but recently he’s been trying new things!

with you around to help, he’s rarely hit any creative blocks. you’ve shown him how to connect his emotions to his paintings. and now he knows even more ways to make art that is more than just color on paper!!! truly amazing :)!!

Jealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

— wally is quite possessive and can get jealous easily. he deals with it by keeping a close eye on you, and if he perceives any threat to his relationship, he will go to great lengths to eliminate that threat.

he would never destroy something that means a lot to you, but of course, he has to make sure he means the most to you!!! after everything he does for you, how could you not love him more than anything else!?! :)

Kiss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

— i love him a lot okay? but he is definitely not a good kisser. he’s never loved anyone like he’s loved you, so he’s just… inexperienced?

i feel like the first kiss would be awkward and tense, as he was nervous and unsure of how you would react to his feelings, but it was still very passionate and meaningful! sometimes you just take his breath away and leave him speechless, but actions speak more than words, right? @:))))

Love Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

— he would confess his love in a very straightforward and direct manner. he would likely sit you down and tell you about how he couldn't imagine his life without you, and that hes willing to do anything to make you happy!!!

he was confident and direct with his confession because he was sure that he had you wrapped around his finger. before he confessed to you, he made sure to be open enough that you’d enjoy talking to him, but mysterious enough that you’d surely be thinking about him all day, wanting to hear more from him.

Marriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

— he does want to get married, and he would propose in a grand, romantic way!! he would likely plan an elaborate surprise, such as a candlelit dinner or a sweet picnic in a meadow, and then get down on one knee to ask you to marry him!! he would make sure the moment was so special that there was no chance that you could reject him!

the marriage itself would be pretty traditional, with wally insisting on taking care of all the arrangements and ensuring that everything was perfect for you.

Nicknames - What do they call their s/o?

— i feel like he would call you things such as "my love" or "my darling," and he would use petnames often to remind you how much he adores you!

he has a habit of calling you a handful of different petnames, but always adding “my“ to the beginning of it. you’re his sweetheart!!!! his love!!!!! no one else’s!!!!!!

On Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

— when wally falls in love, he becomes completely devoted to you. his feelings are somewhat obvious to others, as he can become a bit possessive and jealous when others try to get too close to you, even though he tries to hide those feelings in front of others.

he expresses his love through attention and gifts, showering his significant other with affection and making sure they know how much they truly mean to him!!!!

PDA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

— he’s pretty upfront about his relationship and is not afraid to show affection in public. he enjoys making others aware of you two and he takes pride in displaying his love for you!!!!

he’s not the type to like??? shove his tongue down your throat in public 😭 but i mean small things like holding your hand and keeping you close to him when you two are out together!!

Quirk - Some random ability they have that's beneficial in a relationship.

— wally has a photographic memory, which makes him incredibly attentive to your wants and desires. he never forgets important dates or details, and always makes sure to surprise you with things that make you happy!!

he knows what size clothes you wear and what scent perfume you use. he always picks up your favorite snacks before you come over and he makes sure to use your favorite colors a lot when he makes paintings for you!!!

Romance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

— i feel like he’d be pretty romantic!! and he loves to make grand gestures to make you feel special!! i like to think he’s somewhat creative in his approach and he enjoys surprising you with things you never expected.

he will go to great lengths to make you happy, even if it means doing something cliché like writing love letters or preparing a candlelit dinner. however, his possessiveness can sometimes lead to darker and more dangerous displays of love, such as stalking or isolating you from others.

Support - Are they helping their s/o achieve their? Do they believe in them?

— wally sees himself as your personal cheerleader and will do anything to help you achieve your dreams. however, his version of support can be a little intense as sometimes he tends to control your choices to ensure your success. he believes in you so much that he'll go to extreme measures to make sure you reach your full potential.

i feel like he would also be sure to tell you that you two achieved the victory together and that you wouldn’t have gotten to where you are without him!! he doesn’t mean it in a rude way!!!!! he just wants you to thank him sometimes!!!!!

Thrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

— i think that he wouldn’t mind trying out new things with you sometimes, but only if it's on his terms! he has a certain routine that he likes to follow, and deviation from it can trigger his possessive behavior a bit...

he's very particular about what he considers "spicing things up" and can tend to be a bit controlling when it comes to decision-making. he just wants to make sure you stay nice and safe!!! he makes sure to take good care of his belongings! :)

Understanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

— he believes that he knows you better than anyone else, and as such, he can be highly empathetic when it suits him... however, he's also prone to getting lost in his own delusions and can struggle to see things from your perspective when he feels threatened.

mostly though, he tends to be more sympathetic and pitiful instead of empathetic whenever you’re upset.

Value - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

— the relationship is everything to him!!! and he's not afraid to make that known! he has a bad habit of seeing you as his property and will stop at nothing to keep you by his side. in his eyes, the relationship is worth more than anything else in his life, and he'll do whatever it takes to protect it!!! you truly mean everything him, and he’s not afraid to give everything else up for you!!!! :)

Wild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

— wally loves to pamper you with expensive gifts and lavish attention. he believes that he deserves your love and affection in return for the gifts and he sees them as a way of showing you how much he cares!

XOXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

— he is extremely affectionate and loves to shower you with cuddles and affection. however, sometimes it tends to turn into a bit of possessive behavior if he feels like someone else is encroaching on your time together.

Yearning - How will they cope when they're missing their partner?

— whenever he’s missing you, i feel like he copes by somewhat obsessing over you... he'll stare over old photos and drawings, collecting small things you might’ve left at his house, overanalyzing them until he can almost feel your presence.

he also might engage in stalkerish behavior,,, staring at your house through his window.. maybe even walking to your place to peek through the windows if he thinks he can get away with it.

Zeal - Are they willing to go to great lenghts for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

— he’s willing to go to great lengths for the relationship, even if it might seem hurtful from your perspective... he tends to see himself as your companion and protector and will stop at nothing to keep you safe, even if it means resorting to things you might not like. his zeal can quickly turn dangerous if he feels that you’re in danger.

#wally darling x you #wally darling x reader #welcome home x reader #yandere wally darling #wally x you #wally darling x y/n #welcome home x you

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carnivorousyandeere · 7 months

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can we maybe get a full fic of Dorian and dominant asmrtist darling who's actually submissive

Dorian + Submissive ASMRtist Darling

( MDNI, No Age in Bio DNI )

CW: not super explicit but still vaguely smutty, recording without Darling’s knowledge, themes of voyeurism

Info: subby gn Darling

Dorian can’t stand it.

You and he both know what you do for a living. He’s your biggest supporter, after all. He thought having that acceptance from him, and financial security, would make you feel more comfortable.

And yet, you seem more nervous than ever in his presence. How is it that he has failed to end up on the domineering receiving end of that fire of yours? That wonderful voice of yours, and the expressions he’s always imagined go with it— everything from an encouraging soft dom smile, to a condescending sneer, to a cold expectant look.

Why is it that he can only catch those expressions through a peephole in the wall as you record? How long will it take for you to crack and take him? Is he not giving you enough money? Is he not performing the role of a needy submissive well enough for you? Is he not your type? Do you hate him?

Dorian’s usually not the boldest, but his patience has its limits. He interrupts one of your recordings, knocking on the door. You don’t answer, perhaps hoping he’ll walk away, but no such luck.

Dorian swings the door open gently. “Knock knock. What are you working on today?”

“Uhhh…” you look like a deer in headlights, eloquence gone and voice small. You turn off your recording. He tamps down his disappointment—part of him was hoping you’d get angry at his intrusion on your work. “Just… you know, an audio… found a new script, and… wanted… to give it a try?”

He can’t deny that your uncertainty is a bit cute. “What kind of script?”

You swallow and look away, embarrassed. “It’s… a little spicy. Um, a… dom speaker getting possessive at a party….”

“Oh?” Dorian steps closer, leaning against your desk and almost bumping into your mic. He notices your eyes widen with panic, fingers stretching out with the need to protect the equipment, but stopping just short of making contact with his arm. He sighs. You wither a little at the sound.

“You know…” he muses, turning to face you more fully, “I am a little surprised. You seem so much different in person than in your recordings… I know you’re an actor, but your performances are just so damn convincing.”

You laugh nervously. “Thank you for saying so… I really try my best. It’s… not always easy to act in a way that doesn’t feel natural.”

“Not natural?” His fingers pause where they’d been running over the smooth surface of your desk. “How so?”

“W-well…” now you’re truly flustered. Excitement wells in Dorian’s gut. It might not be what he expected, but damn if the real you isn’t all the better. He reaches over and cages you in against the desk. You swallow harshly as Dorian reaches up and traces your throat reverently, smoothing his fingers over your voice box and sliding them over to feel your hummingbird pulse. “Tell me. Use that lovely voice of yours.”

You let out a choked noise, clearing your throat and blinking out the foggy look in your eyes. “…I’m… actually… uh, not a… very dominant person…”

Dorian hums thoughtfully. “Why bother with acting the part of a dominant, then? You sound so lovely right now, so flustered and shy…”

You squirm. “I-it’s just what my listeners prefer…”

“Listeners?” Dorian’s eyes darken. They look, for all the world, like roiling storm clouds. A shiver runs down your back, the same shiver you get before rain comes.

“The only listener,” he leans in and nips harshly at your neck just over his hand, “you should be worried about… is me.”

You whimper, trembling in his grasp. Dorian bites you again, harder, just to feel you jerk in his hold and hear that pretty gasp of yours. Maybe it is better that he’ll be the only one to get to hear you like this. The thought of other people listening to you makes his skin crawl. Dorian kisses you, swallowing your sounds down greedily as he touches you through your clothes, and then slides his hand past your underwear.

He’s going to take you apart piece by piece and hear every sound you have to offer, and when you’re all fucked out and stupid in the studio, he’s going to save the recording of your time together on a flash drive and delete it from his computer. Of course you didn’t notice him turn the microphone back on, did you?

He’ll have to add a camera to the room for good measure next time…

#mail 📬#oc Dorian #yandere patron of the arts #yandere dilf #my thoughts #yandere #yandere oc #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere x darling #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere cw #mdni #nsft #yandere smut

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corvusspecialartist · 2 months

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A Panopticon's Desire: Yandere! Konrad Curze x Artist Reader (Pt: 1)

An artist born. Fire and Blood.. a future changed. Konrad was idling by on his throne. Something was off…. his world… his worthless populace had been fixed though the power of fear. He had very little need of going out to cull the scum. However, it was odd… he saw a future where he was dragged and somehow beheaded. His planet ablaze, but in as soon it arrived it changed… they were chained… locked away to rot. A rare beautiful toy to play with. He shook the vision form his head. NO matter. This future would not come to pass… after all. His spies that were loyal had reported that many of the families… despite going underground… had pooled their resources and planned some form of tribute.

Maybe this was some ploy of their feeble superstitious mind. Trying to appease him, so that just maybe their families would be spared. This would be very much interesting.

You were being smuggled. It was of upmost matter that you were to kept secret. You were a well known artist in the system… with your work respected. However, this would be your greatest job yet! They were offering you, in your view, your weight in gold. All of the materials and lodging were provided. It was surprising for this opportunity to even come up in the first place…your kin had told you about the lawless state of the planet. Yet, when asked about the current state.. your patrons told you that someone else was in charge. But no matter…you made sure to bring proper supplements and glow in the dark paint, to allow the Nostroamon to actually see the art. You have heard that the planet had almost no light, and the people there could see in the dark. A captain came into your quarters running urgently.

"I need you to go and hide immediately… although we have gotten the proper paperwork for you… we needed it to be discreet." you nodded immediately and followed the captain into a small dark closet. Hopefully, your patrons would provide some low-vision goggles in order for you to allow you to see signs more easily. As you were squeezed, you heard the murmured voices. After it seemed like, almost forever. The captain came back. "We managed to get you past customs… I would get ready and brace." After he said that you started to move within the small space… It was quick, but soon an announcement came by on the ship ."We have safely landed on Nostramo." Immediately you got out.. watching as the various serfs go towards your room and gather your things.

You have heard the sordid reputation of the people of this world, and made sure that you brought on very little in terms of valuables. However, as your patrons led you out of the ship…as you took a step foot on this world. It seemed… different… It was quiet. You have heard the stories and the screams and the rampaging and varying explosions… that this planet was crime ridden hellhole. It was impossible… it almost felt as if you were in a dream. It seemed almost fake. You were shown into your quarters… and were left alone for a bit. You packed out the things… and started to sketch. Your nightmares seemed to take a current inspiration.

Sitting down, you started to draw a whirling mechanical tower. It was a grotesque thing that seemed to have one white eye.. It seemed to shine a beam on light… searching. Mouths seemed from the vents and were screaming. You were standing out in the open… as the searchlight swirled closer to you… Running though the warped halls, , as the mouths wailed and cried.. almost as if denied their prey. It seemed to run though closer… hands grabbing various people and consuming them…the mouths screeching and groaning. You had awaken at the time. Maybe this was an omen.

Maybe this was an omen. An alternate future… the canon.. the proper future,where this little thing would be under his thumb. His spies had told him about a recent visa, for a popular artist throughout the system. Personally, he was not a big fan of their art… He had ordered of the visa to be detained. He smiled to himself… when he caught them. This would be a grand cause of celebration… a rare public execution. However, he paused. No. He couldn't do that… drag them in and kill them over some trumped up charges… They were too popular and had backing amongst the nobility, those who had bent the knee to his rule. Honestly, he wished,he wasn't so just. He should have just killed them all. However, a gleaming idea came into his head.. he would pay them a little visit.

#primarch x reader #yandere primarch x reader #konrad curze #warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000

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marielschism · 1 year

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Please do talk about the Marquis, all plot bunnies, how an eventual relationship with him would turn out. Any thoughts are most anticipated! 👀

FR?????????????? okay!

so i'm currently working on patron of the arts, a marquis de gramont x artist!reader fic where he is an art patron/cultural sugar daddy who is horrendously down bad for you, an artist in their flop era. i'm making an hc post for it over at my writing sideblog [@marielserif] so if anyone's interested 👀 i'll post it some time next week!

pairing: marquis de gramont x reader note: i think i made him unbearably ooc. whatever warnings: some mature themes/content; unedited; not an entirely healthy relationship (vincent has issues!!!!!!)

general relationship hcs

side note: these hcs operate under the assumption that the reader is unaware of his work.

i am deeply fascinated by yandere stuff, so every time i think of marquis de gramont, i can't help but sprinkle a bit of obsessive yearning on his part (because i honestly think he's the type to do so! he chased john wick all over the world! that should be me!). he is ruthless, ambitious, and determined, and i think this, too, translates into how he deals with his relationships.

i think that he's the type to fall hard for someone, but is also the type to deny the feeling initially, trying to stamp it out of his brain as hard as he can, constantly pretending that he is unaffected by you. he does not need you. he wants you. he has lived through most of his life without your presence, surely he can live through more.

his dedication to denying his feelings leads him into a great number of sticky situations: perhaps he dismisses you a bit too much, and it puts a significant strain on your relationship. he might even end up with you hating him.

he is used to being feared. he is used to being hunted. but he will never get used to the feeling of your hatred, so that could easily force him to act on his feelings before he makes things worse. it is a wake up call for him: he does not want to lose you because of his own pride.

good for you!

when the marquis is in it, good god, he is in it.

i think that marquis de gramont is an incredibly selfish man. if he loves you, you become an extension of himself — and in turn, he will ensure your safety and your joy. you deserve it. you're his.

he's a patron of the arts — he'll get along with you better if you have some appreciation for art and culture. your conversations with him will be longer, too, and sometimes more heated. vincent is very opinionated, and he'll defend his opinions to the death. he'll take you to museums, renting out entire scenic cultural hotspots just for you (and him) to enjoy at your own pace. he is prone to over-explaining when he is excited, so expect that you'll be doing a lot of listening.

if he senses that you're actually listening to him and he's feeling particularly generous, he'll reward you. you know what that entails.

there are times where you're feeling tired, and you're just not in the mood to listen to him ramble about his least favorite painting in the musee d'orsay. he does not fault you for it, but you feel the mild disappointment radiating off him in waves. you'll have to...make it up to him somehow.

he'll appreciate it very much.

anyway, vincent will take you to the ballet, dress you in the finest of things, and take you to the swankiest of establishments. you deserve nothing but the best.

if you inform him that you are uncomfortable with being spoiled like this, he will try to tone it down a little. the code word here is try. he will go back to sending you swarovski-embellished fountain pens in two weeks.

despite this, he's not above accompanying you to places like gas stations or grocery stores. sure, he'll take at least three bodyguards with him to ensure your safety, but he'll be there for you. he's capable of being normal!

(forgot to mention that vincent de gramont is territorial and overprotective at times. what's the use of all of his power if he can't use it protect the one he loves?)

(his brand of protection can feel almost like a prison at times. you'll have to clearly communicate with him about what you want, and you have to be very firm with him if you don't want to feel like you're a bird in a gilded cage. you have to make sure that he knows you won't just take it.)

(you need a backbone to love him. that's the truth of it all.)

vincent is also touch-starved, though he denies this constantly.

he can be an incredibly greedy kisser. he kisses you like he's starving, and he'll hold you like you'll turn into dust if he lets go.

he can be gentle, too — easy does it, and he takes it as slow as you want. languid, lazy, like you have all of the time in the world.

he's also a horrific tease. he's a smug bastard. he'll do everything except kiss you — he'll bite your earlobe, let his lips travel to your pulse, and kiss the corners of your lips. when you whine, he'll pull away with that smirk of his, and leave you to your racing heart. you're flustered as hell, and he looks unaffected by it.

(it's a lot harder for him to keep his composure if you're the one teasing him.)

he reaches out for you in his sleep, even if he is alone. a tired vincent will always reach out for you, no matter what stage of sleep he's in. in his sleep, he'll end up wrapping himself around your entire body like a boa constrictor no matter your size. one time, he fell asleep on top of you, and you had to elbow him awake because he was suffocating you.

(he owns a weighted blanket for when you're not around.)

if you play with vincent's hair, he will complain about you messing up the handiwork of his treasured coiffeur, but he won't say a word. when you pull your hands off his hair, he'll actually whine, and place your hands back. you have to clear your schedule if you want to play with his hair; he will not let you out of his presence until he's dead asleep.

if you really want to see a very stressed vincent, you can deny him your touch for weeks on end. but why would you do that? 😊

he's prone to taking drastic actions to get what he wants. a desperate vincent de gramont is someone you do not want to meet; a desperate vincent de gramont gets results.

so god help those who will try to take you from him.

plot bunnies

i really need to finish this because i have a 7-page paper due in 42 hours

i desperately wanted to write a ballet dancer!reader x patron!marquis de gramont instead of an artist!reader but im going to be completely honest with you i have zero knowledge of the world of ballet and i would NOT be able to do the idea justice.

(your rival dancer goes missing because of your patron. you investigate. things do not go well.)

also another plot bunny: leverage!reader

the marquis keeps an eye on you as leverage over your father, who is under his employ. think caine and his daughter.

he threatens your safety to keep your father in line constantly — but he's grown fond of you, strangely. you have a harmless hobby. it is soothing to watch you work. he is not going to hurt you.

(vincent even has his men protect you from harm. their presence in the area deter would-be muggers. you do not know this.)

at one point, your father grows stubborn, and vincent has to take a very drastic measure to ensure his cooperation.

he kidnaps you. of course he does.

strange things happen.

assistant!reader! you are his faithful assistant, and you get hurt in the line of duty. oh noooo. what happens next??? :OOO

#marquis de gramont x reader #jw4 #marquis vincent de gramont #hello anon thank u for sending me this ask 😭 i desperately want to talk about him more #you unlocked something in me #anon #so little MVDG fics im gnna be sick. i had to add to it! i had to!#even if i am terrible at writing!#vincentposting

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zhongrin · 5 months

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𒆙 ღ

part 8/8 of ⎡∞ / 𝟔 𝟎 𝟎 𝟎 ⁺⎦, a zhongli 2023 birthday event

𖧷 tags ┈ selfship (zhongrin, small hint of zhongwrinth), 3rd person pov from zhongli's side, fluff, bittersweet (like almost all the other chapters are lol), slight soft yandere-ish, slight genshin's canon lore references

𖧷 a/n ┈ happy new year my dear patrons! starting off this year strong with some super indulgent selfship piece :> technically, it can be read as x fem!reader, but you'll find that it was not meant to be one. you'll find a lot of hidden selfship lores in this, and it's very very very self-indulgent and personal (which is why i don't have the usual x reader tags), so keep that in mind and be respectful, please 🙏🏻 you have been warned!

𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓊 ❬ masterlist ❭ 𐫱 𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅 ❬ taglist ❭

𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 was an intricacy he had been continuously studying over the course of more than six thousand years and counting now.

and still, with every year that passed, he realized there were many sides of love he had not discovered nor experienced himself. things like—

how the peals of someone’s laughter could be comparable to the most melodious bird’s singing, and in its contraposition, how the saddened frown from a beloved person when he forgot an important date due to the many anniversaries which had accumulated over the past few millennia, could cut deeper than the sharpest blades forged by the most proficient masters of the blacksmiths.

how, despite the many losses and reunions he had experienced, he would still have the same nightmare that had been regularly plaguing him from a few millennia back: the vision of her bloodied shell, the rage bubbling from the deepest of his heart. how the mountains tore and the seabed shifted, the anguish as cold as the lifeless body within his hold and as silent as her unmoving crimson-stained lips, the pain hundredfold as he buried her with his own hands in some desolate place ridden by war and placed a single yellow hibiscus as a meagre offering.

how the scent of the sea used to be relatively bearable despite the reflexive scrunch of his nose, and even so, he found himself increasingly becoming averse to them - especially when the scent paired with the minty frost of snezhnaya or the chalky, wintery air of dragonspine.

how, those old times ago, his closest friends had betted on the day he would use his proficiency and skills in the advanced adepti arts to do menial tasks out of love, and though at that time, morax had scoffed and laughed right in front of their face... look at him now, gladly using the ability to maintain adeptal realms to expand his beloved’s teashop or facilitate her travels between the nations of teyvat.

𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒… such an infinitely complex and neverending, yet beautiful affair.

“happy birthday, rex lapis.”

“happy birthday, morax.”

“happy birthday, zhongli.”

“happy birthday, xiànɡ ɡonɡ!”

love tasted like a sweet kiss with a touch of fragrant osmanthus and the bitterness of coffee. love took the form of a bashful and imperfect smile in full bloom against rosy cheeks. love was the way her silken hair felt against his calloused fingers as he tied his treasured golden hair clip around the midnight-colored strands, following her 'coincidental' oversight to bring her own. love was heard in fond wishes and silent gratitudes whispered into the seas of stars, amongst the soft rolls of waves caressing the shores of the harbor of their retirement home.

perhaps his darling won’t be by his side next year. perhaps she would, in a different form than what she was now. perhaps…. he would not survive this year.

but what did it matter?

for even as calamity befell aria, sonnet, and canon, the corpse of a moon still continued its sovereignty in a fixed orbit to encircle teyvat, unchanging — and so he believed the two lovers’ fates would intertwine once again; for she was destined to be his, for he oathed to be bound to her beyond a mortal expiry;

until their souls reunited in a place not even the heavenly principles could reach,

until no more engraved rings could fit in her fingers,

until teyvat's bedrock crumbled into dust.

“the day the rite of parting is recompensed, wife of mine… i promise our 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 will be sealed eternal.”

a contract sealed in souls, befitting of his goetic namesake. this might as well be the most selfish contract he has ever sealed with his blood — yet could one still call him a devil when his victim was most willing?

#genshin impact #zhongli #yandere #rin selfships #zhongrin #zhongwrinth #rin writes #∞ / 𝟔 𝟎 𝟎 𝟎 ⁺

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embossross · 1 year

Text

The Art Collector

Prologue >> Chapter 1 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Mikey x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+ dark explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CWs: references to past cheating, drinking, author is not an artist and is Reaching for this character lol

✣ Story CWs: yandere, stalking, dubcon, kidnap, sex (ptv, oral), rough sex, and probably more to come

✣Synopsis: Mikey isn't like your typical boyfriends. He isn't an artist. He doesn't sport a messy bun or name drop Heidegger. He's just an antisocial IT guy. Or at least that's what he's told you...You may not know your boyfriend as well as you think you do, and by the time you realize your mistake, it may be too late for him. Or you.

✣ Word Count: ~6k and counting

It wasn’t raining or snowing, yet here you stood, struggling. You cupped a hand over the lighter, clove cigarette dangling from your pursed lips. This time you succeeded. A lungful of bitter smoke flooded your belly, and every synapse fired in relief at the familiar rush. You sank into a crouch, back against the wall as you savored your first smoke in six weeks.

On the other side of the wall, inside where it was warm and the harsh, unseasonable winds didn’t beat down like a father’s heavy hand, a dozen or so patrons wandered a little art gallery. It was the opening night of your first ever solo exhibition.

Thirty-eight minutes. That was how long you had survived playacting your official role as artist on display before you had snuck through a door marked employees’ only to smoke away the heartburn that flared in the face of phoniness.

To exhibit anywhere, even a dingy little art gallery in a dead backstreet of Kichijoji, one that saw less foot traffic than a 21st century Blockbuster video, was an enormous privilege. At twenty-seven, most artists slaved away at parttime jobs to afford cup ramen or hung up their paints for a life of housewife drudgery. You were so very fortunate, and if you were the type for positive affirmations, you would remind yourself of that more regularly.

The reverberations of polite dialogue trickled from inside, past the open door, to where you hid. You needn’t hear the exact words to know what they were saying. Trivialities as they strolled past work that dwarfed months of your life. Whether their comments were good or bad, asinine or nuanced, it didn’t make much difference.

Was it wrong to make art not just for the sake of its creation but in the hopes that someone, anyone, might find in your work the hidden messages that you knew were there, just out of your grasp, if only someone might decode them for you?

The breaking point that had sent you fleeing for the alley came from a smartly dressed woman, who praised one of your paintings as an ‘arcadian fantasy,’ as a ‘violent refusal of modern social organization,’ and return to innocence. She had categorized it as a clear response to the Tōhoku tsunami’s continued psychological and economic impact on the Yutori generation.

The painting in question depicted four schoolchildren at play. Lush green grass layered in oils dominated the background, leaving no visual queues as to the time of day, weather, or location as if the playground extended for eternity: back, back, back. The children appeared happy, but upon closer study, the viewer would find each child was built from an amalgamation of swirls. The swirls varied in size, but each one spiraled predictably at the same angle and to the same inevitable end. Using your most delicate paintbrush to measure to exactitude the angles, you had labored for hundreds of hours on that piece.

During the painting process, when you would stumble home after a night of drinking, you would get lost in those swirls, a sense of overwhelming mawkishness rising up from your gut at how each child was bound for the same destination. Everything was so predetermined in their young lives.

The spiral motif appeared again and again in tonight’s collection, going largely unnoticed by the gallery’s patrons. The only time your swirls seized attention was in your one interactive piece: four wooden panels, 75x225 centimeters, one fitted as a door to create a cramped room. Inside the panels were covered in tar paper and painted a deep black. Then, you had layered on the swirls in a gritty grey, so they dominated every spare millimeter of space, spinning and spinning. You had dubbed it the panic attack room because closed inside, you would be confronted with the inverse of infinity, feel the walls moving closer with every winding spiral.

The two “journalists” there that night – one an art blogger, the other covering for a university newspaper – both attended solely to try out that room. They thought it might make an attractive picture spot as interactive art was all the rage.

Speaking to them earlier, both presumed so much about your work and influences. You must have so admired Kusama Yayoi’s infinity rooms, they said; yes, you recognized Kusama as one of the greatest living artists, but no she was not a direct inspiration for your piece. The art blogger asked if, like the French-American sculptor Louise Bourgeois, you saw the spiral as a symbol of “freedom and control;” no, not remotely. The student journalist wondered if you’d read Uzumaki by Junji Ito as it depicted spirals in horror; no, you had never heard of it.

One of your friends, Shiyuri, had urged you to spell out the meaning behind your work on the placards that accompanied each piece.

“Don’t just name your art,” she had insisted. “Give people some guidance, some keywords, or shit, so they know they’re looking in the right direction.”

You had thanked her for the suggestion, even stared at a blank Word document for a half hour hoping to write out something helpful, but the words did not come. Behind each artwork yawned a question, dreadful and all-encompassing, and you painted in the hopes that someone, someday might answer. Maybe then you would finally understand yourself.

“There you are!” the curator boomed, peering around the doorway to where you crouched. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You won’t believe it. Every piece! Sold! Just like that!”

“I can believe it,” you breathed out around a last, lingering puff of smoke.

The curator’s beard twitched as he rushed to tell you about the phone call. A mysterious figure had bid to buy every single painting on display for the full asking price. He hadn’t even tried to haggle! The man’s fingers waggled as he spoke as if imagining the bills he would count and caress once he received his commission for hosting your work. He led you back inside with a hand at your back and the promise of celebratory champagne.

Inside, the orangish lights cast your work in warm tones that drew out their vibrancy. People flocked to the paintings now that they saw the lauded stamp of approval beside each, the sought after “sold” sticker that warned them this was their last chance to see the collection before it was locked away forever.

The champagned tasted fine as it fizzed down your throat. Around you, the blogger and student journalist prattled about how artist patronage of this sort was so uncommon these days. The curator boasted how he put you on the map with this exhibit. Your show was officially a success.

When ten rolled around and the last of the patrons left the gallery, you and your friends made the short walk to Harmonica Alley, settling on the first empty bar you found. It was standing room only, so you formed a single column at the bar. Your group tallied six in total: you, your four housemates, and one of your housemate’s new boyfriend. An hour ago, you had texted an invitation to the jazz musician you were seeing, but he shot back that he was busy with a gig and couldn’t join. He promised to see you soon and capped off the message with a winking emoji.

The once quiet bar grew rowdy as your friends settled into place. All of you were artists, renting a house together, a commune of sorts for creatives not long out of school. You shared the two bedrooms on the second floor with Shiyuri and Kii, rotating the private room every month to keep things equitable. Then, on the first floor, you’d hung a curtain over what was probably meant to be a dining room to create a makeshift bedroom for the boys, Yuudai and Fujio. There was a basement as well, but by unanimous vote that was retained as a studio for your collective use.

By the time you ordered a third round of beers – on you and your new windfall you assured your friends – everyone was red cheeked and loud as only twenty-somethings on a Friday night can be.

Normally, conversation would turn to topics like whether the newest arthouse film was worth seeing, the status and inspiration behind your current projects, and any household gossip, but tonight your housemates were joined by Kii’s new boyfriend, Shinosuke, and he couldn’t resist asking the obvious question.

Who had bought all your paintings tonight? And why weren’t you more surprised?

Your friends exhausted that topic months ago but as Shinosuke was himself an art student, the kind who monologued about the virtues of sacrifice in the name of art, fashioning himself as a starving idealist in the vein of a young Yoshizawa Akira – as if his parents didn’t deposit a tidy sum in his bank account every month – he fixated on the night’s dreamlike events.

“I don’t know who bought them,” you admitted.

“I think it might’ve been that woman in the fur coat. She looked like she had money, and she said she liked the painting of the empty hallway,” Shinosuke said.

“No, no, we know it’s a man, and that he always orders everything over the phone,” Kii explained.

“Always? Wait, so this has happened before?”

You shrugged, too bored by the saga of your good fortune to answer, but Yuudai jumped in and answered for you, “It happens nonstop. Everything she’s put up for sale in the last six months. This mystery guy just calls right up and buys it all. I’ve been telling the universe to send him my way, but so far, no dice.”

Seven months actually. It had been seven months since the first strange purchase. The lack of name hadn’t seemed so odd then when the cash was warm in your pocket. Then, your next painting had sold within mere hours of debuting. Then, the next. The guarantee that your work would sell was why you could afford to exhibit in a real gallery in the first place. It also earned you enough money to pay your water bill, to no longer worry over the expense of new brushes or the cost of good tampons. You even stashed a little away in savings. Thanks to your mysterious benefactor, you were the most financially stable member of your art collective.

“How can you have no idea?” Shinosuke demanded. “How would this rich, art-loving guy even find you? And why would he buy up all your art?”

“It’s not that crazy. Some artists have exclusive patrons even today. It’s rare, but it happens,” you said.

Shinosuke pressed his stomach into the bar and leveled you with a smirk. “Sounds like a sugar daddy situation to me. If he has any hot friends, hook me up, okay? I’d sell more than my body to get my art out there.”

Dents in the shape of fingerprints mangled your beer can. Kii’s faux-outrage, more worried about Shinosuke pimping himself out than the insult to her friend, saved you from having to respond.

Maybe Shinouske’s dumb remark could be chalked up to male pride. It was the kind of comment that almost any male artist languishing in obscurity might make when faced with a woman’s comparative success. They all figured that success came entirely at their own expense, a kind of stolen recognition. The art world thrived on scarcity, and you didn’t entirely blame Shinosuke for his resentment.

But you wondered if Shinouske’s mind might circle sugar daddies for a different reason. Kii might have run her mouth about that time you slept with your professor.

(You hadn’t slept with your professor to improve your grades, mind you, or for any other professional advantage. You had slept with him because you were young, and you liked the way his hands shaped around clay in your pottery class. You had slept with him because it was lonely that first year at CalTech, where you discovered your English was less “conversational” than passable. You had slept with him because you liked the way he would gasp out, like a confession, that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with as you rolled around in cum-stained sheets that his wife would later clean. Like you said, you had been young. You would do it all differently now.)

The congratulatory beer doesn’t warm you on the way down. There wasn’t much to celebrate anyway when everyone took your success for granted these days, when your art would only be hidden away from the world in some rich asshole’s vault.

That was the other reason for the exhibit. You wanted someone, anyone, to see your work before it disappeared from your sight forever.

You excused yourself as if to the bathroom but made a beeline for the exit. A second cigarette laid crumbled in the pocket of your jeans, and since you were already off the bandwagon, you figured you might as well enjoy.

Thick cloud cover shaded the night in misty grays, but the moon glowed down unimpeded like someone had punched a hole in the sky just to let it shine. Still, the wattage of the moon couldn’t compete with the many LED lights that shone from streetlamps and storefronts alike. You had dressed for a warm spring night, but the wind had other ideas, stinging the bared skin of your arms and legs.

Once again, you struggled with your lighter, but before the spark could flicker to life, a hand, ghostly in the moonlight, held a flame up to your cigarette.

You screamed.

There were no blind spots on the narrow road, and there should have been no way to approach you without the sixth sense you possessed as a born-and-bred city dweller kicking in to warn you. Yet here stood a stranger. You raised a hand to your forehead to check for fever, wondering if you drank too much at the bar.

The man – because of course it was a man, you thought wryly – was shabbily dressed in a too-large black tee-shirt and joggers. The baggy clothes concealed his frame, but he looked small, shockingly so. Sharp clavicles jutted out above his shirt collar, and his gaunt cheekbones stood in sharp relief against a shadowed face. He might have been any age, a boyish prettiness put him in his early twenties, but his eyes…his eyes had seen things. Between his frailty and bottle blonde hair, he looked like he daylighted as a pretty boy idol.

“You scared me.”

He didn’t offer an apology. You couldn’t place what about this stranger unsettled you. The happy chatter of your friends drifted from the open entryway only a short distance away. Most of the other shops on the street were sealed shut by metal gates, but passersby ambled past the opening of the alleyway every few seconds. There was no rational reason to feel afraid, but you couldn’t escape the impression his icy smirk left on you, the impression of stumbling into a vampire movie and now playing the part of the woman who dies stupidly. His face of contradictions, his silent tread as he approached, and now, his undeniable presence all unnerved you.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the artist, right? Didn’t all your art sell?” the stranger jerked his head in the direction of the gallery.

“Yeah, yes, drinks on me tonight!” you said.

“Oh, thanks. But I’ll take a rain check.”

Reality rebalanced itself as you laughed. The only horrors that awaited you were the hangover symptoms sure to greet you in the morning. This guy was just some starving artist who stopped by for a drink after the show, same as you and your friends.

“I liked your show. I’m not surprised it sold out as fast as it did,” the stranger said.

You don’t deign to thank him in the same way he avoided apologizing for scaring you. Strange to start off a conversation on such a rude foundation, but the polite niceties seem superfluous when judged against this man’s innate intensity.

“What kind of art do you make?” you asked.

The stranger chuckled. When he shook his head, the messy blond locks that framed his face swung momentarily to shield his eyes. The fine strands looked baby soft, almost translucent.

“I’m no artist,” he said.

“Really? If you’re not an artist, why do you go to shows? Usually, the only people who come to these sorts of things are other artists or friends of the artist. I’m not a big name, so it’s not like I draw a crowd.”

“I don’t. I just walked into yours because it was there. First time I’ve ever done that.”

“Ah, so when you say it was good, you mean it was better than the alternative, which is nothing,” you teased.

“No. Your art moved me.”

Such simple words. Such black eyes. They could suck you in. Yet the sensation of falling was almost pleasant, a kind of indulgence that raised goosepimples up and down your arms.

“What…what about it moved you?” you croaked.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know anything about art, remember? I can’t explain it.”

“Nah, I’m sure you can. All theory does is teach people to lie about what they’re seeing. I mean, I love reading theory to spark ideas or challenge my preconceived notions, but I think it’s more helpful in the creation of art than in the understanding of it. You go to school, and they teach you how to contextualize everything within these discourses, even if they don’t actually apply to what you’re looking at. As if art isn’t a visual medium. All you need to understand it is to look. Or, well, at least that’s what I think.”

Another half-assed dissertation on your work would send you to the hospital. This man claimed to be moved by your art, and you wanted to know what he felt, not what sounded impressive to the ear.

“How to explain it? Looking at your paintings, those spiral things especially, it’s like they sucked me in. But, rather than pulling me outside of myself, they pushed me back into myself, like the block hole was inside me, and so to look at your art was to look at myself. Does that make sense? I never liked art growing up. I always thought it was stupid the way artists tried to make something beautiful when nothing they make could ever beat a sunrise. The world is beautiful, I thought, but humans? We’re too ugly, too corrupted to create something truly beautiful. Looking at your art, I don’t see beauty, but I do see myself, every ugly part, and there’s something beautiful in that. Almost.”

As he spoke, the stranger met your gaze with unflinching eyes. You swore they swirled with all the same power and loss as your paintings. True to his words, they sucked you into their depths.

“See, you don’t need to learn theory to talk about art. Actually, you kind of stumbled into centuries long discourses about the possibilities and purposes of representation in art. And, while I’m not going to agree that aesthetics don’t matter or that beauty is impossible – because, hello, I am an artist – I know exactly what you mean. There’s a theory called the Formulation Theory of Expression that basically just says art is an outward expression of the artist’s inward feelings. When I paint, it’s because there’s something inside me that I don’t understand, and when I put it on the canvas or whatever…I can look at it outside myself. And then, I feel like I can conquer it or at least live with it.”

At some point while you spoke, you wrapped your arms around yourself, rubbing at chilled flesh. The cramped alley created a wind tunnel effect, directing all the elements straight at your lightly clothed body. The stranger’s eyes tracked your shiver.

“You’re cold.”

“Yeah, I think it might storm. This wind is weird,” you said.

“I don’t have a jacket to give you…” the stranger frowned.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

“How about we take a walk? It’ll be warmer if we keep moving,” he offered.

You glanced back at the bar where your friends remained happily ensconced. Through the entrance, you could see Shiyuri flirt with the bartender. The bar shaded in yellows and reds looked toasty, the simplest way to warm up. Your stranger, on the other hand, looked cold and somehow otherworldly, like he could never join your friends for a pint and a chat, like he was meant to wander the streets like a wraith until the sun rose and dissolved him back into the sea.

“Why not? So long as we don’t go too far,” you agreed.

With an illicit thrum of adventure, like you were doing something naughty, you took the stranger’s icy hand in yours and led him onto the main drag. You debated whether to head to Inokashira Park to enjoy the moonlight on the water or the opposite direction to stroll the shopping on Sun Road before deciding on the latter. The man let you drag him along without complaint.

You set a steady pace until you reached the shelter of Sun Road. Glass paneling overhead blocked out the moon and shielded you from the worst of the elements. Soon, you were warm, blood pumping strongly in your veins, but you didn’t let go of the man’s hand as his fingers stayed chilly in your grip.

An hour passed without you accounting for it. Childhood memories of Osaka and the free-wheeling college years you spent in Pasadena, venturing into L.A. as the mood struck, provided a benchmark against which you judged all cities. Since moving to Tokyo six years back, you were sure of one thing. You loved Tokyo with your whole heart.

You loved its tall buildings, the character of those varied architectural styles that never sought unity with one another and made for such an ugly skyline. You loved that it made a wonderland of the skies, climbing up, up, up as the city grew ever taller, loved that it made a playground of the underground, carving shops and restaurants out of earth and rock to accompany the subway system. You loved its people, who set the speed and schedule of the city. All that life happening just outside your door if you only thought to look.

It was a rare treat to visit Musashino as you sometimes went months without leaving your district, let alone Tokyo, and as you wandered about, you considered that your love just might extend to Tokyo’s network of satellite cities, too, thankful for the supportive flavor they added to the place you had made your chosen home.

Your eyes feasted on the vibrancy around you: the messy mix of old and new, high and low – a fortune teller’s impromptu stand blocking the entrance to a Krispy Kreme, a high fashion boutique on one side of the road and a hundred yen shop on the other. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a bakery only to be replaced by the heady scent of perfume from a department store a few steps beyond. A few shops had yet to take down their Golden Week decorations, and colorful carp streamers gaped with dumb open mouths down from those storefronts.

As you walked, the conversation flowed easily between you both. You would talk for a few minutes about aesthetics, and then he would return with a dazzling compliment, delivered as if it were the merest trifle, about how your art made him feel seen for the first time in so very long. He told you about old friends, who had insisted they understood him just because they were always looking but in reality, only saw the afterimage of the man he once was and refused to see the shell in front of them. You told him how you never felt less seen than after someone looked at your work, the contradiction and frustration of failing to communicate when you poured your soul into each piece.

You never talked like this with your friends. They would have called you pretentious, a death knell in your world, and scolded you for not appreciating the honor of even having an audience in the first place. The stranger, on the other hand, showed no signs of irritation as you unburdened yourself, your steps growing lighter and lighter with each confession.

Several times, you almost walked right into a trash can or utility pole. The stranger jerked you out of the way each time. After another near accident, your body bumped into his and stayed there, glued to his side where it was safest.

The many sights of the shopping distract were distracting enough, but it was the man’s eyes that increasingly tripped you up. They were all-consuming as they listened so intently to your every word. Yes, listened! His eyes rather than his ears received what you said. So black, they were almost a void. You wondered how you might capture them on paper. Charcoal was the obvious choice, but you doubted you would be able to render the nuances, the momentary flecks of light that warmed his haunted face and made the contrasting darkness all the more harrowing. Cold sweat collected in the creases of your arms if you stared into them too long.

“You know, I’m not always this moody,” you said, having just finished angstily opining against your audience. “I get anxious about showing my work, but on a normal day, I’m a lot of fun.”

“Oh, yeah?” the man hummed.

“Yes, very fun and bright,” you said cheerfully as if to prove yourself. “I’m a super fun friend to have because I love to go out and try new things, see shows, visit new places. And, I always have a ton of energy because I drink too much coffee, which now that I say it, doesn’t sound like a positive, but I swear it is. And, I am a great conversationalist, which…that one you already know.”

The ghostly facsimile of a smile brightened the stranger’s face as he said, “Well, I’m sold. You sound like a fun friend to have.”

“And you? Your turn to pitch me.”

“Pitch you?’

“Yeah, you now wanna be my friend, so you’ve gotta convince me that I want to be friends with you, too?” you teased.

“Your friend, huh? I guess that depends. Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

Thoughts of the jazz musician you’d been seeing made you hesitate. You thought of his fingers, so nimble as they danced across piano keys, his smile – cool and remote and the right kind of unattainable to make your heart race –, and his deep bass rumble when he got excited about music. You liked him, maybe enough to consider making him your boyfriend, but neither of you had broached the topic yet, and left in the no man’s land of situationships, you had no loyalties to betray.

Until now, you had balanced precariously on the line between friendly and flirtatious with this stranger, not entirely sure which direction you ought to tip. Despite his dismissal of aesthetics, the man’s face was certainly aesthetically appealing. Not merely handsome, but arresting, the kind of face you could stare at for hours. And, when he spoke about your art, your tummy buzzed with a feeling not so different from infatuation.

So, you answered honestly.

“Not really.”

The stranger nodded, once again quirking his lips into something that almost passed as a smile but didn’t penetrate his eyes.

“Well, what’s there to say about me? I have err, security, money, and time? I work from home doing IT stuff, so I set my own schedule,” he said, and then grew quiet for several long beats as he struggled to come up with more. “I…am a good driver. I have a license to drive cars and motorbikes.”

“Well, that does sound fun. I don’t have a license,” you giggled, and then you knocked your shoulder into his. “Come on, you’re supposed to be selling yourself to me. Tell me that you’re the funniest guy in every room or something.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. This dark and mysterious act is hot and all, but I want to know what you’re like on like a Wednesday afternoon not just on a Friday night when you’re brooding outside bars,” you said.

“I used to be fun,” the man conceded. “I was somehow always the leader in this friend group I had as a kid. People just looked to me. And I had all these dreams and ideas and the ambition to see them out. I was always reaching for something, and my friends were right there with me.”

“What changed?”

“My family died.”

“Oh my God!”

Stunned by the barefaced admission, you dropped his hand for a moment and then hurried to relace your fingers with his. Every time you compared him in your mind to a ghost or wraith or vampire returned to you. He wasn’t some dead thing but the very opposite, startlingly and devastatingly alive despite his loss.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed to say. “For your loss I mean, and for all those jokes. I didn’t mean to be such an asshole.”

“It’s okay. It’s been over ten years now since my sister died, so I’m used to living with it. I figured you would understand after looking at your paintings. I could tell you’ve lost people, too,” he said.

“Not really, actually. I’ve only lost a grandmother I wasn’t that close to,” you admitted.

He came to a halt, right in the center of the sidewalk and studied you. A generator, in the alley behind his back, whirred loudly. When you looked at him, the darkness of the alley seemed to reach forward as if to swallow him up.

“I don’t understand. Your art has so much pain in it. Grief.”

“It does in a way. When I was a kid, I went through this – and I’m so sorry, this is so awfully morbid after what you just said about your sister – but I went through this obsession with corpses. I would beg my mom to take me to cemeteries everywhere we went. We actually visited the one up ahead at Gesso-ji Temple once. I wasn’t obsessed with death but the corpse itself. I’ve always been fascinated by abjection, the revulsion we feel at something that was once the self, transformed into the other. It’s in most of my works, this interrogation of what is that which is no longer us. How much of the self is left in the corpse? It must not be much based on the way we react to them. Anyway, I guess I have this perversity in me. I can’t forget that everything ends even when I’m happiest. Especially then. So, I find myself mourning people that are still there. It’s kind of sick when you think about it,” you said.

Maybe that morbidity explained your love of Tokyo. A city on the verge. One seismic shift, and then, collapse. The Tokyo Skytree would fall, devastation, evacuation. An ending both symbolic and true. But until that day, it shone brighter than anywhere else, glowing like a beacon for whatever astronauts peered down from space.

Engrossed by you as if you yourself were a work of precious art, the stranger continued walking without once looking away from your face.

“That’s smart,” he said finally. “I wish I’d known to mourn people while I still could. I would have appreciated them more. Kept them safe.”

Persistent buzzing from your pocket reminded you that you were hardly appreciating your own friends. They probably thought you’d fallen in the toilet at this point. You asked the man if he minded and fished out your phone. There were four missed calls and ten unread messages. You skipped reading any as you could imagine well enough what your friends wanted and dialed Kii.

“Hey, sorry about that,” you said when she answered.

“Where are you? We wanna head home, and the subway’s gonna close in an hour.”

“I needed some fresh air and ended up taking a walk. Didn’t realize how long it’s been. If you give me twenty minutes, I can come back with you guys.”

“Well, you better. Don’t forget you’re paying!” Kii cheered.

As you chatted, the man loomed over your shoulder, or loomed wasn’t quite right. He didn’t have that tall, physically intimidating presence some men had. His stillness, however, was eerie, his ability to stand patiently as you made plans without fiddling with his own phone or scratching a single itch. The only motion he indulged was scanning his surroundings, dark eyes missing nothing.

“Sorry about that, but I have to get back. Walk me?” you asked.

The man hooked his elbow through yours this time, and you walked arm in arm back to the bar. He kept you busy with questions about how you learned to paint, your next collection, your hopes for your career. After hearing about his family, his reticence no longer struck you as weird, and you appreciated his desire to simply listen.

Exiting Sun Road, the night returned in full force. The cityscape was a living thing, loud with sighing exhaust pipes and gurgling streams overheard as you crossed over storm drains. You made sure to appreciate every moment of it.

Somehow, the hurried walk back felt longer than the leisurely, initial stroll from the bar. Time froze and then sped up when you talked to this strange man, but too soon, you were back. Sounds of your friends’ good cheer trickled from the bar.

“Well, I’ve gotta get back to my friends. Thanks for keeping me warm,” you said.

Once more, the stranger’s mouth moved, corners curling up, but this time, even though the air was still, you shuddered with your whole body. You had the strangest impression that he didn’t want to let you go. That he wouldn’t let you go.

This figment of your overactive imagination passed quickly as he merely nodded.

“I’ll be on the lookout for your next show, then. It was fun,” he said.

“Fun? You? In that case, why wait? Let me give you my number, and we can grab a drink sometime.”

You typed your number into his phone without scrutinizing the spontaneous decision beyond the basics that he was hot and his hand fit well in yours. He may not have been your usual type – not an artist, no messy bun, not a single name drop to Heidegger the entire conversation – but he was attractive in a midnight kind of way, and he saw something in your art that you wanted to see for yourself.

Watching his retreating back, you were struck by the thought that he might be what you had been looking for all this time.

“Hey, wait a second!” you called after him. “I just realized, you know my name, but I don’t know yours!”

“Sangawa Manaomi,” the man answered quickly. “But my friends call me Mikey.”

‘Well, friend, Mikey it is then!”

You would be waiting for his call.

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