degeneratewhores

[degeneratewhores]

baby photos

[degeneratewhores]

gap moe w/ ayato

gap moe refers to the contrast between a surface personality and the more vulnerable inner side. (extra 2) WARNING/S: Blood, Suggestive (?) (idk ayato touched ur lips)

I love putting (y/n) in grave harm at the expense of seeing men in agony!!!!!!!!! taglist:

@moristhesecond @hunnieknight @haithxm-main

@mikoochaan

@greyrain23 @reideneris @bro-im-just-playing @teabutmakeitazure @meimeimeirin

@psychopomp-enthusiast @jade1605 @mochinon-yah @eussstasss @lillieofth3valley

@ichikanu @harmonysanreads @yellowelectroslime @miraclecherryblossomsblog @rossithepixie

@schoenpepper @cadesthings @creationsabyss @hirotasama @jth12

@alhaithams-malewife @oliaxter @angeveins @sakisud @xhongshan

@materlux @lost-in-the-night-skiess @shinha @m1kuz0ne @vashyuu

@n0rmalsimp @biytdtdatmirsmlys @mad-girlfan @wriomii @fyodorssimp1

[degeneratewhores]

he wishes for the cloths of heaven.

summary: You’ve lived through his descent into obsession countless times, through fire and ash, through the birth of the man you fear he will become. And in every cycle, Phainon doesn’t remember. Until he does.

contains: 3.2k wc, gender-neutral reader, yandere phainon, time loop, regression

[01]: ENTRY HOUR

It always begins the same way.

You’re in the market, standing at the heart of the square as if summoned there. A crowd surrounds you, murmuring with low excitement, their eyes bright with awe and ignorance. They speak in half-whispers; about the man on the ground groaning in pain, and about the hero standing over him like judgment given form.

You look down. The stranger clutches his ribs, coughing between gasps after having been punched to the gut. You remember this part. He’d brushed past you earlier, jostling your bag, maybe trying to take a coin or two. But he never got the chance. He always never will.

You already know how this goes.

Phainon stands before you. He’s beautiful in that tragic, unbearable way. Familiar. Haunting. Comforting only because once, a long time ago—or maybe in a dream you keep reliving—you know him.

Or thought you did.

Or still do, in that aching, slow-poison kind of way.

He sees you. He always sees you.

There’s no trace of blood on him. No soot or scorched scent—as if violence has never dared to touch him. He turns to you, holding up the small cloth bag you dropped. The fruits you’d bought earlier, still nestled inside.

You don’t move. You’ve done this too many times.

His head tilts just so, the smile staying carefully in place—but his eyes flicker, uncertain. There’s always a moment where something falters in him. Like he’s waiting for this loop to be different. Like he knows.

“Hey…” he says. And then, with such sincere concern that it used to tear at you: “Are you alright?”

You answer the same as you always do, voice too smooth from repetition. “Yes, thank you.” A pause. “Sorry.”

(What are you apologizing for? Dropping the bag? Running too late into the day? For what will come?)

You’ve tried changing the script before. You’ve snatched the bag and bolted. You’ve ignored him entirely. Once, you told him to leave you alone.

You always wake up the next loop with ash in your lungs.

Delaying it is the best you can do now. Stalling him with politeness. It’s the only thing that buys you time.

Phainon’s smile stretches, and the gleam in his eyes sharpens. You see pride there. Relief. Devotion—so bright that it burns. As though your words were something sacred, and he, the ever-faithful priest, has been waiting all day just to receive them.

Your stomach coils. Your heart flutters in your chest, treacherous and weak. There’s a warmth that spreads inside you—slow, crawling, and wrong.

(It disgusts you.)

You take the bag. His fingers brush yours. The touch is light, but you feel it like an ember pressed to skin.

“I was worried for a moment,” he says. “You looked pale.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

Phainon eyes you like he wants to believe that.

The crowd behind you is dispersing, now that the performance is over. The groaning man has been dragged away by guards. Another faceless thief punished. Another small disturbance silenced.

He walks beside you now. You don’t remember starting to walk, but somehow you’re moving down the cobbled path, and Phainon is there, matching your pace.

“You always carry too much on your own,” he says, gesturing at your bag, tone light, teasing.

You manage a polite hum, clutching the bag tighter.

And then, soft as ever, he says, “I’ve missed seeing you.”

The words knock the breath out of you. Not because they’re unexpected—he always says them—but because they never lose their weight. They fall on you like stones, each one heavier than the last.

He doesn’t know—doesn’t remember—that you’ve lived this moment a hundred times before. But you do.

And every time he says that, he means it. Like he’s aching for you. Like he’d burn the world down just to see you smile again.

(And one day—soon—he will.)

“I’ve been busy,” is what you always say.

You don’t remember when you started giving that answer—only that the truth became harder and harder to find each time you looped. Once, maybe, you gave him a different response. Something honest. But that was in your first life, a hazy memory blurred by ash and time. You were a different person then—softer. Naive.

You barely remember that version of yourself now. That first life feels like a dream slipping between your fingers, too distant to hold onto.

Phainon’s expression doesn’t shift. He wears the same understanding look he always does when you say those three words. The same gentle smile, the one that once felt like sunlight and now presses like a knife around your throat.

You used to love that smile. Now it just terrifies you.

Because you’ve seen what lies beneath it. What it becomes when devotion rots into obsession. When love sharpens into something that cuts.

“Teaching the children, right?” he says.

You nod, too stiff.

The script continues.

You can almost recite his lines along with him. Sometimes he teases you—“I’m starting to think they’re stealing you from me,”—and sometimes he drifts into memory, speaking of those student days beneath Professor Anaxa’s guidance, when everything was simpler and he didn’t look at you like the world ended and began in your eyes.

This time, he doesn’t say either of those things.

And that should’ve been your first warning.

He’s quiet a moment too long. You feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unfamiliar in its stillness.

Then…

“Do you not get tired?”

Your body locks up.

Your breath stills.

Your heart thunders.

He has never said that before.

Everything else has looped like clockwork, minor variations aside. But this line—it’s foreign. It doesn’t belong. It’s like hearing a wrong note in a melody you’ve memorized, jarring and wrong in a way that sends ice through your veins.

You turn to look at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean…?”

Phainon meets your gaze, and something in his expression has changed. There’s no confusion. No soft amusement. Just a quiet, unreadable calm that makes your fingers tighten around the bag you’re carrying.

The street around you fades into background noise—the shuffling feet, the clatter of carts, the merchants haggling. It all feels far away now. Too far.

“You work so hard,” he says gently. “You wake up before the Ascent Hour. You teach all day. You give and give and give. Do you ever think of stopping?”

Stopping?

You can’t speak. There’s something stuck in your throat. You feel as though you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, and he’s just taken a step toward you.

Your fingers tremble.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone, you know,” Phainon murmurs, leaning in slightly. “You have me. I’d take all of it from you, if you let me. The work. The weight. The burden.”

The choice, you think, but don’t say.

Because he doesn’t mean help. He never has.

You’ve heard this voice before—not here, not now, but after. After he becomes the man that you will fear. After the city burns. After you beg him to let someone live and he smiles and says, “Why does it matter? You’re safe. That’s all that ever mattered.”

Your throat is dry. You force a smile. “I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”

“But does it make you happy?” he asks.

You don’t have an answer. And somehow, you know he’s not expecting one.

He steps closer. Close enough that you can smell the warmth of the sun on him, and beneath it, faintly—smoke.

“I think,” he says slowly, like tasting the thought for the first time, “you’d be happier if you didn’t have to pretend.”

Your stomach sinks.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s wrong.

He’s never spoken like this before. Not in this part of the loop. Not with this kind of clarity.

You step back without meaning to. He notices.

A beat passes.

Then Phainon smiles again, gentle and knowing.

“You’re scared,” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just… sad. As if your fear is the only thing in the world that could ever wound him.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Maybe not you, but everyone else—he has. He will.

You’ve seen it.

A thousand endings where fire blooms across cities. Where blood coats his hands and your name spills from his lips like a prayer.

You swallow. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” he says softly, stepping aside.

You walk away. You don’t run. But your mind screams at you with every step.

Something changed.

You don’t know how many more loops you’ll endure.

The Curtain-Fall Hour slips quietly into the Entry Hour, and like every time before, you wake with the same bitter awareness tucked beneath your skin:

You will live this day again.

And again.

And again.

You rinse in silence. Your eyes are hollow in the basin’s reflection, like you’re watching someone else go through the motions. But the moment water touches your face, you’re brought back.

Children. Teaching. Routine.

That is your anchor. That is what keeps the world from spinning out of control.

You towel off and set to work, peeling and slicing the fruit Phainon had retrieved for you yesterday—the fruit that should have been stolen, had he not intervened.

You grimace.

His name alone sends a tight ripple down your spine. You hate how even thinking about him can still stir emotion. And worse—familiarity. You hate the way your fingers still remember the shape of his hand brushing yours. How your chest still reacts like it did the first time, when his love felt like sunlight and not fire.

You refocus.

Small slices. Bite-sized. Easy to chew. You’ve done this hundreds of times—maybe more. You know the measurements by heart. The right sweetness that will make the children smile.

By the time Ascent Hour glows through the windows, you’ve baked enough fruit cookies to feed a full class. You tuck them into a woven basket, along with a book or two.

You step out, prepared for normalcy—needing normalcy.

But normalcy is a luxury that has long abandoned you.

You always meet them near the Court of Seasons. And when you arrive, the children are already there.

And so is he.

You freeze the moment you see him.

Phainon stands with the children, cloaked in soft laughter. His snowy hair gleams in the sunlight, his posture relaxed and regal, yet casual. The children giggle around him, tugging at his sleeves.

It should be picturesque. It would be, if not for the twist in your gut.

He’s not supposed to be here. He’s never here during this time. This hour is always yours—yours and the children’s. He should be at the palace or riding across Amphoreus on duty. In every loop before, he’s absent until midday at the earliest.

Another deviation.

Your throat tightens.

When you step closer, the children notice you immediately, and the quiet thrill in their voices momentarily cuts through your dread.

“You’re here!”

“Good day!”

“What are we reading about today?”

You manage a small smile for them. “Good morning,” you say gently. “I brought something sweet today, since you’ve all been doing so well.”

Their excitement renews, loud and bright.

And then—Phainon turns.

He’s already smiling, but when he sees you, it deepens—bright and full, like the kind of smile carved into marble. You’ve seen that smile before, so many times.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, as if it’s been longer than a day. “I was waiting with the children for you. They’re really good kids.”

“They are,” you say cautiously, casting a glance toward him.

The children chime in again, voices overlapping.

“Of course!”

“Our teacher taught us to be well-behaved!”

Phainon laughs—and you hate how natural it looks. How convincing. His upper body shakes slightly with the motion, and you catch the way he glances at you mid-laugh, as though gauging your reaction.

You don’t smile.

“You’re not busy today?” you ask, voice careful. Your grip tightens around the basket.

His answer comes too fast.

“No,” he says, all ease and affection. “I made sure I had free time today so I can spend it with you.”

Your lips part slightly, but nothing comes out at first. You force something neutral.

“You didn’t have to… trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble,” Phainon replies. His gaze lingers too long. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Your stomach twists.

Wrong. This is wrong. This is too early.

He shouldn’t be this close again yet. Not until the week’s end. Not until the dream burns out and resets again. But here he is, planting himself into your quietest hours.

You glance at the children. They’re already picking out books from your basket. One tugs at your sleeve.

“Can we read the one about the lion that swallowed the sun?”

You kneel and nod. “Of course. That one’s a favorite, isn’t it?”

Phainon lowers himself slowly beside you, uninvited. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, head slightly tilted.

You hand the child a cookie and feel your skin prickle as Phainon’s hand brushes near yours again. Not touching. Almost.

His hand stops just short of yours.

You stare at his open palm, hesitant and confused. There’s no trace of malice there, not in the way his fingers hover so gently, or in the slight curl of his wrist like he’s trying not to reach too far.

“Can you give me some, too?” His voice is soft, almost pleading. There’s a tightness in it. Something like longing. Something like loss.

You blink at him, incredulous. “These are for the children,” you say, tone flat.

He tilts his head, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “Well, can’t you spare a few for a friend?”

Friend.

He says it so gently. So deliberately. Like he’s testing it. Like he’s waiting to see if it feels wrong to his own ears.

You stare at him for a few moments, gaze unblinking. There’s something pathetic in the way he’s crouched beside you, palm outstretched, expectant. Something childlike and pitiful. It’s almost surreal—he, the one who would one day set the world on fire for your sake, looking at you as though this is what he truly wants. A sweet from your hand.

You sigh.

You reach into the basket and pick out two biscuits. You press them into his open palm.

“I will only give you this much and no more,” you tell him, eyes hard. “You understand?”

With his other hand, he lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Yes, teacher!”

There’s laughter from the children around you, who seem to think he’s being silly. They don’t notice how tightly he holds the cookies—how he almost crushes them with his hand. They don’t see how his smile flickers for a fraction of a second, like he’s about to say something else—something not meant for this moment.

You don’t give him the chance.

You turn to the children, your voice warmer now—on purpose. “Who else wants cookies?”

Their hands shoot up with cheers and excited chatter, and the next few minutes are spent in a whirl of handing out treats and books, settling them down on the blanket. You read aloud, letting the familiar rhythm of the story wrap around you like armor.

And Phainon?

He sits beside you the entire time. Silent. Patient. Watching.

He doesn’t eat the biscuits.

He holds them in his lap, fingers curled protectively around them as though they’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for just a second, you risk a glance his way.

His eyes are on you.

You quickly return to the text, trying not to let it show—the thrum in your veins, the fear that’s blooming slow and heavy in your chest.

The script is slipping.

The lesson ends as it always does—with the children full of laughter and crumbs, chasing each other, their minds still buzzing from stories and sweets.

You pack the blanket in silence. The books are neatly stacked. The empty basket rests in your arms like a final weight. And then—

“I’ll walk you home.”

You freeze.

Phainon stands beside you with that easygoing smile.

“…You don’t need to,” you say, your voice careful, light. “It’s a short walk.”

He only tilts his head. “I know.”

You blink. “Then—”

“But I want to,” he interrupts, taking a step closer. “It’s not like I don’t know the way.”

You grip the handles of the basket tightly.

No. He shouldn’t know the way.

“Phainon,” you start, tone low. “You have duties, don’t you?”

He shrugs. “It can wait a little longer.”

You swallow thickly. “You’ve never said that before,” you murmur, as if testing the words.

He stops. Blinks once. Then smiles wider. “Haven’t I?” It’s innocent. A tease. But it isn’t.

Because his voice dips—just slightly—into something heavier. As if he’s catching up to himself. As if a thread has pulled taut somewhere behind his eyes, tugging at buried things.

You don’t reply. You just start walking. And, of course, he falls into step beside you.

The path is quiet. Too quiet. You can hear the hush of wind through the trees, the soft clicking of your shoes on the stone path, the creak of your basket as you hold it tighter and tighter.

Phainon walks with his hands behind his back. He hums a little, like he’s trying to pretend this is all normal. Maybe for him, it is.

“You used to hum that,” he says suddenly, voice gentle. “When you cooked.”

Your steps falter.

You never hummed that song in this life. Not even once. You haven’t sung it since—since before—

“…That’s not possible,” you whisper.

Phainon turns to you. “What’s not?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You focus on walking, faster now, hoping to outpace the dread growing inside you.

“I missed this,” he speaks, unprompted, again. “Walking with you. Watching your shoulders relax a little, when you think no one’s looking.”

You stop. You stop walking entirely.

Slowly, you turn to face him.

His eyes are shining. Soft. Full of something—longing, ache, a grief he doesn’t yet fully understand.

“Phainon,” you say, and your voice comes out hollow. “What is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his smile falters.

Then he leans closer, head tilted, like he’s peering through you instead of at you. And in a voice so quiet it could be mistaken for prayer, he murmurs, “I keep seeing you die.”

Your blood runs cold.

He tilts his head the other way, searching your face, eyes glassy now. “I don’t know when. Or how. Sometimes it’s fire. Sometimes it’s… worse. But you’re always gone. And I’m always too late.”

You can’t breathe.

“And every time I see you again,” he adds, his voice breaking into something raw, “it’s like I’ve finally come home—until I remember you leave me.”

You stagger back.

He doesn’t follow.

He just looks at you, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Why does that keep happening? Why do I keep waking up without you? Why does it feel so real?”

This time, you run.

[02]: ASCENT HOUR (soon!)

© 2025 kominigiru.

crossposted on ao3!

[degeneratewhores]

CONFIDENTIAL: transcripts of a clash between Iudex Neuvillete and Duke Wriothesley (PART 1 OF 2)

yan!wriothesley, yan!neuvillette, violence, talk of violence against melusines, companion piece to this fic and this fic

1.29k words | she/her pronouns

In an ash wood drawer, thrown in haphazardly and sealed with the strongest of locks in all of Teyvat was a notepad, freshly bought from a newspaper stand in central Fontaine city and formerly belonging to one Miss Charlotte, reporter for the Steambird. Along with it, a standard issue journalist recording device lay smashed to pieces next to it. The notepad had the following contents, and was confiscated by Iudex Neuvillette with witness Duke of Meropide, Wriothesley, present. Miss Charlotte of the Steambird is currently on house arrest.

Field notes

(title of article? meeting of giants, the duke meets the iudex, pride and prejudice and power?)

Title of article: Something sinister is brewing in the Palais Mermonia

- Anonymous source (Clorinde) told me the Duke had been extremely erratic, in line with increasingly frequent arrests and imprisonments.

- Asked Sigewinne, said she hears him mumble a name under his breath. She didn’t catch the name but she thinks it might have something to do with a mysterious shape seen around the Meropide that had varnished a week ago.

- The lift that descended into the Meropide rose up with a hiss and the duke practically stumbled out.

- He usually doesn’t shave but his stubble looks positively beard like now, he looks pissed.

- pushed a gardemek and it fell down. How does one do that??

- He barked at his gardes that he was to have a meeting with Iudex Neuvillette and that no one was to disturb him.

- A garde tried to tell him Iudex Nuevillette was in no position to accept visitors right now and was back handed so hard his nose bled.

- He took off and I followed him to the Palais Mermonia, staying hidden (Thank god I drank that Anemo potion, I feel as light as a feather)

- The rain wasn’t beating down as hard as the torrential downpour during the Second great flood of Fontaine a month ago, but it had never left since. I saw a little kid try the ‘Hydro Dragon’ thing and get pelted with more rain.

- Wriothesley looked even more agitated as he walked through the rain, rain drops freezing in contact with his skin and ricocheting everywhere (almost hit me but it missed!)

- Made it to the Palais, The Duke threw open the door and stormed in, scared the people in there to stay as quiet as humanly possible.

- Didn’t even attempt to listen to any melusines trying to warn him and pushed inside the office.

The rest of these field notes are direct excerpts from a conversation had between the Iudex of Fontaine, Neuvillette, and The Duke of Meropide, Wriothesley.

The Duke talks first.

Every step felt like he was walking on glass shards, digging into his skin and making him grit his teeth. His heart was red hot, the heat you’d feel right before an explosion threatening to burn through his skin and mutilate him from the inside out, and he’d gladly welcome it with open arms if he saw Her at the end of it. His every atom screamed that they were dying, they were in pure agony at her leaving. And Wriothesley agreed, succumbing to every wail of pain let out by his entire being. For he must have done something horrible, must have been so inadequate and horrible at doing his one job of protecting her, of defending her honour at all costs, and caused her to leave.

That morning where he woke up to an empty bed and an even emptier room brought Wriothesley back to the same raw emotion he felt when he saw the life fade from the eyes of his ‘parents’, that all encompassing, consuming emotion that almost caused every vein and artery in his body to rupture. His room shacked with the weight of his scream, guttural and anguished.

He’d been a shell of a person since, operating on the hope he’d still be of use to her and the pure, searing rage he felt in his person at everything that wasn’t her. Every day consisted of letting out his rage in increments every day, be it by approving any and all arrest made by any officer, corrupt or just, or by singling out someone who could’ve laid their filthy eyes on Her and exacting revenge for Her sake, beating them nigh to death. His mind stewed with darker and darker thoughts, going from languishing over what She would be eating tonight (wherever she were), to killing all those he hunted and presenting them in the sacred spot she had always hung around, the lower wrung of his office. His mental state was almost deteriorating enough to making the latter thought a reality when he received a letter, stamped with the official seal of the court of Fontaine.

His breath hitched, and he grabbed it with the ferocity of a starving man. His Love had mentioned a brief stint in the court, duly recounting her ‘mind-numbing’ experience as a court reporter while she was sat on his lap. He was proud he even remembered that, since even being around Her made him revert back to his base instincts to Want and Want and Want. He grasped the letter in his hands, shaking. This was Her, he was sure of it. She had just had some business to take care of in the court, That’s all! He hasn’t been thrown away after all! He was still useful! She still wanted him!

The joy he felt was quickly replaced by the most intense wave of rage he had ever felt as he read the letter’s contents.

Duke of Meropide,

It has come to my attention that you have committed a crime most severe, that is interfering in the holy matrimony shared between I and My dearly beloved, (y/n)(l/n). You stand accused of larceny of the highest degree. This transgression carries a punishment most severe. Return her by noon or your Fortress will be sunken deep into the depths of Teyvat’s primordial oceans.

Iudex Neuvillette.

This can’t be. He felt his breathing grow heavier as the heat in his chest grew hotter. The Iudex? He.. He… The heat had far past boiling point, he could feel his heart scorch the muscle and skin around it. His grip tightened, and he could feel his fingers dinging into his skin with enough force to leave a red mark in its wake. He.. He knew her. He was with her at some point. This means she could’ve… Flashes of Her face, looking at him like he was a petulant little boy instead of her ardent protector, all but saying that he wasn’t worthy to be feasted on, wasn’t good enough. No, she must’ve-!

He left the Fortress of Meropide in a hurry, jaw clenched tight. Sigewinne walked in to a completely trashed and glaciered office, furniture splintered in half and dents in the wall no doubt big enough to be made by a gauntleted fist.

The Palais Mermonia taunted him in its size, silhouetted by the rain that had been persistent for a few weeks. Wriothesley’s heart flares up in anger as he realises he was crying over Her, a fact that made him want to rip the head off every Melusine he saw right in front of the Iudex. He settled for breaking the entrance door to the Palais instead, single-mindedly determined to head into Neuvillette’s office. Even in the face of absolute power, he stood in front of the turned back of the draconic being, a runt of the litter going to fight a prime breed carried only by the pure love that coursed through his veins for Her. He opens his mouth, teeth hungry for something to rip and tear into.

“You bastard.”

— flip the page

[degeneratewhores]

THE QUEEN HAS POSTEDDDD

Tw. insecure/introvert reader, angst(?), dark content, noncon kissing, implied noncon/dubcon at the end, jealousy, tension, mutual pinning, misunderstanding, hidden feelings, slow burn(?), stalking, toxic, sabotage, possessiveness, red flag, manipulation, dependency, no actual smut

***

Imagine being the childhood friend of the popular playboy in school.

He wasn’t just a typical playboy—he was popular for a good amount of reasons. He was, of course, hot, tall, with a pretty face, but he also had that effortless charisma. Easy-going, charming, funny when he wanted to be, and somehow still managed to keep decent grades. A good reputation wrapped in the kind of smile that made girls melt.

The only problem? His ongoing roster of girls. You honestly couldn’t pinpoint when or how he turned into such a flirt, it sort of just... happened. Maybe when high school hit, and puberty did him more favors than most. Whatever the case, he became that guy. The one you’d usually only see in dramas.

But it’s not like you had any business with that part of him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two had always been close. Childhood friends. Neighbors. Playmates since you were practically in diapers. Your parents knew each other well, your families comfortable enough to arrange sleepovers that turned into routine. You grew up in each other’s houses, like siblings. Always “the duo.”

But while he bloomed into the guy everyone wanted to be around, you... didn’t exactly shine the same way. You were a little plain. A bit on the bland side compared to others, especially compared to him. While he stood tall, you were shorter than average, often overlooked in group photos. You didn’t have much of a figure either, which made changing in the locker room a quiet kind of dread. Flat and forgettable. You’d never say it out loud, but you noticed the difference.

He lit up every room he walked into. You were just... there. Next to him. Always next to him. Just not quite enough.

But it was fine.

You never made a big deal about any of it. It’s not like you wanted the spotlight anyway. You were comfortable being in the background, comfortable not having all eyes on you. Sure, sometimes you got a few questionable looks when you were with Mr. Charming, but you learned not to care. Let them wonder. You were used to being the quiet one beside the star of the show.

Though, truth be told, you sometimes wondered too. Why did he always stick around? Even when the popular kids were constantly egging him on to ditch you and join them, he never really did. He’d flirt and play around, sure, but he always came back to you. As if none of the sparkle out there was worth trading for late-night game sessions and instant noodles in your room.

"Geez, why’re you in my bedroom...? I thought you were about to go to the concert with them," you asked one evening, raising a brow as he sprawled across your bed like it was his.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna,” he replied, eyes already glued to the game controller in his hand. “Plus, I wanna spend time playing games with you.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, but deep down, your chest tightened just a little. Warm and confused all at once.

It was things like that, small, innocent moments that led to the never-ending question you kept hearing from people.

“Are you guys dating?”

You always shut it down quickly, automatically, almost on instinct now.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not his type, we’re just friends.”

Because that was the truth, right?

Right?

***

He heard you say it all the time.

“We’re just friends.”

You said it so naturally, like breathing. Like it was a fact. Like it didn’t chip away at something in him every time those words slipped from your lips.

But damn, you didn’t make it easy to believe.

Not when you smiled at him like that. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, even the ones no one else caught. Not when you looked at him like he was just him, not the guy with a line of girls and a reputation he didn’t even care for anymore.

He told himself he was just being a good friend. That walking you home—even when it meant doubling back—was normal. That flicking some guy’s forehead for looking at you too long was harmless. Just a joke. Even if something in his chest burned every time.

And maybe he leaned in too close sometimes. Maybe he hovered near your space a little more than necessary. But he didn’t do it on purpose. Not at first.

It’s just... you never pulled away.

You made it feel like he belonged there.

And then there were the little things.

The way you always insisted you weren’t picky, but he still remembered how you liked your noodles with less broth. The way he always brought an extra hoodie because yeah, you always forgot yours, and he didn’t want you getting cold. The way he chose the seat next to you, even if the room was empty. Always you. Always your side.

You never questioned it.

Except that one time.

"Why’re you always hanging out with me? I'm not exactly a party."

He remembered how you asked it with a smile, trying to play it off.

But it hit him harder than he expected. So he gave you the truth. Or at least… part of it.

"Yeah, but you’re my favorite kind of quiet."

You laughed, of course. Brushed it off like it was nothing.

But he saw the way you looked down after. The way your cheeks went warm. And he carried that moment with him, filed it away with all the other things he never said out loud.

And when people asked if you two were dating and you laughed and said “No, I’m definitely not his type”—he never corrected you.

He should’ve. God, he wanted to.

But instead, he just smiled. That same tight, hollow smile.

Because you were wrong.

You were so wrong.

You weren’t loud, or bold, or flashy like the girls who chased him, sure. But none of them ever made him feel the way you did.

And you never saw it.

You looked at yourself and only saw “plain.” But he looked at you and saw home.

And he stayed.

He always stayed.

That part? You never really understood.

But maybe… he was just too much of a coward to make you.

***

It happened one weekend night.

Your parents were out of town for a wedding (you didn't want to go along), leaving you with the house to yourself. You’d planned to spend the evening curled up with snacks and a cheesy drama, nothing unusual. The house was quiet, comfortably so.

Until a knock came at the front door. Loud. Repetitive.

You opened it, and there he was, him. Tall, flushed, and very, very drunk.

“Heeeyyy,” he drawled, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorframe. “Youuuuuu. I missed you.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “Wait—what the hell? Are you drunk? Where were you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled forward, and your reflexes kicked in just in time to stop him from falling face-first into your entryway.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, arms flailing as you tried to support him. “Jeez, you’re heavy, what did you drink?”

He giggled. Actually giggled.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, dropping most of his weight onto you like a sleepy sloth. “They gave me... stuff. Tasted like cough syrup. Missed your face though…”

You groaned, knees nearly buckling under him as you fumbled to drag his dead weight toward the living room. “You missed my face? Seriously?”

He made a noise that was suspiciously close to a whine. “Yeah… You didn’t come to the party. I waited. Got bored. Left.”

“You should’ve just stayed and sobered up instead of dragging your drunk ass here.”

But he didn’t respond. Instead, he slurred something completely incoherent and nuzzled into your shoulder.

You finally managed to guide him to the couch, huffing and trying to keep your balance. But as you bent to lower him onto the cushions, he suddenly shifted his weight and with zero warning, pulled you down with him.

“W-Wait—!”

You fell right on top of him with a muffled oof, and before you could scramble away, his arms lazily wrapped around you, holding you there like a living body pillow.

“Comfy,” he mumbled against your hair. “You smell nice.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha— I— Get off!”

But he didn’t budge. In fact, he snuggled closer, warmth radiating off him as he held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Y’know,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, “I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

You froze.

“I hate it,” he added, softer now. “So dumb. You don’t even see how much I like being around you…”

Then silence. Deep, slow breaths. He was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the way your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

And stayed there, quietly listening to the sound of his breathing, with your face burning and your thoughts racing, wondering if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

Your heart was pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

You could feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you in a lazy hold. Everything about the moment was too much—the closeness, the weight of his words, the way he mumbled "I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred something deeper. And for a moment, it did.

But then, reality hit.

This was him—the same guy who’d flirted with three girls just last week, the same guy whose phone buzzed with messages from different names at ungodly hours. The guy who could have anyone he wanted with just a glance and a half-hearted smile.

Your brows furrowed, the haze of warmth in your chest beginning to cool.

Of course he was saying stuff like that. He was drunk. Sloppy. Blurry-eyed. Probably mistaking you for someone else, or worse, just saying the first sweet thing that came to mind because it was easy. Because that's what he does.

The warmth in your cheeks faded. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared.

You sighed.

“Stupid drunk,” you muttered, voice flat and unimpressed.

He didn’t react, already halfway to sleep, breathing soft and slow like a knocked-out puppy.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught between the ghost of his words and the bitter edge of your thoughts. Part of you wanted to believe what he said. But the other part? The part that had watched girl after girl fall for him and get tossed aside like it was nothing?

That part just wanted to roll its eyes.

Still, you didn’t move.

Because even if you didn’t believe him…

His arms around you still felt kind of nice.

***

You two acted normal after the morning of that. He probably didn't remember what he said, which was a good thing for you. Moved on, like nothing happened.

It's been a few days after that and you were talking about someone new—a guy from your class, apparently. You had that little spark in your voice, the one he usually only heard when you were talking about food or finding a cute dog online.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“So yeah,” you said casually, biting into a snack as you scrolled on your phone, “he offered to walk me home the other day. I didn’t let him, obviously. But he was really nice about it. Kinda surprising.”

He sat beside you on your bed, leaning back on one hand, pretending not to care. “Oh? He did?”

“Yeah. I think he’s cool,” you said, voice light, unaware of how that single word stabbed into him harder than he wanted to admit.

He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, one of those closed-eyed smiles he wore when he was being “harmless.”

“You do?”

You nodded, totally unfazed. “Mhm. He’s funny, smart. Kinda cute.”

There it was.

The trigger.

He sat up a little straighter, the smile never quite reaching his eyes now. “Funny, smart, cute?” he repeated, still with that casual tone. “Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s easy to talk to.”

He snorted. “Right, right. Tall guy? Bit of a clean-cut look?”

You nodded again, chewing absently on your snack.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Bet he’s the type to open doors and call you ma’am too.”

You laughed. “I mean, manners aren’t exactly a red flag.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he said, voice picking up heat now, even as he smiled. “So polite. Bet he irons his shirts and rehearses compliments in the mirror.”

You gave him a look, amused. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Just sayin’—guy’s probably all talk. Bet he folds under pressure. Can’t even kill a spider without screaming.”

You raised a brow, “That’s a bold assumption.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up, still smiling but not meaning it. “I’m taller, better looking, and I don’t have to try so hard to impress people.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his bottle in mock-toast. “If you’re gonna go for someone ‘cool,’ maybe aim higher. You know. Someone who’s taller, funnier, better-looking, less try-hard. Maybe someone who’s known you since you were five. Just throwing that out there.”

“Huh?”

“And I bet my dick’s bigger than his."

You choked on your drink, “What?!”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him, stunned, and he just gave a tiny shrug like oops, did I say that out loud?

You laughed, shaking your head, brushing it all off like it was just another one of his weird ego trips. “Okay, weirdo.”

He didn’t respond right away.

He just watched you, jaw tightening slightly as you turned your attention back to your phone, entirely missing the storm he was trying to hide behind casual smirks and crude jokes.

You didn’t get it, because you didn’t think he looked at you that way.

***

After that conversation, things didn’t exactly change—but they didn’t quite go back to normal either.

He still walked you home. Still flopped onto your bed like it was his own. Still stole your snacks and your charger and your last bit of patience on most days.

But sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a little too long.

Not in the obvious way. Not like the way other guys did, staring with boldness and intentions written all over their faces.

No—he did it quietly. Like he was trying to memorize the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. Like he was trying to figure something out about you… or maybe about himself.

Then there were the little shifts.

He started texting back slower when you told him you were talking to that guy again. Didn’t say anything harsh, but his replies were short. Blunt.

And when that same guy approached you one afternoon in the hallway, he just so happened to slide in between you two, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Didn’t know you liked hanging out with traffic cones,” he muttered with a lopsided grin, nodding at the guy’s neon hoodie.

You laughed nervously, brushing it off. “You’re so dumb.”

But the guy left after that. Didn’t even try to keep the conversation going.

And when you asked him what that was about, he just shrugged.

“Didn’t like his face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like anyone’s face lately.”

He smiled. “Yours is okay, I guess.”

And then there were those times when you were on your phone, texting, and he’d lean over your shoulder too quickly.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“Hmm. No one has a name?”

You sighed, brushing him away. “Why are you so nosy lately?”

But he’d never answer. He’d just flop backward onto the couch or your bed and throw an arm over his eyes like he was bored. Or tired. Or both.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

He was getting quieter about the things he didn’t say. Quieter about how he stayed so close but kept himself just far enough that you wouldn’t really notice.

***

You didn’t say anything about it to him.

Not when you got the number. Not when you exchanged a few late-night texts with the guy from class. And definitely not when he asked who kept lighting up your phone and you lied—said it was your cousin, or some stupid group chat.

Because… if he wanted to keep treating you like you were just his best friend, then fine. Maybe you’d stop waiting. You were plain ol Jane anyway, at this rate you'd end up alone. Not like anyone would like you if you don't even try or put any effort to yourself. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Someone different.

So you said yes to a date.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a small place near the station, casual, low-pressure. You wore a little lip tint. Changed your shirt twice. Checked your phone four times on the way there.

You even left the house without telling him.

Which was rare.

Because somehow, despite how frustrated you were, you still felt a little guilty doing something like this without him knowing. Scrap that! You shouldn't feel guilty at all, it's not like you're his girlfriend or something. Plus, this was your first date, you shouldn't even think of him.

You got there early. Sat at the little table. Smoothed your skirt out. Sipped water slowly.

And waited.

Then waited some more.

Minutes passed. Then a half-hour. Then an hour.

No messages. No call. Just… silence.

At some point, you stopped pretending to check your phone like there was something new. You just sat there, hands folded, eyes distant. Trying not to let it sink in too hard, but it did anyway.

He didn’t show.

No explanation.

No reason.

Just a reminder that maybe you really weren’t the type to be chosen after all.

By the time you got home, it was dark. You kicked your shoes off a little harder than usual, holding back the pressure behind your eyes. The house was quiet. Your parents weren’t home. Just you. And the lingering ache of rejection sitting heavy in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn't gotten your hopes up.

And then you heard the knock on your door. You already knew who it was.

He walked in like he always did, with a lazy grin and a snack in hand. You stared at him like you hadn’t just spent an hour trying to convince yourself you were worth showing up for.

“Yo. You were gone,” he said, tossing a drink on your desk like usual. “Didn’t text me back. Something happened?”

You looked up from where you sat on your bed, your voice dull. “No. I just… needed some air.”

He paused. The grin faltered, but only for a split second.

“…Did you go somewhere?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “Just errands. Nothing interesting.”

He didn’t question it. He trusted you too easily. Or maybe he didn’t want to push. Instead, he stretched out beside you, letting out a sigh. “People are exhausting. I don’t get how you deal with them.”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Guess I just have more patience.”

He turned his head to look at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, searching.

“You okay?”

You smiled, quick and small. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And that was the thing with him. He’d always pull back just when he was about to see something too real. Like he was afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

So, he let it go.

He reached for the controller on your desk, tossing it in your lap. “Wanna game ‘til we pass out?”

You nodded.

Because what else could you do?

You couldn’t tell him your date never showed up. You couldn’t tell him that for a brief moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could be wanted by someone else. That someone else could make you forget the way he made you feel without ever touching you.

***

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

He noticed the shift before you even realized it yourself—how you started texting a little less when he was around, how you smiled down at your phone and quickly locked it when he leaned over. How you’d hum that soft little tune you always did when you were nervous or excited.

It didn’t take much.

One glance at your screen while you left it unattended. One name. One stupid string of texts about Friday and coffee and maybe I’ll see you there? :)

And it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Not because he thought you weren’t allowed to date. Not even because he thought the guy was anything special.

No.

It was because you thought someone else could understand you better than he did. That someone else could earn what he’d spent years protecting.

You didn’t know it, but he was the reason most guys never got near you in the first place.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—especially in high school. Any guy who so much as looked at you too long got “the talk.” A casual hand around your shoulders. A stare that went a little too cold. A whispered “She’s not interested” even if you hadn’t said it yourself.

He made it hard for anyone to approach. On purpose.

Because you were his.

Not in the possessive, boyfriend kind of way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But in the I know every part of you, and no one else ever will kind of way.

So when this new guy started sniffing around, he didn’t wait.

He caught the guy behind the gym after class, right where the hallway cameras didn’t reach.

The guy flinched when he turned the corner and saw him standing there—arms crossed, calm smile on his face like this was just another casual run-in. But his eyes… his eyes were cold.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping into his path.

The guy hesitated, confused. “Uh. Hey?”

“You’ve been texting her.”

The guy blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

He took another step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to take her out. Planning something for Friday, right? Café date?”

The guy laughed nervously, confused. “Yeah? I mean… she said yes.”

That smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s nice like that.”

Then the smile dropped.

“But let’s get one thing straight.”

The guy’s brows pulled together. “What are you—?”

He grabbed the front of his collar, shoving him hard against the wall, voice dropping low and sharp.

“You’re not gonna show up.”

The guy froze. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He leaned in close, breath calm and voice terrifyingly even. “You’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to block her. And you’re never going to speak to her again.”

“You’re insane—!”

He smiled again, twisting the guy’s shirt tighter. “No. You’re stupid. See, here’s the thing. I’m the popular guy. Good grades. Everyone loves me.” He tilted his head, voice dropping even further. “You? You’re a background character. No one’s gonna believe some awkward little shit over me. You tell anyone I threatened you, and all I have to do is smile and say, ‘Who, me?’ And everyone will laugh and move on.”

He let go with a shove, stepping back as the guy gasped, fixing his shirt.

“You can call it jealousy. Obsession. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “But here’s what it really is, I’m not letting someone like you anywhere near her.”

The guy stared at him, chest heaving.

He walked away with a casual wave. “Don’t forget. Friday? You’re busy~”

The guy didn’t show up.

And that night, when he dropped by your room and found you curled up and quiet, wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket, something in his chest twisted.

You didn’t say a word about it.

But he knew.

He could see the flicker of hurt behind your eyes. The soft smile you gave him—fake, practiced. The way you brushed him off like it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel satisfied. Victorious.

But it just made him feel worse.

Because no matter how much he tried to control things… he couldn’t stop that sadness in your eyes.

You didn’t even know it was him. Didn’t even know that all this time, the reason you felt so overlooked, so invisible was because he’d made sure of it.

Not because he wanted to hurt you. But because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else seeing what he saw.

You were his quiet. His warmth. His constant.

And if someone else took that away from him?

He didn’t know who he’d be.

***

It started small.

You noticed it when you caught him glaring at someone you’d only spoken to once. When your texts started mysteriously going unanswered. When people who used to be friendly now looked at you like they didn’t want to get involved.

At first, you thought you were just overthinking it. Paranoia, maybe. You were introverted, bad at reading people. You kept to yourself more often than not, maybe that just meant people naturally faded away.

But then there were moments.

Moments where you caught the sharpness behind his smile when someone mentioned another guy’s name. Moments where his “jokes” about being possessive didn’t feel so funny anymore. Moments where he looked at you too long, too quietly, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say out loud.

And then that night—everything shifted.

He was in your room again. Like always. Sprawled out on your bed, head resting against your pillow like it belonged to him. You were on your floor, flipping through old game cases, trying to ignore the heavy beat of your heart.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, tone light but eyes tracking every move you made.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t really know how to. Your mind had been a mess lately, spinning with everything you didn’t understand. Everything you were starting to understand.

“Do you…” you hesitated, eyes on the case in your hand. “Do you ever think people avoid me because of you?”

He sat up. Slowly.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels like… people don’t even try anymore.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stood. Walked over. Sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t look at him. You felt like you couldn’t.

You looked up at him, finally and your breath caught.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, voice low, “Maybe I like it that way.”

And then he kissed you.

Because his eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious. Dark. Familiar in a way that suddenly felt foreign.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission.

His lips were on yours—soft, warm, dangerous. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was sure. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already.

You froze.

For a second, your brain short-circuited. Everything blanked. Your body didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away. Because you’d thought about this before. God, had you thought about it. Wondered, dreamed, ached over it. But now that it was real…

You remembered the girls. The rumors. The way he never looked twice at them after he got bored.

You pulled back, breath catching. “Don’t.”

He blinked at you, surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

You stood, fast. Hands shaking. “You should go.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he gave you a small, crooked smile. The kind you used to find charming. The kind that now made your stomach twist.

“Why?” he said softly. “I wanna stay the night.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, like this was all just a game, “We can play boyfriend and girlfriend again,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Like we used to when we were kids. Remember that?”

You took a step back. “That was pretend.”

“So~?” He stood too now, closing the space between you. “Let’s pretend again. This time I won’t leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You want to push him away, your mind reeling with the memories of him being a playboy.

“I said you should go,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice firm.

And you hated that your heart skipped. That your body remembered the kiss more than your mind could process it. But your gut? Your gut screamed something was wrong. You took another step back, putting space between you.

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked you like prey, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

"You used to let me sleep over all the time," he said softly, like he was reminding you of a rule you were suddenly breaking. “What changed?”

Everything, you wanted to say.

But instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended. “That was when we were kids.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips—but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something darker. Almost sad.

“You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”

You clenched your fists, unsure why your throat felt tight. “You are. Lately... I don’t know what you are.”

Something in his jaw twitched. The grin dropped.

And then, suddenly he stepped forward.

You barely had time to flinch before you felt his hands on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you backward. Your knees hit the edge of your bed. You stumbled. Sat down.

His body was close. Too close.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he murmured, crouching slightly so he could look you in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. But the unease wouldn’t leave.

He placed a hand beside your thigh on the bed, leaning in.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You didn't answer.

Because part of you didn’t know if it was fear… or something else. Something even more dangerous—doubt.

You tried to stand again, but he didn’t move back. He was watching you too closely. Like he was trying to read your mind. Like he already knew what was in it.

"I know you're confused," he said. "But deep down, you've always felt something too. I just had the guts to do something about it."

You opened your mouth, to argue, to tell him to leave again but nothing came out. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what you're doing anymore."

His expression cracked for a moment—something bitter bleeding through.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

And for the first time, he didn’t try to mask it.

[degeneratewhores]

⚝ DAY 14 — HE'S POSSESSIVE & YANDERE

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — zhongli, dottore, capitano, pantalone

— warnings. — fem! reader, toxic behavior, tw yandere, mentions of baby trapping (dottore's part), rough syx, mentions of blood (pantalone's part), biting/marking, dirty talk, brat taming, jealousy

⚝ ZHONGLI

zhongli's grip on your waist tightens as though the weight of his soul hinged on the shape of your hips as he whispers your name like a sacred hymn, his lips tenderly grazing over the hollow of your throat— and morax cannot stop repeating himself, mine, you hear it? he mouths it against your skin so sensually, mine in this life, mine in the next, mine across every cycle of erosion.

his cock carves into you with a loving patience that amplifies the fire in his gaze, he wasn't one to fuck you rough and deep right away, not at all, because zhongli was far too old for haste, you know? instead, he buries himself slowly so you can feel it all, with a god's hunger for persistence.

you swear you can feel his every vein graze through your walls, his slow but consistent pumps rocking into you further and attempting to dissolve into your very body as his forehead rests against your own, sweat pearling where your bodies are fused, and his eyes— amber, ancient, stare straight through your soul.

"do you think i could forget this?" he groans above you, his voice aching from pleasure, though his thrusts were gradually becoming more brutal now, "do you think i could ever let you leave, now that i've felt you like this?"

your spine arches at his filthy choice of words and you can feel how soaked you were at this point, your slick dripping around his length in humiliating gushes with every new thrust, your cunt pulsing desperately as he moans out your name, archons, moans— as if your need were his own suffering.

zhongli goes all the way in, fucking every inch, every thick, pulsing vein through your cunt until it's all messily shoved inside you, forcing your walls to stretch around him like they were never meant to, like your body had no choice but to take it. fuck, yes it burns, of course, he's part dragon after all and it's too much yet at the same time, not enough.

you can feel his tip scratch against your most aching spots repeatedly, rubbing them apart and pushing up against the limits of what you could take as he made you twitch and clamp around him like you're choking on the intrusion as your nails drag across the large expanse of his toned back.

zhongli groans at the sharpness digging into his skin as his fingers squeeze your hips bruisingly, tight enough so it's not considered gentle anymore, not tender nor sweet, yet hungry, completely fucking gone.

"even stone," he gasps, no, he breaks, his voice torn from the pit of him, as if his divinity was talking through him, "even stone breaks with time, but not me, not for you, i will not erode, i will remain with you forever," your walls clench around him as he crumbles, forehead crashing to your shoulder with his breath hot and shaking against your wet skin, resembling your complete warmth being the altar and his body the offering.

⚝ DOTTORE

your body utterly rewires with dottore's hand's around your throat— not tightly, not choking, but claiming, like a collar held by his master, with his breath coming in through harsh, delighted pants against your ear as he forces your legs wider with one knee, sinking into you with merciless, almost scientific precision.

"oh, how you weep for it," he laughs, his voice alight with that hideous brilliance, the unholy thrill of unraveling something delicate and divine. dottore continues watches you sob beneath him with eyes as big as saucers, your overwhelmingly broken noises turning his face in awe like a laboratory specimen gone beautiful as he laughs, his expression bright with mania.

"such a reaction— such exquisite collapse," he groans before tenderly licking the tears off your cheek like he's tasting a drug synthesized just for him, so slow and lewd it made your cheeks burn as his tongue trails down to your tensed jaw and gulping throat, obviously where your pulse pounded like it's trying to escape.

"your body tells me the truth," your pulse flutters where his voice settles, rasping low like a warning, "it opens for me even as your mind screams or begs, perhaps? you begs so sweetly," as he thrusts into you again, your hips immediately betraying you and rising up to meet his blows with no mercy for your own good.

"you would never betray me, correct? say it," he echoes mockingly as his warm exhales bleed over your neck, "no, no, this is devotion, this is biology," as he cups your face like a holy relic, feigning any kind of love and fondness within his eyes as for a moment, it could truly be believed that you mattered to him.

if he could, dottore wants to stay in your body forever, not just for this moment, but as a permanent echo as every thrust was a question carved into your velvety insides—will you keep me? will you survive me? as your cunt answers without mercy, sucking him in and trapping him within a tight constriction, fluttering tight, shamefully eager to please your lover.

and to be frank, the friction was slowly about to become unbearable and you do not remember for how long the both of you were going for already as you're full past your capacity, your nerves screaming and shriveling at his dangerous, rigid thrusts that landed with slick, guttural slaps on slaps on slaps which sounds like sin itself, fuck— you feel so filthy with dottore on top of you, it's so wet, loud and nasty that your body was taking him with a noise that should humiliate you, yet it only made you crave him harder.

your back arches, hands clawing uselessly at the sheets yet he doesn't consider stopping anytime soon as he fucks you sharp and unforgiving, each drag of his cock slithering through your walls was calculated to make you scream out in pleasure— it's designed to be too much, every inch of him stretching you wide and cruelly slow as though he's measuring exactly how far he could push you before your body gave up on its stamina.

every step dottore took shook you to your core, yet when he suddenly presses a kiss to your temple, feeling as though he was deranged with fondness, your body shakes underneath his comforting cold, "there's no version of reality where you'll leave this bed without me staining your womb," words fall out of him as his voice drips with venom and delight, "i'll cut your name into my skin if it means you'll never forget mine."

⚝ CAPITANO

all you could hear was the sickeningly loud sound of your bodies connecting and becoming one with the mess between your thighs serving as a reminder of hours gone by as capitano breathes deeply into his chest— each inhale awakening a tremor through you and each exhale hovering hot against your mouth.

capitano doesn't say much to you aside from watching you intently, because you see? the harbinger doesn't have to, in fact, the silence coils around you like a chain, thick with intent, heavy with the gravity of his presence alone as words would only cheapen it— this unbearable, suffocating stillness where only his breath echoed something shallow on top of you.

his gaze pins you down without his weight even trying to, his eyes darker than sin and steadier than death when you realize— no voice could ever claim you the way his silence already did. capitano possesses you with absence, commands you without a sound and without a doubt, your body would always obey him, through chains and trembles, welcoming him open and spread.

his cock forces its way deeper now, each rock of hips impossibly thick as you bite down on his shoulder just to keep from moaning so loudly as you're shaking through the overstimulation he caused, completely wrecked, and yet he hasn't said a single word yet.

instead, his massive hands held your hips in place, his thumbs bruising into your bone as he pushes in again— slowly, even slower than before, not to mention cruel as you swear you can feel him in your lungs.

the weight of his body crushes the air from your lungs as then—finally, the voice of a man who rarely spoke, yet when he did, the world stilled to listen, "this is what your body was built for."

⚝ PANTALONE

"do you have any idea what it costs me to behave?" pantalone spits out as he shoves you flat on your stomach, one hand forcing your cheek into the mattress, the other kneading the flesh of your ass.

by this point, you're drooling, legs kicked open and cunt stuffed, your arousal and his cum leaking down your thighs, "what costs you not to ruin the moment? tell me, for you to stop smiling at someone who isn't me?"

he slides in with a wet, agonizing stretch as you welcome him with your back arching off the mattress when one arm loops around your body to pull you closer. his cock bullies its way impossibly deep thick inside you, and every move of his was screaming rich and cruel as pantalone fucks you like he negotiates— with control and precision, aside from enough venom to bleed you dry, every slap of him scraping you raw from the inside out.

his voice was like a hiss in your ear, thoroughly sharp with jealousy, "you're mine, everything you have is mine, your cunt, your moans, the pathetic way you soak the sheets— all of it," as he belittles you, slapping his hips against you so wildly the sound of it all almost drowned out his voice.

you sob into the pillow as he repeatedly slams into you, again and again, losing control as you're too occupied with salivating in the feeling of his thick cock pounding you relentlessly hard, fucking into you so deeply with everything he's got as his fingers dig into your hips, your stomach caving in from how deep he hits your insides, from the unforgiving stretch and the endless mess between your thighs.

"you wanna be greedy?" pantalone sneers, "you want more? more cock? more cum? i'll give you everything, i'll fill you so full, it'll spill out every time you try to walk away from me," as his rhythm breaks down into desperate, needy thrusts as he bites your shoulder hard to somehow contain himself.

without a doubt, the harbinger fucks like he owns time itself— as if he bought it? truly controlled and luxuriating in every inch of your body like it's the spoils of an empire. yet when he loses it at last, oh, and when the mask cracks you ask? his rhythm shatters into frenzied, gasping thrusts, each one an obvious confession of everything money cannot buy.

at last, he cums with his lips hovering over your throat before sinking his teeth into your shoulder sharp and punishing, almost brutal until a faint amount of blood blossoms under his mouth like a signature as he moans into the subtle wound, his breathing ragged and body spent

"you belong to me, do you understand? i’ll never let you go," how befitting of pantalone to fuck you like he's angry at you giving someone else a faint amount of attention— if he could even claim for it to be the reason still when in reality, the harbinger simply wanted to put you in your place.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[degeneratewhores]

Q&A For 3 of the Monster Boys by Itoko (Idoll_itk)

[degeneratewhores]

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.

[degeneratewhores]

(john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It all started with a pie.

A blackberry pie, to be exact. One that you’d spent a good part of the morning perfecting- balancing the sweetness and tartness with the precision of a master alchemist concocting a love potion. You were almost convinced that this particular pie might finally be the answer to your mother’s prayers: an offering so mouthwatering that it would distract her from once again insisting you marry that insufferably dull miller’s son, Thomas.

You had just placed it on the windowsill to cool, the aroma curling through the cottage like a siren’s song, when your mother barged in, cheeks flushed with determination. “I’ve invited Thomas for supper.” She announced, as if she was a witch summoning a dark spirit.

You almost dropped the teapot. “Mother, no.”

��Mother, yes. Darling, you’re not getting any younger.” She clasped her hands like a pious martyr, staring heavenward as if appealing for divine assistance. “Why, you are practically ancient now. Do you know how many children I had at your age? Three! And you- still unmarried. People are talking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but that’s when inspiration struck. Perhaps it was the sweetness of the pie that made your thoughts reckless, or perhaps the desperation of avoiding Thomas’s endless ramblings about grain prices, and so you straightened your spine. “… But I already have a suitor.”

Your mother paused, mouth pursed like she’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon. “You what?”

“Yes.” You adjusted your apron with all the gravitas of a queen revealing her long-lost heir, except you were revealing a beloved. “He’s a soldier. Off fighting bravely in the war. Captain… John Price.” You plucked the name from thin air, thinking it sounded stalwart, military-ish and utterly believable.

Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “And why haven’t I heard of this… Captain before?”

“Well, we didn’t want to make a fuss. You know how people talk.”

Her suspicion melted, replaced with gleaming hope. “A soldier, you say? A captain?”

“Yes,” you continued, your voice growing bolder. Let ir never be said that you did not inherit some of your father’s love for theatrics. “He writes to me. Beautiful letters, whenever he has the chance to, and I always reply. I’ll… I’ll show you one!”

That’s how you found yourself hunched over your rickety desk that night, ink staining your fingers, spinning an epic tale of love and longing so good you justknew Shakespeare was probably rolling in his grave

Dear Captain John Price,

My heart is but a lonely swallow without you. The days stretch long and tiresome in your absence, but I hold steadfast, knowing that one day you will return to me- my brave, rugged soldier.

Yours, faithfully.

You took great care in writing the letter, wanting it to look as if it had been penned by a devoted girl waiting patiently for her beloved captain. Before folding it, you pressed a dried flower between the pages and lightly scented the paper with a dab of your favorite perfume, the fragrance soft and sweet, leaving no doubt that the writer was a gentle, affectionate soul and not an absolutely insane woman tricking her parents. You even tied it with a delicate ribbon, imagining how any soldier would feel cherished to receive such a letter.

To your utter (non)surprise, it worked. Your mother clutched the letter to her chest with a tearful sigh, whispering something about true love. And from that moment on, Captain John Price became your imaginary lover, a sturdy bulwark against matchmaking attempts.

And so, the years passed, and John Price became a part of your life. You wrote letters to him whenever the pressure to marry reached critical mass, each one a little more elaborate than the last. You even took to carrying one of his supposed letters (which you also wrote yourself) in your apron pocket, just in case anyone questioned your devotion.

You never expected, however, for the Captain himself to show up at your doorstep.

It was a crisp autumn evening when the knock came. You barely registered it, too busy trying to salvage the stew that was steadfastly refusing to thicken. When the knock came again, louder and more insistent, you huffed and flung open the door, still clutching your wooden spoon like a weapon and a mighty glare on your face.

There stood a man. A mountain of a man, truthfully. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a commanding presence that seemed to make the very air hold its breath. His face was framed by a well-groomed beard, his eyes a piercing blue beneath a well-worn cap. And clutched in his large hand was a bundle of letters- scarily familiar letters, actually.

His mouth curved into a slow, wolfish grin. “Well, love. You’ve got some explainin’ to do.”

You froze, spoon hovering mid-air. “You- how- who are you?”

He chuckled, the sound more than a little smug. “Name’s Captain John Price. You might recognize me from your rather… heartfelt correspondence.” He held up one of the letters, the familiar scrawl of your handwriting a stark betrayal.

Your stomach dropped. “…Coincidence.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he drawled, stepping inside as if he owned the place. “Imagine my surprise when your letters kept landing in my hands. At first, I thought it was just some lonely girl scribbling fantasies. But the boys kept handin’ them to me- said they lifted spirits, readin’ how you were waitin’ for me.”

You spluttered, backing up as he prowled forward. “But- how did they-“

He shrugged, almost casual. “You put my name and rank on the letters. Found their way to me eventually. You’ve been rather… devoted, haven’t you?”

You sputtered. “Devoted? I was just- avoiding marriage!”

His eyes darkened, jaw tightening. “Didn’t stop me from thinking about it. About you. When I read how you longed for me- waited so faithfully- made a man think. Would’ve kept any other bastard from sniffin’ around, I’d hope.”

Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth. “I didn’t think you were real!”

He leaned closer, the scent of tobacco and gunpowder curling around you like a trap. “Oh, I’m real, love. And now I’m here. Reckon you owe me a bit of hospitality after all those love letters, no?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.

“Didn’t matter if you didn’t mean it, you still wrote it. Made me think of comin’ home to you, of claimin’ what’s mine.” His fingers brushed your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness. “You made yourself mine. And now, I’ve come to collect.”

Before you can muster a protest, he leans down, capturing the corner of your lips in a kiss, your face frozen solid in shock. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes your swollen lip.

“That clear enough for you, wife?”

p2

[degeneratewhores]

-> soft yandere caleb hcs:

1. “you’re mine. you said so.” you get busy—miss a call, forget a text—and when you finally answer, his voice is calm, too calm. “i waited. for hours.” you apologize, sweetly, teasingly even, but he doesn’t laugh. “you promised you’d always be there, remember? don’t break your promises. i… don’t handle that well.” and later, when he holds you close, you feel the way his hands tremble slightly against your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

2. his name in your phone has a lock emoji. -> he changed it himself. he also disabled the option to delete his contact. “just in case someone thinks they can slide into your messages,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “they’ll know who you belong to.”

3. he tracks you. -> not in a creepy way (okay maybe a little), but he has your location always. and when he sees you’re somewhere unexpected, he texts immediately: “what are you doing there?” ……you ask how he knew. “because you’re mine pipsqueak, and i need to know you’re safe. that’s not too much to ask, is it?” and the look in his eyes? he’d burn the whole galaxy just to get you back home.

4. he doesn’t like you being friends with your ex-> at all. he doesn’t raise his voice. doesn’t tell you not to. he just shuts down emotionally, turns icy and unreadable. it’s bound with his actions though… he would probably still do everything acts of service wise. but he wants you to understand something is wrong, wants you to probe… and when you confront him, he finally murmurs, “i don’t want to be second choice to anyone. i want to be your only. and if that’s too much—” you cut him off with a kiss. you have to. because his voice was starting to sound a little unhinged and a little too honest.

5. he locks the door when you argue.-> not to trap you essentially (which he thinks he isn’t doing…) just to make sure you don’t leave. “we’re not going to sleep angry pips,” he says, softly. “you don’t walk away from me. not when we love each other this much baby.” and when you calm down, he pulls you into his lap, arms like iron around you, and whispers again and again, “mine. mine. mine.”

6. he doesn’t like you dressing up for anyone but him.-> you put on a new outfit, stunning, radiant—and his jaw clenches. why are you so breath-taking my gorgeous he thinks… no wonder he wants a world with just the two of you. “who’s that for?” / “me,” you say, innocent. but he steps closer, cups your jaw gently, possessively. “next time, wear it only when we’re alone. i don’t want anyone else seeing what’s mine. or~ you’d hate how i become and say something like i killed your old caleb.”

7. his anger is unpredictable.->when someone flirts with you in front of him, he doesn’t start a fight. but sometimes the look in his eyes speaks more than words ever could. maybe he will break their bones when you leave, maybe he will let it slide. who knows what caleb’s mood dictates him to do. sometimes, he just smiles. and later, when you’re home, he pins you softly to the bed, hands on either side of your head.“do you want them?” he asks, voice flat. “because i can make sure they never speak to you again.” and you— you tell him it’s just him. it’s always been him. like a prayer, like a chanting to balm his rage. and he finally kisses you like a starved man, whispering “good girl.”

8. he deletes numbers from your phone.->you’ll never notice. he’s too smooth. but people you used to talk to? stop replying. and when you ask caleb, he just shrugs with a soft smirk, “maybe they realized they could never compete with me.” and then changes the subject with a kiss and that dangerous look in his eyes again…. this isn’t out of sheer possessiveness though its just out of trust issues.

9. he doesn’t like letting you sleep mad at him.-> you try to turn away in bed, still upset. away from him… back on his face like an iron wall. but he slides his arms around you from behind, strong and unyielding.“no. you don’t get to walk away from me in your sleep, either.” and you can feel how serious he is. “we fix this now, angel. i’ll do anything. but you don’t leave.”

10. he has nightmares about losing you.-> he never tells you the full details either. just that he wakes up shaking, pale, and pulls you into his lap, holding you so tightly it almost hurts. “i saw you leaving me,” he whispers into your neck. “don’t ever do that. i wouldn’t survive it.”

[degeneratewhores]

>> 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

Yandere genshin men x reader ( GODS AU ) Characters : diluc, kaeya, alhaitham, kaveh, zhongli, Childe, wriothesly, neuvilette.

The most desired goddess of them all, beloved and hated by many for their beauty. an ethereal being whose mere presence captivates mortals and gods alike. Your touch can inspire devotion, and your gaze alone has driven kingdoms to war. But among your admirers, a few stand out—gods who don’t just worship you, but obsess over you. Their love is consuming, possessive, and inescapable.

Inspired by Greek mythology, the reader is inspired by Aphrodite

DILUC ( GOD OF FIRE AND RETRIBUTION )

A god of fire who embodies both destruction and renewal. He is worshiped by warriors and those seeking revenge against the corrupt. His followers believe that while his flames burn away evil, they also cleanse and bring rebirth. Despite his cold demeanor, he deeply values justice and protection. Your husband in contract.

Diluc’s love is like an unrelenting flame—it burns fiercely, searing away anything that threatens to take you from him. He believes that only he can truly protect you from the dangers of the divine and mortal realms alike. If another god dares to court you, he will see it as an act of war. His devotion is suffocating; he would burn entire cities to the ground if it meant keeping you safe and by his side.

Diluc is not blind. He sees the way other gods look at you—with longing, desperation, even defiance. It infuriates him to no end. He already won you, already made you his. What more do they want? His flames burn with rage at the mere thought of someone trying to take you away. If anyone dares to overstep, he will make an example of them—turning his divine fury upon them until they are nothing but ashes.

"You don’t need them. You don’t need anyone but me. Why risk your heart with those who will only betray you? I will guard you, worship you, love you... even if I must destroy the world to do so."

KAEYA ( GOD OF DECEPTION AND SECRETS )

A mysterious and cunning god, known for his silver tongue and ability to manipulate fate. He is neither entirely good nor evil, often testing mortals with riddles and half-truths. His followers pray to him for guidance in uncovering secrets—or keeping them hidden. Some believe he knows the answers to the world’s greatest mysteries but only shares them for a price.

Kaeya doesn’t just love you—he owns you. Or at least, that’s how he sees it. His love is a twisted game where he ensures you’ll never escape him, even if it means lying, tricking, or breaking you. He whispers sweet words, poisons the thoughts of others who dare approach you, and ensures that no one but him truly understands you. If you try to resist, you’ll soon find that every path leads back to him.

Kaeya loves a challenge, and what’s more thrilling than stealing the Goddess of Love from her own husband? He knows Diluc watches him with fire in his eyes, but that only makes the game more enticing. He’s always near, offering honeyed words, whispering promises of a love sweeter than flames. Wouldn’t it be more exciting to run away, to escape with someone who truly understands you?

"Marriage is just a word… isn’t it. does marriage truly mean love? Or is it just another contract, another chain? If you ever find yourself bored with that brute I'll promise you a night of passion… you know where to find me"

ALHAITHAM ( GOD OF REASON AND KNOWLEDGE )

A god who values intellect above all, often challenging mortals to think for themselves rather than blindly follow others. His temples are filled with scholars and scientists seeking enlightenment.

Alhaitham does not believe in fate, yet his obsession with you defies all logic. He has studied every aspect of your existence, analyzed every interaction, and concluded one undeniable truth: you were meant to be his.

Your marriage to Diluc? An incorrect equation. A mistake. A flaw in the grand design. He is patient, methodical—unlike the others who act on impulse. He won’t challenge Diluc with brute force or desperate pleas. Instead, he will plant doubts, whisper truths, and dismantle the foundations of your love, piece by piece.

"Love is not about passion or fire—it is about compatibility, understanding, and permanence. And by all rational measures… he is not your match. I am."

KAVEH ( GOD OF ART AND ARCHITECTURE )

A passionate and emotional god who values artistic expression above all else. He blesses architects, poets, and dreamers, urging them to create beauty in a harsh world. However, he often struggles with his own perfectionism, torn between ideals and reality. His temples are among the most breathtaking structures in existence, filled with intricate designs and stories carved into stone.

you are a masterpiece—the ultimate muse, the divine inspiration that makes life worth living. His love is suffocating in a different way: he needs you. Without you, he is nothing. He would carve statues, build temples, and dedicate his very existence to you, no matter the cost. But his devotion is unstable—his jealousy and desperation lead him to tear down anything that threatens to steal your love from him.

To Kaveh, your marriage is an absolute heartbreak. He sees himself as the only one who can truly understand you, truly cherish you. He paints murals of you in secret, builds shrines in your honor, whispers prayers of devotion. Every word from his lips is drenched in longing.

"I could have built you a palace fit for a goddess… Instead, you are trapped in his cage of fire. If only you had chosen me…"

ZHONGLI ( GOD OF CONTRACT AND KING OF THE GODS )

A god-king who rules with both wisdom and an iron fist. Unlike his more passive form as the God of Contracts, an unyielding monarch who commands the earth itself. His laws are absolute, and defying him leads to destruction. It is said that mountains bow to his will, and the very ground trembles when he speaks.

Zhongli, the King of the Gods, does not ask for what he wants—he simply takes it. He has ruled over divinity for eons, shaping the heavens and earth to his will. And you? The Goddess of Love and Beauty? You are the only being who has ever tested his patience.

Your marriage to Diluc is a mistake, a flaw in destiny that he will correct. He has watched, waited, given you time to understand the inevitable truth: you were always meant to be his. Yet you continue to resist. It is almost amusing.

"Mortal concepts like marriage hold no power over gods like us, my dear. You belong to me, as you always have. It is not a matter of choice—it is divine law."

CHILDE ( GOD OF CHAOS AND WAR )

A god of endless battle, unpredictable and relentless. He tests warriors by dragging them into brutal conflicts, favoring those who fight with heart over those who fight with strategy. Despite his violent nature, he values family and loyalty above all else. His followers believe that the sound of crashing waves is his war drum, calling them to battle.

Love is a battlefield, and he is willing to fight for you. He has never backed down from a challenge, and your marriage to Diluc is simply another war to win. He constantly challenges Diluc, hoping to defeat him and claim you as his reward. His devotion is as violent as it is passionate.

He grows frustrated when you defend Diluc, but that only fuels his desire to prove himself. To him, you belong to the one who fights hardest for you.

"What’s a piece of paper and some vows compared to real devotion? When I carve my love into the battlefield, will you still deny me?"

WRIOTHESLY ( GOD OF THE UNDERWORLD AND DEATH )

A god who rules the underworld with an iron yet fair hand. He does not seek cruelty, but neither does he tolerate injustice. Those who are cast into his domain are given a chance to redeem themselves—but only if they prove their strength and integrity.

You are the warmth in his cold, dark domain, the one thing that can soften his hardened heart. Unfortunately his duties in the underworld has made great a divider between you and him being together, the last time he saw you was your wedding day with diluc and he watched from the shadows seeing the one he loved the most being taken.

He respects the contract between you and diluc but what about him, he always fantasizes being with you but now you're in the arms of someone else maybe if he could find ways to bind you towards him being unable to leave the underworld maybe that's the only way to finally have you.

"Mortals and gods alike fight for your love, but only I am willing to keep you safe—forever. Even death will not take you from me."

NEUVILETTE ( THE SOVEREIGN OF WATERS )

Neuvillette is not merely a god—he is the first water, the primordial ocean from which all things were born. When the heavens and earth were still divided, he existed as an endless sea, a formless deity whose essence gave life to rivers, rain, and the tears shed by mortals. Legends say that his very presence dictates the balance of the world—when he weeps, storms ravage the land; when he is calm, the seas turn to glass. He is justice incarnate, not in the way of laws, but in the way water finds its path, carving through mountains and drowning kingdoms alike.

As the Primordial God of Water, Neuvillette is not one to be ruled by fleeting emotions—or so he tells himself. He has existed since before time, before love itself was given a name. He has seen kings rise and fall, empires swallowed by the tides, and yet… When he learns that you, the Goddess of Love and Beauty, have chosen another, he does not rage like the others... He weeps.

Neuvillette does not hate your marriage. He does not fight it, nor does he curse it. But he watches. He waits. Because fire will always burn itself out. And when that day comes, he will be there—as he always has been, and always will be.

"You have only to step into the tide, and I will take you where you truly belong."

[degeneratewhores]

Wait this is low-key so fire, I love to see the aftermath of Wriothesley despair and the angst is would bring 😪��

𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

♡ | Being the most infamous criminal in all of Fontaine is one of the most thrilling thing, especially when you're dying to get caught. After killing multiple people for specific reasons, the bounty on your head reached millions of mora just waiting to be claimed. After all, your husband is the best officer there is.

You and Wriothesley has been married for two years. In those two years, your marriage has been hidden. He knows that it was morally wrong to be married to a criminal he was supposed to turn in, but his heart stops him from from being loyal to his duties, which leaves you awfully pitiful for him. ˎˊ˗

tw .ᐟ suicidal reader, implications of depression, hurt no comfort, use of alcoholic drinks, mentions of guns and knives, mentions of kidnapping, suicide

𖹭 first work, not beta read nor am i a native english speaker; errors may occur. And it may suck ass at first. .ᐟ ao3

After being kidnapped during your adolescence, you pointed a gun at your kidnapper and shot them, making violence your way of self defense. Every time you went out, you always had a gun or a knife in your pocket and bags, hoping to use it whenever a threat bestows upon itself to you. 

With every stranger you found suspicious getting near you, you always pointed a gun or a knife at them, having to refrain yourself from triggering it. However, you had multiple killings where many innocent civilians died from your hands, making you flee to Liyue. 

During your time in that country, you stumbled upon Wriothesley, who was working for an international collaboration for Fontaine’s police department with the Millelith. Wriothesley didn’t know who you were, since your reports were either masked or your image cannot be depicted, which made you hide your identity to him. 

Speaking of Wriothesley, as he opened the door from your shared bedroom to change, he slumped down on the couch before turning on the television. He skipped through multiple channels–cartoon channels, animal geographic channels, and then the Steambird Channel. 

“Fontaine’s most wanted criminal is on the run once again, after having a vicious and bloody killing spree at Hotel Debord.” A woman said, her face distraught as it showed the evidential photos of your joyous massacre. 

Wriothesley leaned in from his couch, furrowing his eyebrows as he saw your photos plastered on national television once again, worry creeping up in his chest as he wondered where you fled. Seconds turned into minutes as the channel didn’t give any updates and speculation about where you went, but as soon as he heard police sirens outside his home, he knew just where to find you.

He rushed over to the highest window of your home, hoping that he would see you hijacking the window open. And you did. He heard you giggling to yourself as you gave one last look towards the police officers down below, wondering which turn you went. They were close enough for you to see, but far enough to not find you. 

As you closed the window tight shut, you placed your hands on your hips and let out a big sigh, laughing once again after out running them. That’s when Wriothesley secured an arm on your neck and placed a hand on your mouth as he pushed you to a wall. His eyes full of disapproval and worry. “What the hell did you do this time?”

He took a peek outside the window, the room dark enough to hide his face. He noticed how vibrant the red and blue lights were, or maybe it was because of the tears that almost appeared on his water line. 

You batted your eyelashes at him with a blunt look, looking at him in the eyes and on the hand on your mouth, telling him that you practically can’t talk, not when there was a big, muscular hand on your mouth and throat. 

When he removed his hands from you, you grinned at him first and then wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying him side to side as if you didn’t just decrease Fontaine’s population by five percent. “Oh, I missed you too!”

Wriothesley grabbed your arms first before placing it between your side. “Just answer me first. What did you do?” He leaned down slightly to meet you eye to eye, his face stern and serious.

You remained a poker-like face at him, your eyes slightly wide with a small smile across your face. “A group of men were being such a pervert at the performance today. You know? The one with the twin performers. A few guys paid hundreds just to get them to strip.” Wriothesley winced and sighed at your words, rubbing his forehead as he circled a bit around the room. He groaned, lifting his head to meet the annoyingly dark ceiling before he placed a strong grip on your shoulders. “Well I’m glad that you were looking out for their well-being. But dear god, you should never put the law on your hands like that.”

Your head was tilted to the side as you raised an eyebrow at him, hearing the sirens getting louder until eventually someone was calling out outside the residence. 

“I’ll go talk to them, alright? And don’t go anywhere. Just sit on the couch.” He warned, both of you going down the stairs as he placed you down on the sofa. “Don’t go anywhere, I swear to god.”

He grabbed a more decent clothing than the loose shirt he wore just a second ago, but kept the sweatpants. He also grabbed the ID and badge he placed on the coffee table where he left you off.

Wriothesley leisurely opened the door, acting as if he wasn't harboring the exact criminal they wanted. “Officer Wriothesley of Meropide Police Department, how may I be of service to you today?” He brought up the badge and ID, showing it to them. 

“Officer Morgane of the Marechaussee Phantom. Officer Wriothesley, have you seen the wanted criminal lurking in your residence? We’ve lost their trace around your area, and we would like to know if you’ve seen unusual activity in the past five minutes.” The officer said, behind her are two other officers from the same department, and a little melusine next to her.

“I’m afraid not, Officer Morgane.” Wriothesley shook his head, something to copy from his slightly trembling hands as he struggled to place the badge back into his pocket. “I just got home, actually. And turned on the television and knew about the case. However, I would let you know if I found some unusual activity.”

“May we request an investigation in your premises, Officer Wriothesley?” The melusine asked, placing her hands on her hips as she looked Wriothesley dead in the eyes.

He slightly furrowed his eyebrows, a sudden lump in his throat forming. “That would be unnecessary, Officer Ceasth.”

She exchanged looks at the woman, waiting for her approval until one of the male officers spoke. 

“With all due respect, Officer Wriothesley, an investigation is a must, especially with someone as hostile as the wanted criminal.” A wide man said, crossing his arms as he looked at him.

“How about you investigate your own residence, you must have some private matters inside.” Another man said. 

Wriothesley chuckled as he sighed, “Very well. I won’t take long.”

With that, Wriothesley turned around and went inside once again, shutting the door behind him. He made haste towards the living room, finding you still sitting on the couch but with a gun circling around your fingers. Wriothesley placed a hand on the said gun and grabbed it, making his presence seen as he stood behind the sofa. 

“Stop that.” He said as he looked at you. “They’re letting me investigate the house, and I would like to hear no accidental gunshots from inside as I convince them that you’re not in here.” Your eyes lit up as you saw your husband again, giggling to yourself as you gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There won't be any gunshots heard here, you can trust me.”

“I know I can trust you. But once they barge through this door, make a run for it and hide.” He placed some distance between the both of you, breathing heavily through his teeth. The grin on your face never ceased to exist, giving him that uncanny innocent look as he scolded you. “Don’t give me that look.”

A playful pout replaced your grin, wiggling your shoulder side to side as you kept eye contact with him. Wriothesley shook and hung his head low, his eyes going back towards the door. “I’ll give them an update. Don’t move.” 

Before he left, you called out to him one last time. He turned his head to you, crooking an eyebrow upwards and waited for you to continue your words. “Give me a kiss first before you go?” 

Wriothesley, unable to resist you, chuckled and made long strides to go back to you. He gave your lips a not so quick peck, pouring all the worry and fear to it. “Just, be safe. Okay?”

You nodded at him, fending him off and telling him to continue his work. “You can trust me!” You exclaimed, leaning back on the couch as he opened the door and left. “And he took my gun with me…”

A few minutes pass and Wriothesley is back outside the gate to meet the four officers, a hand running through his hair almost nonchalantly. “No suspicious activity here, officers.” “Very well, Officer Wriothesley.” Morgane said and slightly bowed at him. “We will appreciate an update from you further on.”

“You better, or we will have to tell Monsieur Neuvillette on you and off with your head in courtesy of champion duelist, Clorinde!” Ceasth said, turning behind him as she gave him a small glare from her shoulder. 

Wriothesley snickered at her words, lifting a hand as he shook it like he was swatting a fly. “I’m afraid that won’t happen, officer.” 

As the police cars retreated, Wriothesley took a few more seconds before going back inside. But this time, you were nowhere to be seen. His heart started pounding to his ears, his brain triggering a sense of flight as he searched the house for you, calling out your name. When he heard water running by the bathroom, he quickly made his way to it and saw you staring at your bloodied hands. 

“There you are…” He said, his grip on the doorknob softening as he saw you alive and well. “I thought they distracted me and took you from behind.” 

You listened to his words intently, but never met his eyes. You shoved your hands into the cold, running water, your eyes fixated at how the tainted red stains stuck to your palms like paint. How many people have you killed today? In fact, how many people have you killed in your whole lifetime at all? And during those killing sprees, how many times have you wished that you never ran from the police? 

“What do you think would happen to me if I turned myself in?” You blurted out suddenly. Maybe it was an autopilot thought that your mouth registered instead. 

Wriothesley’s eyes widened at your statement. What wouldn’t happen to you once the police get a hold of you? He leaned off of the doorframe and rushed to your side, grabbing onto your shoulders as he forced you to make eye contact with him. This action made you jolt up, your body not realizing that you’ve been staring into nothing at every thing at the same time. You scanned his face, his mouth slightly agape as if he was figuring out which part of the textbook he learned about what kinds of punishments the law has in store for you. 

“You have no idea.” He said, almost like a whisper. You noticed how his pupils were contracting and how his voice quivered. “Once you step foot into that department, they will throw you in without any second thoughts and then torture you as painfully and ruthlessly as you did to your victims.” 

“Second degree murder, illegal gun possession, resisting arrest, and multiple attempted murder–” Wriothesley let go of his grip on you as flicked his fingers as he counted all of the laws you’ve broken. Biting down on his lower lip as he showed you his fingers, “Do you get it?”

He placed both of his hands on the side of your neck, his thumbs rubbing your cheek as he leaned down on you and pressed your foreheads together, his breath hot and heavy against your face. “They’ll lock you away in a cell and throw the key, leaving you to rot in jail. That’s if you’re lucky enough to escape the death penalty.”

You stared at him right through his eyes, your face remaining deadpanned as you were unable to have the proper emotions you needed. Is it because you knew that would be the cost? Or maybe it’s because you would prefer the death penalty more than anything. It seemed like nothing was able to faze you anymore, after all, you have survived multiple life or death encounters. 

Wriothesley noticed the lack of concern you had on your face, pulling back slightly to move your shoulders back and forth. “Do you hear me? I can’t let that happen to you. I swear, I can’t let them take you away from me. But you have to promise me one thing–promise me that you’ll be careful next time.”

Suddenly, you were able to make out a reaction this time. You let out a heavy sigh with some laughing in between, from how long you felt like you were holding your breath. You removed his hands from your neck, holding both of it delicately as you toyed with his wedding ring, as you swayed the other hand back and forth. 

“I’ll promise you, and they won’t be able to catch me that easily. I used to be the best hide and seek player back in my days, you know?” Wriothesley sighed, a mix of exasperation and endearment as he watched you toy with his wedding band. He came to know early that the playful demeanor you put up is just some kind of defense mechanism or a way to cope, knowing that he is a master of that tactic too. He knew you won’t listen to all of what he has to say, yet he was also unable to resist you either. 

“I’m sure you were, but this isn’t just a game of hide and seek anymore.” He started, his eyes walking from your fingers to your face as his eyes softened at your sight. That cheeky smile plastered across your face, or how your hair fell perfectly to frame your face. “This is different, they’ll search everywhere just to find you, investigate every hole you can crawl into, and once they catch you…” 

He stopped for a moment, his hand catching yours as his grip tightened. “And once they catch you, they’ll make sure you suffer worse than your victims. I won’t be there to protect you–” 

“Not like you’re supposed to be protecting me at all as we speak.”

“That’s not the point,” Wriothesley scoffed, shaking his head as he discarded what you said. “The point is, I need you to fully promise me that you will not take the law into your own hands. I know that I can’t control what you do, and that you have your own way to spend your time leisurely, but dear god. Think about me, someone who cares and loves deeply about you, getting worried sick every time your face is on national television and newspapers. 

At that point, the water in the sink started to overflow, yet no one seemed to notice. It was pooling all over the floor, the splashes hitting your bloodstained clothes, your feet running cold as no one bothered to turn it off. 

A heavy weight filled your chest, making it feel like every blood in your body went towards your heart and filled it to the brim, with how much you wanted to spill all over your own feelings that you’ve been suppressing. 

“I promise.” You said, your voice quivering in almost a whisper. “For better or for worse, through good and bad. That’s what we said, didn’t we?” Your playful demeanor started to deteriorate as your body betrayed you, tears spilling out of your waterline as you opened your mouth to take a deep breath and hitch. Or how your shoulder started to shudder and your mouth started to frown and pout. 

Wriothesley felt a sigh of relief wash over him, the utterly bittersweet moment overriding whatever the hell happened earlier. He ran his fingers over your tears, wiping them off as his own tears started to threaten themselves by rolling down his cheeks. A wide, genuine smile tugging on the corner of his lips as he leaned in and captured you into a kiss. The salty taste of your tears mixed as he poured every longing feeling he kept hidden. Love, gratitude, fear, frustration, it was all in there. 

“Thank you…” He murmured over your lips, his voice raw with emotion. “It means so much to me to hear you say that. Even if you think of me before you act, I’m already content with that.”

He pulled back, his hands brushing through the strands of hair that covered your face, pushing them aside. “Until death do us part.” Wriothesley whispered, cupping your face as his lips shuddered a smile. “Promise me one more thing, that you will come back home to me at the end of each day. And I will do the same for you, that we will both find our way back into each other’s arms. You got it?”

You took in a deep breath as you nodded into his palm, your breathing vibrating through your chest as you felt yourself become more vulnerable. Your eyes rested on his arm that held you, “I promise.” You stated, almost like a whisper. You kept your gaze away from him, like you were scared to meet him in the eyes. “I promise I’ll come home to you.” Another set of tears fell from your face as you said those few words.

There was nothing to be afraid of. Not with Wriothesley, no, he never gave you any reason to be afraid. So perhaps the fear came from you instead. The fear of being unable to bear that vow, one short year of your marriage terminated a little too early. 

Wriothesley cupped your face and kissed you once again, then pulled back as he stared into your eyes that was filled with love and desperation. He let out a heartfelt laugh as he rubbed your face, squeezing it in between his palms. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” 

The faucet from the sink was turned off, Wriothesley walking over to the shower to check the temperature before urging you in. A warm smile plastered on his face as he opened the shower door for you, “I’ll bring you clothes.”

You nodded as you waited for Wriothesley to leave, discarding your clothes onto the floor and not caring about the fact that it was flooded. You won’t use them again, anyway.

As you basked in the feel of the water on your skin, your mind started to wander at the times you ran away. There were moments where you were caught in a dead end, panting heavily as your body slid on the wall behind you, away from the flashlights and patrol lights. During those moments, you felt an unwavering splash of relief wash over you. You’re finally going to be caught. All those pent up years of running away until your limbs betray you, until you know nothing else but to run, they’ll finally throw you into the pits of hell.

But every time there was a voice inside your head telling you to keep running, to come back home. That voice came in as Wriothesleys, telling you to keep moving and come back home to him. And you did, you ran and you ran and you ran until you found your way back again, just like you did earlier. 

That’s right. You’re only on the run right now because you still need to come back home to him. 

You wore the clothes Wriothesley brought in for you, noticing the creases on your fingers. How long were you in there? And when did he bring the clothes to you? You probably didn’t notice him knocking on the door and placing your clothes on top of the toilet lid. Moreover, you smelled a faint scent of an aromatic smoke coming from the kitchen. 

You wrapped a towel around your neck to catch the water droplets from your hair, coming out of the bathroom and sneaking a peek around the corner of your kitchen. Wriothesley’s back was facing you, but you made out the fact he was cutting carrots while the stove was on at the side.

“What’re you making?” You asked, fully walking inside the kitchen as you stood by his side. 

He quickly glanced over you, a small smile creeping up his face as he cut the carrots in a diamond shape. “My specialty, because why not?” 

You hummed in approval as he continued to cut, the smell of the barbecue ribs emitting across the room. “Better make it extra special tonight then.” 

You skipped over towards the kitchen island, watching him work through his cooking. He would frequently glance back at you whenever he would reply to your words, a playful banter being thrown around by the both of you. Honestly, what did you ever do to deserve such a man? 

Wriothesley gracefully placed the plate of his specialty cooking in front of you, grabbing a bottle of wine from one of the cupboards and pouring you a glass. He would always say that it was truly best paired with the best wine there is, and it was.

“Dawn Winery?” You asked as you sipped on the glass, and you remembered this was the same flavor as the wine you both had on your first date in the comfort of his apartment after coming back from Liyue. 

Of course, every other date you two had was always inside his place. Not like you can go out in the open anyway, can you? 

Wriothesley nodded as he chuckled, taking a sip of his own. “You remembered.” 

Absolutely. How could you forget? The nervous sensation you had in a long time, the sudden urge to just walk out that door and free him. Ah, you could remember it like it was yesterday.

You hesitated at first to cut and bite your food, wondering if you’re even deserving to eat such delicacy that he made just for you, full of love and warmth and safety. In the end, you downed the food and pretended like your actions were justifiable. Of course they are, they were self defense.

Wriothesley offered to be the one to clean up the dishes, urging you to take a rest. He noticed how constrained you were the whole day, and thought that it’d be best if he allowed you time for yourself and to ease up. 

And so you did.

You followed through his words, watching him for a while washing the dishes before you got up and went to your shared bedroom. The night felt unreasonably cold, and how your body would tingle when your foot would make contact with the cool, hard floor. The windows? Closed as tight as it could be. No fans or air conditioners were even open, almost like it felt like the grim reaper's presence was looming over you. 

You eagerly jumped onto the bed with a loud “Oof!”, your chest immediately hitting the mattress as you grabbed on the blanket and pulled it over to your nose as you cradled yourself like a child in a womb.

As much as you wanted to wait for Wriothesley, everything felt like it was going slower as it seemed. He was only doing the dishes, what’s taking him so long? You glanced over your phone on the nightstand, it has only been three minutes. 

The silky feel of the pillows beneath your head eased you up, the soft blanket serving tender warmth over your chilled body. You fought the urge to close your eyes, wanting to see Wriothesley one last time before fluttering your eyes shut. However, your body rejected that tendency and closed shut.

During your unconscious state, you heard light footsteps and a soft sigh, accompanied with a low chuckle. Wriothesley sat down on the edge of the bed, his fingers reaching out to you to brush the stray strands of hair from your face. He never told you this, but he always prefers to see your face before going to bed and after he wakes up. Hence the reason why he’s so against you sleeping on your chest. 

Wriothesley lifted his legs on bed before lowering himself and resting his head on his arms, admiring your tensed face. “Good night, sweetheart.” He whispered as he brought a strand of hair to his mouth, kissing it lightly before dropping them and resting his arms around your body. 

[ … ]

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. 

The sound of the clock's hands went through your ears, the ticking sound being repeated in the room. You groaned lowly, making sure that your sounds won’t wake up the giant man behind you. That giant man being Wriothesley, his arms loosely wrapped around you.

The clock showed its hands at around two in the morning, the light of the moon and streetlights illuminating a subtle shadow of the clock, enough to depict the time. 

You noticed the dryness of your mouth, and so you wiggled slowly out of Wriothesley’s arms.

You made quick strides to the door, opening it gently, so damn gently with no creeks, and closed it. You slowly walked towards the kitchen, opening the dim lights to light your way through. 

As you stood on your tiptoes to grab a cup from the cupboards, there was a slight noise as you opened it. You winced, hoping that the sound isn’t loud enough to reach your bedroom. Then you opened the fridge, wanting a cold drink to rehydrate the arid feel of your throat. 

You went and placed the cup down on the counter, your eyes lingering towards the batches of knives on the knife rack. You thought to yourself, how sharp are these?

While you were about to grab the biggest one, you hesitantly glazed over the edges of the knife. It reflected the light perfectly, but the very pointy end was quite dull. You pointed it at yourself, examining it further until you felt the urge to gauge your eyes out. 

You gave an airy gasp, realizing the thoughts gnawing on your consciousness. The knife was dropped immediately back on the counter, your hands rushing to quickly place it back on the rack.

Heavy, short footsteps were taken as you backed away slowly, then you found yourself in the living room. You rushed once again to open the lights, the darkness frightening you. 

Then you comprehended, where did Wriothesley put your gun? You might need it again for another heist around the city.

There it is. On the coffee table. Your husband must’ve trusted you enough to display the gun once again to your reach, and you were already fast asleep when he wanted to give it back to you. 

You sighed, your heartbeat getting faster as you sat back down on the couch and held the gun. 

While you held it, your eyes scanned on the faint stain of blood on the grip and trigger. Come to think of it, you’ve never pointed a gun to yourself before. 

The barrel is facing you. 

You let out a shaggy, nervous laughter as you realized the sudden change of direction the gun is facing, and it felt like you weren’t the one who turned it around to you. 

No, you were about to put it down and run away, but the last trigger hit your forehead before you even placed it down.

Hah. You felt bad. You know when they say, you have seven minutes left to live before your mind shuts down completely? You recalled your first encounter with your demise, the very person and reason why you turned out this way. Yourself. 

Then, you recalled your first encounter with your rebirth, Wriothesley. You remembered how hesitant you were when he proposed, crying to yourself that night when you said ‘yes’. The insufferable feeling of having to trap him forever in your upcoming marriage, or how you two weren’t a normal couple yet, in fact, was such a complex one that you were gaining humanity through him once again as he was losing his. 

Oh, how you wish you were different. You pray to whatever god or Archon there is listening to you to forgive you for turning out this way, but it wouldn’t make any difference if you were forgiven. In the end, you were still a murder taking away lives of others before you took your own. 

As you drew your final breaths, you heard faint sounds coming towards you in the form of screaming and crying. That’s when you knew that it was over. A tear ran down your eyes, your vision getting blurry. Was it really tears? Or was it blood? 

Oh my dear Wriothesley, I’m sorry for ever daring to love you in the first place.

[degeneratewhores]

P4: Thank You Very Much by Itoko (Idoll_itk)

[degeneratewhores]

No words just beautiful

LEONA X READER

Where you start to ask him to use his UM for you

Where Leona, always insecure and determined about the patheticness of his UM, begins to change after meeting you, an artist who creates glass and crystal figures, and asks him to use his UM to transform glass remains into sand

loved this one <3

Leona hated his Unique Magic. Always had.

Sure, people said it was impressive. The ability to dry anything, to strip it down until it crumbled to dust in your palm? Sounded like the kind of magic suited for a king. Ruinous. Untouchable.

But in practice? It was destructive. Useless. Unoriginal. All it ever did was reduce things into sand. Turn lush greenery into withered husks. Sap water from soil, drain warmth from food, crack even the air with its dryness.

He’d never found a good reason to use it unless he wanted something to disappear.

And Leona Kingscholar didn’t like being reminded that he was good at getting rid of things.

So when you first approached him about it, out of the blue and way too bold for someone who barely knew him, he looked up from the grass in the greenhouse with a deep, annoyed grunt.

“You want me to what, herbivore?”

You stood over him in that stupid art-stained apron you always wore, holding a cracked chunk of smoky, burnt glass in your gloved hands.

“I’m not asking you to blow anything up, geez,” you said lightly. “I just… need some sand.”

He squinted at you, ears twitching slightly. “What, the beach too far for you?”

You smiled. “Yeah, and your sand is better.”

He blinked. “Come again?”

“The sand you make. From your UM.”

You lifted the shard to show him its jagged edge.

“See, this one’s ruined. The shape’s off, and it’s scorched. But if I grind it down, melt it again, I could maybe salvage it. But if you could just—turn it back into sand, I could get a cleaner rebatch.”

Leona sat up slowly.

“You want me to use my Unique Magic… on your garbage?”

You didn’t flinch at the edge in his tone.

“I want to try turning it into something new.”

Leona almost told you to piss off. Almost.

But you looked at that broken glass with such purpose in your eyes, like you believed something beautiful was still hiding in it.

And for some reason—maybe the sun was too hot, or he was too tired—he flicked his hand lazily and muttered under his breath.

King’s Roar.

The shard crumbled instantly, dissolving into a fine, pale gold powder. Clean. Almost sparkling in the sunlight.

You crouched to scoop it into a container with a small, satisfied hum.

“That’s perfect,” you said, like you’d just watched a flower bloom.

He raised a brow. “It’s just sand.”

“No, it’s potential.”

Something shifted in his chest at that. Uncomfortable. Hot.

You came back the next day. And the day after that.

Always with cracked glass or ruined sculptures.

Always asking, softly but with certainty, “Can I borrow your magic again?” And Leona always acted annoyed, always rolled his eyes like he was being inconvenienced, but he never said no.

And eventually, you started bringing things back to show him.

Bowls blown in spirals of color, where specks of sand were like desert stars.

Sculptures that caught sunlight just right, making tiny rainbows on the greenhouse walls.

Or delicate little trinkets—a lion’s paw, a flower blooming in a dish—that you swore were just “practice,” but he caught you smiling when he lingered on them too long.

“Couldn’t’ve done this without you,” you said once, holding a jar filled with a swirling, amber-hued hourglass.

“Your sand’s smoother than anything I could get from crushing it myself. It melts cleaner. Glows brighter.”

Leona grunted. “You’re the one doing all the work. I’m just breaking things.”

“You’re not breaking anything,” you said. “You’re giving me a chance to start over.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

Because no one had ever said that before. Not to him.

Weeks passed like that. And slowly, Leona started to wait for you. Subtly. Not that he’d admit it.

He’d lie on the grass and tilt one ear toward the greenhouse entrance, pretending to nap while secretly hoping for your footsteps.

He found himself pocketing little broken pebbles on walks, wondering if you could use them. Once, he even caught himself thinking about what kind of glass he would be, if you ever sculpted him.

(Probably dark. Sharp. A piece that refused to be molded.)

One afternoon, you showed up carrying a bundle in cloth.

“This one’s for you,” you said, unwrapping it.

“I made it from the first batch of sand you gave me.”

It was a glass lion—small enough to fit in his palm, all sweeping mane and proud curve. Not flashy, but warm, like the sun on stone.

Leona stared. His mouth went dry.

“…Why?”

You tilted your head.

“Because I wanted to. Because I thought you deserved something that stayed, instead of just slipping through your fingers.”

That—hit something. Deep and buried. Something fragile.

He closed his hand around the glass lion slowly.

“…You’re weird, you know that?”

You smiled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

But when you turned to leave, he spoke again, quietly.

“Hey… next time you’ve got something to ruin, come find me.”

You paused, a little smile blooming on your face. “Yeah?”

He shrugged, looking away. “Might as well make some use outta this busted magic, huh?”

Your voice was soft. “It’s not busted, Leona. It just needed the right hands to show what it could become.”

His tail flicked.

For the first time in years, Leona Kingscholar didn’t think of his magic as something to be ashamed of.

He thought of sand in your hands. And glass glowing gold.

And he felt—maybe—for once—

Useful.

[degeneratewhores]

Tiddies on my biddiesss

old works again (pt 4?)

tw: spice! light-nsfw.

choose your tities holder.

[degeneratewhores]

The pretty girl comment had me going crazy I fear 🙂‍↕️

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ⋅ tight fit ᡣ𐭩 ་༘࿐

— ft. alhaitham, diluc, wriothesley, zhongli

synopsis — taking them can be quite the challenge, but the reward is always worth it in the end; 2.4k words.

— minors do not interact! unprotected sex. size kink. oral in zhongli’s. use of pet names. fem!reader.

— alhaitham 𝜗𝜚

“it’s too much, ‘haitham…”

alhaitham has always picked up on your little habits, especially the ones pertaining to the bedroom. one such habit is you always crying about how he’s just too big for you to take. and naturally, he’s figured out a way to overcome this thanks to your predictability.

“nonsense,” he says and pushes himself further in. you whine again, just like he knew you would. “you manage to take me every time without fail, no matter how much you always whine about it.”

his tone is flat but raspy. he’s calculating every move, making sure to press inside just enough but not too much at once. he’s big and he knows — maybe he’s a little too aware of this — and you’re grateful he takes his time despite the way you lack the patience to wait.

“i don’t whine,” you pout. there’s a ghost of a smirk on his face. it’s gone just as quick as it appears but you catch it nonetheless.

alhaitham is adept at proving you wrong, because when his cock inches deeper into your sodden cunt you let out a sound that could only be described as a whine. he ignores the small glare you give in favor of pressing the pad of his thumb into your clit. he smooths circles over it and your cunt reacts appreciatively, allowing him in just a bit more.

“i always make sure to fill you up just right, don’t i?”

you whimper at the stretch; you’re so full, already feeling at your limit and he’s just barely halfway in. “yes.”

“you know i’ll always take care of you.” he keeps showing affection to your clit to open you up for him more while his free hand roams your body. alhaitham is a man of details, and he’s always so well tuned to you and your body.

you’re being flipped before you can even process the change of positions. alhaitham steadies you with a firm grip to your hips before he’s thumbing at your clit again. when you look at him in question, he offers you a small smile.

“there, this might be better for you.” he’s pulling at your hips, just enough for you to get the idea. he sucks in a breath as he watches you lower yourself down on him slowly, adoring the way your cunt swallows him inch by inch. the descent is agonizingly slow and he’s fighting the urge to buck up into you, but he’s careful to allow you your time, your own pace.

you’re steadying yourself with your hands on his chest, the muscles taut under your touch. you take a bit more and cry out in bliss at the fullness, that blissful stretch that you can’t help but find addicting. “so full, ‘haitham. it feels so good.”

alhaitham hums just as you allow gravity to take over, fully sheathing his cock inside until every inch of space inside you is crowded by him. you’re quivering and you’re dripping all over him, cunt crying at the pleasurable stretch it’s taken on to accommodate his size. you’re so very tight around him that he feels insane. no matter how much he fucks you on his cock, he’ll never get over just how good you are for him.

“it’s always the same outcome, and yet i am amazed every time at how well you fit around me. if i didn’t know any better, I might think you were made for me.”

— diluc 𝜗𝜚

everything is burning red — the heat between your thighs, the searing blush on your cheeks, and the mane of hair that cascades around you. and even the eyes that bore into you share the same fiery hue, alight with passion and desire and love. diluc’s hips twitch and the tip of his cock sinks just a bit further into you, and he groans at the way you’re already trying to squeeze around him. he huffs and his warm breath blows across your face; he’s withholding himself, you know this, with the tense of his muscles and the crease of concentration on his brow.

you close your legs around his hips in attempt to pull him closer. he’s able to correct himself and remain steady, but still you manage to gain another press of his mushroom tip into your plush walls. “diluc, more. please, baby, i need you.”

he huffs again before smearing a kiss across your forehead. “i know, but patience.” he aches to fill you up just like you desire to be filled by him, stuffed to the brim with every inch, but he’s careful. he is a lot to take, and you are so incredibly tight. the last thing he wants is to hurt you.

you tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him down for a kiss. it’s searing, it’s sloppy, and it’s enough to distract him so you can push at his hips with your legs again. the stretch is immediate and you both sigh out. “i always take you so well, right?”

diluc is fisting the sheets tightly. you’re always so impatient for him, but he supposes he cannot blame you, not when he is equally as such. he tries to be, but you always manage to bring out a desperate side of him that makes him feel like he’s losing his grip on his sanity. “you do,” he breathes and pushes himself in more, quickly noting the way you tense up. “always such a perfect fit for me.”

he’s pressing his hips forward more and more, but so agonizingly slow that you have no other choice but to bask in the way every inch of him is crowding every bit of space inside you, stretching your walls so wide it has your breath catching in your throat. he’s like an all consuming fire, igniting all of your nerves and senses until you’re ablaze with wild desire. “diluc, please…”

“almost there, my love. you’re taking me so well.” diluc’s forehead is flush against yours just as he bottoms out completely, finally giving you the entirety of him. his hips are snug against yours as he remains still to allow your little cunt to acclimate to his girth, and to also allow him a moment to gain his composure. that first plunge of his cock into your heat always threatens to unravel him.

“you will be the end of me,” diluc says through a release of breath as he rocks his hips slightly, testing the waters. he kisses you when you whimper. “you and your tight,” a groan, “little pussy.”

your hands are carding through his thick hair in attempt to ground yourself. you already feel so insane off the pleasure and he’s just entered you. “want more, want you to move…”

the man above you chuckles and obliges. who was he to deny you? “always so eager for me, my love.” he starts off slow and deep until he picks up the pace, and it’s beyond you both at this point, the way your highs gain on you so incredibly fast.

“diluc, gonna cum already!” you’re so overwhelmed by the fullness of him, by the pleasure he gives you; it’s a euphoria only he can offer you.

his lips are on yours. slow, sensual, loving, and so contrasted to the sloppy rhythm of his hips. “like i said, so eager.” and yet, he’s so close to unraveling himself. all because of you and the way you take him so perfectly like you were meant just for him.

— wriothesley 𝜗𝜚

“easy now, pretty girl.”

the duke’s voice is hushed and rough while his hands are steadying your hips. he pulls your weight down on him just a tad bit further, not too much but enough to make you cry and him suck in his breath in a hiss. “take it nice and slow for me.”

you fist at his shoulders until your nails are digging into him through the fabric of his shirt. you try and fail to lower yourself down onto his cock; his hands keep you rooted in place, and your poor pussy is aching at the stretch of his tip. “wriothesley, let me sit on it.”

“that’s the idea,” he drawls with a smirk. “but we can’t get ahead of ourselves now can we?”

your bottom lip juts out in a pout. “you are so unfair.”

wriothesley kisses away your pout, nibbling at your bottom lip until you whimper. “and you are a little too eager. slow and steady, as they say.”

this certainly wasn’t the outcome you were seeking when visiting wriothesley at his office today, but here you are. and now you’re aching to be filled with his thick cock, but you and him both know that taking him in full is always something that must be handled with care…but you always get a little too impatient when presented the opportunity to have him.

“why are you so big?” you whine, your pussy fluttering around his thick tip. you’re already pushing your limits and it’s just the tip. you roll your hips back and forth for some sort of friction and the duke beneath you groans.

“is that a complaint i hear, darlin’?” wriothesley lifts his hips up and shoves another inch in, cock head pushing through your taught walls. “she’s certainly not complaining.”

you huff. your toes curl at the stretch just as you leak around his girth, pussy doing its best to allow him in, to accommodate. it’s a sticky mess that pools between your thighs and covers his lap. the further he pushes in the more you seem to leak your slick all over him.

“oh my god,” is all you can moan out when you sink another inch down on his cock, your thighs beginning to shake and your breathing quicken.

your lover beneath you smirks, icy gaze watching the way your brows furrow in concentration. “now if it’s too much for you, darlin’, feel free to tap out now.”

you always end up taking him in, every inch. you exhale and drop your hips all the way down until you’re flat on his lap, cock completely nestled between your gummy walls. you sigh out at the fullness, your poor walls stretching perfectly for him and squeezing him so good the man underneath you can’t help but groan. “don’t get cocky, your grace.”

wriothesley’s hands on your hips are bruising. he huffs out a chuckle and there’s involuntary flutter of your cunt around him. “you’re right,” he says with a grind of his hips. “and besides, my pretty girl’s always going to take me so good. if anyone should be cocky, it should be you.”

he follows up his praise with a searing kiss against your lips. you tangle your hands in his hair just as you begin to rock your hips back and forth.

“you’ve got me now, darlin’. just like you wanted. ride me and take your fill.”

— zhongli 𝜗𝜚

you feel hazy as you come down from yet another orgasm, thighs shaking and chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. the only thing that keeps you rooted to reality is the press of lips against your thighs, soft and adoring and comforting.

“you are alright?” zhongli’s deep voice is gentle and kind and it warms you from the inside out while he continues his kisses against your skin. he enjoys the way your slick and his spit glisten over your pretty cunt, and he offers an appreciative kiss against your swollen clit.

you whine at the sensitivity. you relax when one of his large hands massage your thigh. “i am more than alright, zhongli.”

he hums in response before trailing kisses up your tummy and through the valley of your breasts until he’s face to face with you. his gaze is warm and molten gold, setting you alight under its glow. “then allow me to take you now, my dearest.”

there’s a pause and then you feel it, the ever familiar press of his thick tip against your slippery folds. you gasp when he taps it against your clit and he’s quick to swallow up the sound of your moan that follows.

“you’re very wet,” he notes, proud of the mess he’s already made of you, and proud of you and how perfect you are for him. his cock pushes into your folds just enough for you to feel that first stretch, but does not continue any further. “do you think you can take me in full, hm?”

you nod eagerly just as you grasp at his strong arms. “yes, please. give me all of you. i can take it.”

of course you can, you always do. zhongli’s lips graze yours and he smiles warmly. “but as always, we will take this slow.” because even with the way you take him so well in the end, he’s careful, hesitant to inflict even the slightest pain upon you. he’s well endowed, godly in his design, and more than anything he wants this to pleasurable for you. he’ll never want you in discomfort because of him.

you moan as he makes the first small push into you; your pussy expands to welcome him in and the familiar burn of the stretch is there, quelled by the ample amounts of your arousal from the previous orgasms he had given you. “z-zhongli!”

your lover shushes you with another kiss, stilling himself while your walls quiver around his girth. “sshhh, my dearest. it’s alright,” he coos. “breathe for me.”

and you try to do as he says, but your breath is stolen from your lungs when he plunges deeper, invading every bit of space in the depths of you. “so full…”

zhongli chuckles as he rests his forehead against yours. he watches you as you pant, kiss swollen lips quivering, and he thinks you’re the most stunning being he’s ever seen. “i know. you are doing well.”

another incredible inch and your toes curl into the sheets. you sing out such a pretty chorus of moans for him; he gives you more of himself. your gummy walls wrap tightly around him and he sighs in content.

“i want the rest of you, zhongli.” you’re earnest in your desire. you need him all the way inside this very moment. but there is still much more of him to take. “i promise i can take it.”

the god of old places a kiss against your cheek, fondness for you, his adorable little human lover, and your abundant eagerness for him; the same eagerness he will always harbor for you and you alone.

“now, now. there is no need to rush. you will have me in full.” another kiss, and another inch. “i promise.”

nat’s notes — happy wrio and furina banner day!

[degeneratewhores]

Phainon — Meant to Be Yours

cw: royal knight!phainon au, fem!princess!reader, violence but not very detailed, usual shan stuff lol

went into amphoreus not caring about anyone, went out loving the cute golden retriever man. also, i've been hyperfixated on epic the musical lately, so i may or may not have been inspired by odysseus in the ithaca saga for some parts here lol

In the whispering winds of fate, it was always said karma had a way of catching up with you—silent, inevitable, like shadow hot on your heels. In a world that spins in circles, our deeds reverberate and circle back, a reminder that what goes around comes around.

So, it was never a surprise, not really, when your father—the king, draped in the shadows of corruption and tyranny—was torn from his throne in a storm of blood and fury, undone by the very hands he once crushed beneath his own. The storm of revolution, fueled by the flames of injustice and the cries of the downtrodden, descended upon the castle walls like a vengeful deity, casting the king from his lofty throne into the harsh reality of his own making.

In the unforgiving tides of change, the pendulum of justice swung without regard for innocence or guilt, and revolution—in all its fury—can easily blind you with its smoke. You never stood by your father’s cruelty; every protest smothered beneath his iron will, your voice swallowed beneath the weight of his crown. Yet, to the eyes of the enraged masses, you bore his blood, wore his sins like a second skin.

And so, you too, must burn.

But he wouldn't let them.

Your escape dissolved into a blur in your mind; Screams tearing through the air, a sea of crimson rage, and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline. In the other, his sword sang death, striking down anyone who dared raise a hand against his liege. His white hair caught the glow of the mobs' torches, almost golden in their flickering light. His blue eyes, usually so gentle, were now steel-cold with purpose. His once-pristine armor streaked with blood, icy to the touch, but his hand... his hand wrapped around yours is....

Warm.

Then, it hit you all at once.

The sudden, jarring shift from chaos to stillness.

One moment, the world was fire and fury—voices raised in furious chants, torches blazing, the glint of sharpened weapons amidst the mob.

The next, silence.

Heavy, almost sacred. The kind that presses into your ears like cotton, makes your breath sound too loud. The forest wrapped around you like a blanket soaked in earth and rain, grounding and unreal all at once.

And then—him.

A pair of blue eyes, wide and searching, locked onto you. Worry etched into every line of his face. Not just concern, something more akin to fear. Like he'd just watched you disappear, and wasn’t sure if you were really back.

"Your Highness?" Phainon’s voice breaks the quiet, low and cautious, like he’s afraid even the sound might shatter you. He doesn't move closer, just watches, eyes flicking over the slight tremble in your hands, the way your breath stutters like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to breathe in peace.

You’re pale, shaken, and at the sound of his voice, as quiet as it was, you finally look at him. No longer through him, but at him.

He takes a cautious step forward, each movement measured like he’s approaching a wounded creature, because in some ways, he is. You’re already so close to unraveling, and the last thing he wants is to be the thing that pushes you over the edge.

There was no point in asking how you were. It was written all over you; in the tight set of your shoulders, the haunted glaze still clinging to your eyes, the way you swayed slightly, like your legs weren’t entirely convinced they could keep holding you up.

So instead, he does what Phainon always does—chooses gentleness.

"May I carry you?" he asks quietly, his voice a breath softer than the rustle of the leaves around you. He doesn't reach for you, doesn't presume. He has never touched you without your explicit permission. That’s just who Phainon is. Always waiting, always asking.

Always yours, for as long as you'll have him.

"We need to find shelter for the night," he adds, glancing around the thick trees, the canopy swallowing what little light remains. "We’ll be safer here than anywhere else in the kingdom.”

You don’t say anything—just stare at him, eyes wide and unreadable, like you're still somewhere between this moment and the last. But then, slowly, your head moves in a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It’s enough.

Phainon hesitates for just a breath longer, searching your face one last time for any sign of protest. When he finds none, he steps closer and carefully lifts you into his arms. You don’t resist. You don’t flinch. You just let him. He holds you like you’re made of glass and memory, something fragile, something precious. Like a wounded creature he’s afraid to hurt more than the world already has. His arms are steady, though. Warm. Grounding.

"With my honor as a knight," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, his breath brushing against your hair, "I’ll protect you."

And with that promise hanging between you, he carries you deeper into the woods, away from the flames, the shouting, the wreckage of a day that nearly stole everything. Searching for somewhere—anywhere—you can finally rest.

You didn’t know how long he walked, only that the rhythm of his footsteps and the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulled you into a kind of daze. Time slipped sideways, minutes, hours, you couldn't say. You barely registered the way his arms tensed, his body instinctively bracing at the distant sound of hooves pounding against earth.

But you did notice when he began to lower you, gently, beneath the rough arch of a shallow cave. The cool stone met your back, and suddenly the thought of him letting go was unbearable. Your hands clung to the fabric of his cloak, your fingers trembling, eyes searching his like they could stop him from leaving.

He paused. Saw the silent plea in your gaze.

"Stay here," he whispered, his voice warm and low, as if it could wrap around you like a second cloak. His eyes held yours—steady, unwavering, like they always had. "I’ll be back."

Phainon stepped out of the cave, his movements measured, deliberate, planting himself firmly between the riders and the one thing he would not let them take, the shadows of the cave behind him concealing you. There was no fear in his eyes, only steel. A cold, quiet confidence etched into every line of his face.

"I’d like to believe no good men would pursue the royal heir to do her harm," he said, voice calm, almost conversational.

The riders stared him down, eyes narrowing, hands tightening around the hilts of their weapons. Their silence said everything, fury simmered behind their eyes—righteous, bitter. The kind that doesn’t listen. They were revolutionaries, that much was clear.

The one at the front swung down from his saddle, his boots hit the earth with a thud, knuckles bone-white, clutching around his weapon. 

"Step aside," he commanded. "The princess has to pay for her father’s crimes."

Phainon didn’t move.

"She’s done nothing wrong," he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "You’d punish a girl for her father’s sins?"

One of the other riders let out a bitter laugh. Disgust curled his lip.

"Not her mistake? That bastard’s blood runs in her veins. She is part of the throne. And you.." he spat, full of scorn. "What has become of you, Phainon? Some fallen knight guarding the tyrant’s daughter? You’d betray us? Turn your sword against your own people?"

Phainon didn’t blink.

"If protecting the innocent is treason," he said, "then yes, I'll proudly be a traitor."

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"Kill her father. Burn the palace to ash. Do what you will, if that’s what your justice demands... but you will not lay a hand on her."

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. The forest itself seemed to still, the only sound the restless whisper of leaves caught in the wind.

The riders didn’t respond, but they didn’t have to. Their expressions spoke volumes—feral and cold, eyes flicking between each other, weighing the cost of moving forward.

Because they knew who he was.

Phainon. The perfect warrior. The man whose blade had never faltered.

And here he stood, sword unsheathed not for the king or the palace…

But for the fallen princess.

"This is how you defend your people, knight?!"

The rider at the front steps forward, fury distorting his features into something near feral. His eyes burned with a hate that had nothing to do with justice.

"You’d betray us, betray your oath, betray this kingdom, and the country you swore to protect… for some pampered little princess?!"

Something in Phainon’s expression shifts. The air grows colder around him, the atmosphere dense with a sudden, cutting stillness. Gone is the composed mask he always wears; what replaces it is anger, sharp and honed like the edge of his blade. His gaze narrowed, sharpened into something unforgiving.

"Don’t you dare pretend this is for the country’s sake," he said, voice low and laced with venom. "You’re not here for justice. You’re here for blood. You’re no different than the king you claim to hate."

The words land like a slap. The other riders stiffened, anger radiating off them in pulsing waves, but it was their leader who reacted first. 

"Don’t you dare compare us to that bastard. We’re trying to fix what he ruined. We’re trying to build something better." His sneer deepens, lips curling in disgust.

Phainon took a step forward, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

"I don’t care what you're trying to do," he said, voice quiet, but sharp enough to cut. "Do what you must. Raise your banners. Burn the city. I don’t care..."

"...But you will not harm my liege."

The leader lets out a laugh, dry and mocking, tinged with disbelief.

"Your liege?" he spat. "She’s the tyrant’s spawn. And you, great knight? You've been reduced to a loyal lapdog, clinging to a dead order."

Phainon’s grip on his sword tightened, knuckles paling, the cold in his eyes enough to send out a warning for the rider to seize his comments.

"Watch your mouth," he says darkly. "I don’t care what your grievances are with her father. She is not him. And I will not let her suffer for his sins."

"She’s his heir," The leader snarled. "She’ll turn out just the same. She’ll sit on the same throne, make the same decisions, spill the same blood… And a traitor like you will be right there at her feet, worshiping her like a good little mutt."

"You don’t know a thing about her." Phainon snaps, "She’s nothing like her father. She’s been silenced, like a doll on display, dressed up and paraded around as a symbol. If you think she’ll become a tyrant, you’re blind."

"Gods, don't tell me you've fallen for her?" The leader’s expression twisted, ugly and mocking.  "You really think she gives a damn about you?"

"Of course not," Phainon replies swiftly, flatly. "That doesn't matter."

The leader just laughs again, louder this time, leaning into the sound like it shields him from the weight of Phainon’s glare. His smirk grows wide, sharp, vicious.

"Then why, oh why, are you risking your life for her, hmm?" The leader’s voice drips with mockery, his posture relaxed, his amusement dripping into every word that slips past his lips.

"What do you get for defending the princess? Her favor? A smile, perhaps? Or something better…" He grins, teeth flashing. "Like her body?"

Something snaps.

In a blink, Phainon closes the distance—no hesitation, no warning. One hand fisting the leader’s collar, the other drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. He slams the man hard against the nearest tree, bark cracking under the force, the blade pressed to the vulnerable skin of his throat.

"Keep your tongue in check." Phainon’s voice is barely a voice at all, more like a growl ripped from deep in his chest. "Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Not another word. Do you hear me?"

But the leader only grins wider, unshaken even with a blade to his throat. In fact, he seems to revel in it.

"You protect a woman who’d throw you to the wolves the moment it served her," he spits out, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You think you matter to her? You’re nothing. Just a pawn she’ll sacrifice to save herself."

"I’m not protecting just any woman." Phainon sneers, a rare sight for the kind knight. "I protect my liege. I don’t give a damn if she values my life or not. That’s not the point. You speak of things you don’t understand."

He presses the sword harder against the man’s throat, but still, the man smiles.

"You've been blinded," The man hisses, smirking like a man with nothing left to lose. "She doesn’t care about anything but herself. Just like her father. A pampered, selfish princess."

He leans forward just enough for his words to feel like poison he’s trying to inject right into Phainon’s veins. 

"And you? You’ve doomed yourself for her. She’ll stab you in the back the second her life’s on the line. Mark my words."

Phainon doesn’t flinch. 

"You don’t know her."

Phainon's words are quiet. More breath than voice, like a warning carried in the wind. He presses the blade closer. The tip bites skin. A thin bead of crimson wells up where the blade meets the skin of the leader’s throat.

"And I’ll cut down every last fool who dares to speak of her that way."

And then… he does.

One swift motion. 

Clean. 

Precise.

The forest falls silent.

The only sound is the soft thump of a body hitting the leaves crumpled on the ground.

A moment later, the man’s head rolls across the ground, eyes wide with the last expression he ever wore; that twisted smile, frozen in time.

None of them move.

Phainon stands over the body, sword slick with crimson, breath slow and steady.

No triumph. 

No rage.

Just duty.

The other riders could only stare, stunned into silence, eyes darting between their leader’s lifeless, decapitated body and the knight who stood above it. Phainon remained still, breath heavy, blade lowered but still slick with blood. 

"You… y-you killed him…" one of them whispered, the words cracking with disbelief.

Phainon didn’t even blink. 

"I did."

His words hung in the air.

The riders exchanged nervous glances, shifting in place. One man’s hand trembled as it hovered near his blade. Another backed toward the horses.

"You’re a murderer," one of them dared to say.

Phainon’s head turned slowly in the speaker’s direction, his eyes sharp and full of disdain.

"I am a knight."

He took a single step forward, slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

"And you..." He swept his gaze across them.

Chaos nearly erupted. One man lunged for their fallen leader’s sword. Another tried to mount a horse that reared up and shrieked in fear. Hooves thundered against the forest floor, the horses stamping nervously, catching the scent of blood. The rest froze in place, unsure whether to fight or flee.

Still, Phainon didn’t move. He simply watched. Detached. Unbothered. Like he was watching children flail through a game they didn’t understand.

Then, he spoke again. Calm, quiet, and chilling.

"None of you are going anywhere."

The words cut through the rising noise like a blade. And just like that, everything stopped. Horses snorted, pawing the ground nervously. The riders froze mid-movement, caught between instinct and dread. No one moved. No one dared breathe.

"Y-you… you’re going to kill us too? Just like him?" One of them, voice trembling, forced himself to speak.

Phainon’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet, then slowly back to the man.

"It’s nothing personal."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"But as long as any of you breathe, my liege remains in danger."

Another step forward.

The air grew heavier. 

"We’re falling back," someone said quickly, hands half-raised, as if they could bargain their way out. "Our leader’s gone… we won’t hurt Her Highness anymore,"

But it was already too late.

Phainon gave no reply because the time for words had ended.

The forest was filled with the sound of quick, brutal justice. Thuds of bodies hitting the earth, gasps cut short, steel slicing through flesh. Phainon moved like death made flesh—silent, unstoppable, precise.

When it was over, the woods were quiet again.

Only he remained standing.

Him and the horses.

Phainon stood among the fallen, sword in hand, his breath steady once more. He wiped the blood from his blade on the tunic of one of the fallen men, then he turned back toward the cave, toward the only person who mattered.

Back to his liege.

You didn't say anything when his gloved hand appeared in your vision again. You didn’t flinch at the crimson streaks staining his armor, didn’t ask about the blood still clinging to his sleeve. You didn’t have to. The stench of iron lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. And still, he looked at you with utmost gentleness.

"Let’s keep going, Your Highness," he said, voice soft and warm again, like it hadn’t just spoken death into existence. He smiled, gentle and careful, as if that alone could soothe the storm in your heart, your mind.

And of course, you took his hand.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you deeper into the forest, looking for somewhere to stay the night. His grip is steady, his pace measured. The silence between you was no longer heavy, just there. Present. Like a companion rather than a burden. The first time the silence was broken was when the trees thinned and a clearing revealed itself, a meadow bathed in moonlight. Not ideal for rest, but safe enough for a fire. The tree line was distant enough not to catch if the flames rose too high.

Phainon didn’t hesitate.

He swiftly went to work, gathering timber and stacking firewood, his movements practiced, and you watched confusedly as somehow, someway, he coaxed a spark into a flicker, then into a steady flame—a pleasant warmth against the biting cold of the night, casting a golden light against his blood-slicked armor and you tried not to look too closely.

He turned toward you, eyes softening again.

"Please," he said gently, gesturing toward a nearby rock. "Have a seat, Your Highness."

The rock was jagged, uninviting, but it was better than the ground. And somehow, the offer didn’t feel like an order. It felt like kindness, one born out of genuine concern.

You sat.

Phainon got down on his knees before you, slow and deliberate, the firelight casting golden shadows across his face, his eyes meeting yours, those bright, steady blues searching for something, asking without words. For what, you weren't sure, but you trusted him enough to give him a small nod.

As you did, he reached for the hem of your dress, lifting it just enough to expose your feet, still in those heels. He handled them like something sacred, fingers brushing delicately over the worn straps as he undid the fastenings around your ankles. Then, the shoes slipped off with barely a sound.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he took in the damage: raw, red skin and blisters blooming along your soles. His expression twisted into something pained, like it physically hurt him to look.

"You should’ve told me," he murmured, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. His brow furrowed, soft and earnest, looking at you akin to a puppy kicked by its owner. "I would’ve carried you."

"It’s fine, really." You shook your head gently, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "You've already done enough. I didn’t want to ask more of you."

"It's my duty to care for the princess."

"And I'm no longer one."

"You'll always be a princess."

You pause at his response, glancing to meet his eyes as he met yours with unwavering devotion, no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his features.

"For as long as I live," He added, "You'll always be a princess to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, not uncomfortable, but weighty, like something unsaid hung in the air between you. You had to look away, unable to hold the intensity of his stare, you let your gaze drift back to the fire, its flickering light dancing across the clearing like it, too, was trying to avoid the weight between you.

Behind the veil of quiet, you heard the soft clatter of metal as Phainon shed his armor. Piece by piece, it hit the ground with dull thuds, leaving him in the worn fabric beneath. Then came the rip of cloth, sharp in the still night, and you realized he was tearing his shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

Just reached for your feet again, gently cradling them in his hands as he wrapped the makeshift bandages around the blistered skin, his touch impossibly careful.

"Phainon." You said his name softly, as he continued his current task.

"Why didn't you join them? Why didn't you kill me?"

That made his hands still.

His gaze flicked up to your face, searching. He was quiet for a beat, before responding.

"Killing you is never an option." Was his simple, yet blunt response. "I could never do such a thing to you."

You frowned, unable to make sense of it.

"But… of all people, you have the most reason in the kingdom to drive your sword through my chest," you murmured, "The only thing standing between you and your freedom is me. You don’t have to do this. Any of this."

There's the slightest hint of a sad smile on his face, chuckling softly at your words, but there's no humor in the sound.

"I don't 'have' to do anything, princess. I choose to protect you of my own free will." His eyes softened.

"But your oath-" You opened your mouth to protest, to remind him of his oath, of duty, of his supposed loyalty to the people.

"Was to you." He cut you off, quiet but firm. "Not to the King. Not to the throne, not the palace or its people."

He paused, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.

"My oath has always been to you."

You paused at his words, trying to make sense of them. His loyalty… his devotion... it didn’t make sense. Not in a world that had taken so much from both of you.

"You’re the son of my father’s personal knight. From the moment you were born, you were shackled to me." Your voice softened further. "Our births are only months apart. That wasn’t a coincidence."

Phainon didn’t interrupt. He let you speak, his hands still and steady at your ankle.

"You were forced to train and to be my shadow since we were children, don't you ever wish to be free?"

"Forced?" he repeated softly with a smile, almost amused. "I’ve never been forced to do anything, princess."

"But you were." You looked at him fully now, your brows furrowed. "Just like your father before you. And his before him... and if the system hadn’t been dismantled… your children would’ve been bound to mine. The cycle would’ve never ended."

There was a long beat before he spoke again.

"My family never regretted our duty. We’ve protected every heir of your bloodline with our lives," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "And I’ll do the same for you."

Then something in him shifted. His features softened, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth—gentle, knowing.

"But... you’re wrong about one thing." He looked at you with a strange tenderness in his eyes.

You blinked, caught off-guard by the warmth in his voice. He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.

"My children...." he said slowly, voice laced with something unreadable, "...won’t be doing the same for yours."

"What do you mean?"

But all you got in return was that smile. That quiet, secret-laced smile, like he was tucking something important behind his tongue. He gave your ankle a gentle squeeze. Comforting. Familiar.

"You’ll understand later," he murmured, voice almost lulling.

"Don’t push yourself, Your Highness," he said softly, skillfully shifting the topic. "We’ve got a long journey ahead tomorrow."

He stood, gathered the remnants of his torn shirt, and moved to tend the fire again, like he hadn’t just shaken your world with a few quiet words.

"I'll try..." you murmured, your voice tinged with hesitation, your eyes fixed on his back as he knelt by the fire, tending to the flames with care, keeping it alive to somehow keep the coldness of the night at bay.

"Thank you... for everything."

Phainon glanced over his shoulder at you. Your weariness was plain on your face, carved into the way your body sagged slightly under the weight of the day.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” His tone was quiet, like it always was, but beneath it was a quiet warmth that never seemed to leave whenever he spoke to you. “Get some sleep, princess.”

You didn’t protest again.

Despite the jagged rock beneath you, despite the ache in your limbs and the open sky above, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim you. The day had wrung you dry—body, heart, and mind—and the sound of the crackling fire, the distant rustle of trees, and Phainon’s steady presence nearby became the lullaby that finally allowed your guard to fall.

It wasn't until your breathing had evened out, deep in sleep, that Phainon stood up from the fire. The flickering glow cast long shadows across the clearing as he moved, silent as a ghost, towards you. He crouched beside you, eyes tracing your features like he was memorizing every curve, every eyelash. His fingers reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the crimson stains still dried against his skin.

"My kids being the knights of yours?" He muses, a quiet laugh curling at the edge of his lips. "Don't be ridiculous... my kids wouldn't be doing the same for yours..."

"Because my kids will be yours too, princess."

His expression stayed soft, but there was something darker flickering beneath it—a quiet hunger, possession cloaked in tenderness. His hand moved again, hooking a single lock of your hair around his finger, bringing it close to his face. He breathed in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though the scent alone grounded him, drawing it in like a man savoring something he believed— no, he knew belonged to him.

“Yours,” he whispered, “You hear me?”

The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying his words into the night, where they vanished like smoke with no one else to hear them but himself. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked on your sleeping face, watching the faint shifts of your breath, the flutter of your lashes. You looked peaceful. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry for what happened, princess. But you understand, don't you?" He questions you quietly, as if you could hear him, still making sure his voice is quiet, so as to not wake you.

"Your father was a tyrant, a dictator..." He murmurs, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, watching as you stirred faintly under his touch, but did not wake, "He was going to marry you off to someone else."

"Surely, you understand why I urged people and started the revolution, don't you?"

His fingers trail lightly down your cheek, pausing at your lips, his breath hitching ever so slightly as his thumb grazes over the soft curve of your mouth. He exhales shakily, as though even this contact is almost too much.

"The only reason I was born was to be yours,” he whispers, a quiet conviction in his tone. “And thus, you, in turn, have always been mine. Law of equivalent exchange.”

His voice is low, fond, but there’s an undercurrent of something far heavier—something dangerous—coiling just beneath. He inhales sharply, as if steadying himself, and glances away from your lips like a sinner resisting temptation.

"That old man never should’ve tried to interfere," he adds, almost as an afterthought, his jaw tensing like the memory alone is enough to reignite his fury—the same fury that led to your father's downfall.

His finger lingers against your lips, then shifts, trailing down to hover just over your abdomen, his eyes now fixed there, unblinking. The soft rise and fall of your breathing beneath the fabric of your dress seems to hold him captive.

"Once all of this dies down.." he murmurs, more to himself than to you, "I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows your name. A little house, tucked away from the world… where you’ll be safe. And then—"

His breath hitches again, this time heavier, filled with desire.

"Then I’ll give you my children. As many as you want."

His gaze darkens as it lingers on your stomach, and his lashes lower as he exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering closed like he can already see the future blooming there. His future. Your future. Your shared future.

"I’ve waited my whole life," he breathes, almost dreamlike. "And now you look at me like I’m your savior...."

There’s a pause, still heavy, and then his eyes open again, trained solely on your face. His expression softens at the sight of your sleeping features.

"It’s only a matter of time," he says softly. "Just a few more years... or months, if I’m lucky."

His thumb traces the corner of your mouth again, delicate and adoring.

"Right, princess?"

A soft chuckle escapes him, warm and hushed and laced with something that doesn’t quite sound sane.

"You don't need the palace, the crown, the throne.... I'm already here. I am all that you need." He murmurs, fully believing his own words.

"You're mine." He breathes out, a silent declaration with only the stars above as his witness.

"You will be mine."