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dreamjolt-hostelry · 1 month ago

Text

muzzled.

featuring... ❥ wriothesley

involves... ❥ afab!reader, fem!reader, muzzle, restraints, teasing (reader → wrio), feral!wrio, sweet & degrading petnames used, mentioned collar & leash at the end, not proofread

wriothesley was starting to regret agreeing to this.

the thing is, you’d lit up like a christmas tree as soon as he nodded, and the way your hooded eyes coupled with your signature cheeky grin were intoxicating in itself. he couldn’t help but growl from behind the muzzle you’d fixed around his mouth - that wasn’t part of the agreement, but it seemed like you, like the impudent-yet-endearing individual that you were, had planned this from the start.

“you look so good like this, wrio~” you hum, now stepping closer to tap on the black metal, crooning as if you were talking to an adored pet, “and now you can’t use those teeth to bite me, pup.”

he growled. the cuffs - his handcuffs, the one he always carried around - jangled behind him as he tried to move his limbs out of habit. part of him burned when you treat him like this. it was both pleasant yet humiliating, arousing and infuriating, to be reduced to a tamed dog, chained to its place.

your boyfriend received an amused chuckle from you. wriothesley’s eyes sharpened, his thighs flexing when he felt your weight descend upon him, sitting across his lap as if you belonged there. which you did. and he would have welcomed you with kisses and his arms wrapping around your waist if he weren’t in such… predicament.

seriously, why did he agree to this, again?

the man watched intently as you slowly traced the hard planes of his muscles highlighted by the black bodysuit, the heat and tension of being unable to grab and hold you driving him mad by each second. all he could imagine was him flipping your position, holding your body against him, and—

“you drive me crazy whenever you wear something like this, you know?” his thoughts halted from your words, breath hitching as he felt your hand grope and kneaded against his pecs.

“truly, sweetheart? more than when i’m naked?” though his voice strained, he challenged, cocking an eyebrow up as his lips tugged into a boyish smirk.

you huffed and punished him with a hand coming down to rest against his inner thigh, so close and yet so far from his growing excitement, the bulge evident against the dark grey pants. “still cheeky? i’ll have to remind you that you’re currently under my mercy.”

“only because of these blasted restraints and goddamn muzzle, doll,” the gravel in his voice deepened the timbre of his voice, causing an involuntary shudder to run up your spine, “the moment i get out, you know who’ll be under whose mercy.”

“ohhh? then you better work hard~” you sang, leaning in unabashedly to lick and nibble on his neck. a rewarding groan from your boyfriend was all it took for you to start to earnestly mark his skin, red-purples blooming on the exposed part of his neck and shoulder. the fact that you couldn’t mark his favorite spot - the junction of his neck - was both a blessing and a curse to wriothesley. he had half a mind to beg you to rip his accursed bodysuit off somehow, though he knew it would be hard to do considering the situation.

his wrists strained against the metals, a hiss escaping through his clenched teeth. you eyed his escape attempt in amusement, withdrawing from his neck only to place your lips near the base of his ear, “aww, poor puppy… bet you never thought your cuffs would be used against you, huh? or have you thought about it before? naughty, naughty…”

“shut up,” he shivered, wishing he could turn and shut you up with a deep kiss, but this stupid contraption—

a strangled groan of your name left his throat, his thighs twitching when your hand on his thigh moved to cup his bulge, fondling softly from behind the clothing, “fuck, shit-”

yet as soon as it started, it ended. wriothesley subjected you to a fiery frustrated glare by his icy cold eyes; you were truly going to be the death of him at this rate.

“you fucking brat.”

the nickname shot a rush of desire into your core. you knew you were succeeding in riling him up in that direction when the sweeter petnames were replaced with that kind of filth.

you wanted him feral, and it seemed like you were getting your wish if you could keep this up.

“who, me?” you giggled, knowing it would irate him further, “oh, but i’m just getting started, darling.”

you shifted to face him directly, completely straddling him on his chair. the lust-filled eyes of your lover were affixed on you, unable to tear away as your hands moved to unbutton the blouse you had; one button at a time, slowly exposing more and more skin. with every inch revealed, you watched as his adam’s apple bob, his eyes dilating, breathing visibly picking up when he realized you had opted out of wearing a bra today. shakily, momentarily, his gaze dropped lower to your skirt. what if.

“like what you see?” his vision shifted back to your face at your taunt. with all the buttons off, the cloth slipped down your shoulders until you maneuver it to drop onto the ground.

“you… naughty, evil, teasing-” his words died on his tongue when your hands - oh how pretty they would look cupping around his cock - moved themselves up your ribs to cup your breasts. your dainty fingers fail to appreciate them fully, in his opinion; unable to hold the soft plumpness properly, too small to knead properly. it should have been his hands, massaging and making you moan and writhe. should have been his calloused fingers that flicked your pert nipples, making you whine needily and tremble like that.

“unlock the cuff,” he gruffly ordered, chains clinking loudly as he tried to pull and tug against them, “right now.”

you tilted your head, pausing to bat your eyelashes innocently at him. you had no idea how much he wanted to see those pretty lashes wet with tears as he bit and mark and fondle your skin all over right now. oblivious to the picture he had on his head, where he held you down and pinned you on the bed as he ravaged you senseless.

instead of giving him salvation, you gave him sin. more of sinful provocation; your moans loud, one of your hand slowly trailing down your abdomen to slip beneath your skirt. the fact that he could picture your finger gathering slick from your slit, delving into your folds to then rub your swollen clit with your abundance of slick — yet being unable to witness the sight obscured by the stupid piece of clothing, was maddening. a crime, even.

did you have to slip your hand beneath your panties? or did you also decide to forego them just like you did with your bra? and did you have to moan so prettily while looking directly at him like that?

“damn it- you unfair little-!”

his cock was straining so hard against his pants, it hurt. you hummed, both amused and aroused at the words falling from his lips and the loud creak and clang of metal chains and wooden chair scraping against the floor. you knew he wanted to touch and taste you, you knew he was going to devour you if you kept this on. you knew you probably should stop teasing him so cruelly like this.

you waited for a particular word to slip out of his lips — the word that would stop your little game altogether.

but only curses and snarls left your lover’s lips, and you relished in the pure, unfiltered want on his expression. your fingers delved into your sopping cunt, a breathy moan and a shudder racking through your body as you pleasured yourself on top of his lap, slick dripping to stain his pants.

wriothesley’s breaths were ragged and loud, his jaw locked and clenched, eyes shifting between your expression, the hand fondling your breast and perked nipple, the way your other hand moved beneath the skirt— it was all too much, too much—

you gave him a knowing, sultry smile, and he could swear he entered some kind of hypnotic daze as you pulled your hand away from under the flimsy skirt, your dainty digits covered in wetness. his mouth opened automatically, tongue out as he tried to inch forward, chasing the honeyed treat.

the metal muzzle tapped against your fingers, just as your kind smile turned mischievous.

wriothesley

snaps.

you didn’t realize the chains broke until your vision shifts, your center of gravity thrown off balance. your back slammed against the hard surface of his desk, your breath stolen out of your lungs as you lost your bearings, confusion flooding your mind. you’d barely realized what had happened when you felt your skirt ripped away, your legs pushed apart and your knees kissing your ears before your beloved’s cock plunged into the wet, sopping heat. eyes rolling to the back of your head, your back arched as he started rutting, sparks of pleasure blooming rapidly in your senses.

wriothesley couldn’t even spare a moment to talk as his hips moved so deliciously, the hardened cock dragging against your spongy walls with vengeance. this was what you’d reduced him to: a mindless, ruthless beast only caring to take and take and take, after finally having the prey you bared and dangled in front of him. preys shouldn’t have taunted their predators, but you went ahead and did it anyway.

“w-wrio- oh- f-fuck-”

a deep snarl, and the hands you tried to reach out to touch him slammed back down on the desk. you inhaled shakily and almost moaned outloud just from the sight of him on top of you, still muzzled, silver blue eyes glaring down at you. untamed and feral, the merciless slam of his hips continued, blunt head reaching into the deepest part of your pussy as it convulsed around him. the sounds of your coupling filled the room, and your mind melted from the onslaught of pleasure, senses succumbing to the carnal lust you’ve inflicted upon your lover.

amidst the feral snarls and mind-numbing oxytocin, you barely heard his voice, panting and rough with unbridled need, “gonna cum,” the grip on your hands moved onto your hips, keeping you in place as the brutish thrusts started to turn uncoordinated, “gonna breed this perverted pussy. it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? you wanted to be fucked stupid like this? huh?”

broken moans left your throat, head spinning as the arrhythmical slaps of his hips against yours brought you teetering towards the precipice of euphoria. it took all you could to nod in agreement, and wriothesley’s smirk widen, a pleased growl reverberating within his throat as he felt his cock throb, ropes of sticky cum flooding into your deepest part. the warmth flooding into you triggered your own climax, spongy walls clamping down to milk him within the tight channel.

you exhaled shakily, quivering as the intense orgasm left you sensitive all over, body tingling as it relaxed, limp against the hard surface of his work desk. wriothesley panted on top of you, his breathing heavy and almost strained as his smouldering eyes saw your boneless body under him.

he bent down, and you would have thought he was about to kiss you if not for the contraption obscuring his mouth—

“you didn’t think that was enough for that stunt you pulled on me, did you, brat?”

your breath hitched as he ripped away the metal muzzle off his mouth, flexing his jaw and massaging the red imprint it made onto his skin. he dangled the item above you, eyes hooded and dark and mean.

“this time, why don’t i let you wear this? i already have a collar and a leash prepared for you to match, after all.”

❥ banner picture © nqrse ー hoyofair 2024

#XV #we got smut in the hostelry boyyys let's go /silly — XII #genshin impact #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #rin writes #minors dni

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 1 month ago

Note

«nothing wrong with him physically but something has definitely happened to his mental wiring»

Sooo about the yan! alhaitham having a librarian girlfriend..... I wanna hear your thoughts....

Of The Silence Betwixt Words

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Yandere!Alhaitham x Reader

Cw(s) : Yandere Themes, Intrusive Thoughts, Alhaitham being Alhaitham

「 Words : 1.4k 」「 Inspired By This Post 」

The relationship between a librarian and a reader is simple, silent and sufficiently detached ; as such, it does not require an extensive amount of cognition to treat it as anything but that.

At least, that's how it is in the beginning — it always is like this in the beginning. The burgeon of something from seemingly nothing, catapulted to such a monumental deal that one is left questioning : when did it begin? What or who sneaked in the seed and how did it nurture itself to bloom into such an unsightly, fascinating thing?

At one stage, fixation tricks the mind into stuffing that void of inquiries with what it parades as the truth — it has always been there, you simply did not notice.

It is natural for Alhaitham to respect the place that houses such a valuable item, he extends it to the person behind the desk as well. Communication is always easy with them, restricted to a few phrases and maintained due-dates to return borrowed tomes. His own house has an impressive collection as well, but the ambiance of a library is just too intricate to replicate within the four walls of his abode.

In Sumeru, physical books are unfairly ignored, one of the many ironies connoted to its claim to ‘wisdom’. The Scribe has never understood nor agreed to the other scholars' faster and apparently more efficient means of requesting the Akasha to answer their dilemmas.

The Akasha is a useful tool in many instances, that, he won't deny. But there is nothing in that machine that begets more machines that can equate to the intellectual stimulation a physical book, the extra minutes consumed by the search of that book and the librarian that never seems to let him win can provide.

The expanse of the House of Daena directly connects to the load of responsibilities its assigned keeper has to shoulder. Making sure students return the books on time, keeping an eye out for anyone who may want to get silly while annotating the tomes and the periodical shushing of rowdy study groups.

There's the occasional scholar too airy with pride to bend that seeks to challenge your knowledge as well. Unfortunately for them and fortunately for the House of Daena's reputation, you're just the correct person to put them in their places.

It's difficult to decide which one the Scribe wants to commend first : your seemingly monstrous memory or the way you can cite it all without stuttering. Alhaitham was pleased with the fact that most people thought twice before interacting with him, but the way you challenged him and emerged victorious revealed to be quite a hassle on his mind.

“Incorrect. Truly ancient petrified trees usually grow to around one or two miles in height. Check page 19, paragraph 3 of the ninth edition of ‘A Comprehensive Guide to Dragonspine Ruins’ (Kreideprinz et al., XXXX)”

That is not an interaction one can just forget. Intrigued and encouraged with a competitiveness that does not usually make itself apparent, Alhaitham decides to test the extent of your... ‘talent’. The Scribe prefers being frank — he was impressed. So much so, that it overpowered whatever bruise was inflicted on his ego.

More and more of these debates ensued, much to his bewilderment. The man who would never stay for an extra minute in his office after work hours, willingly spends time debating with the librarian of the House of Daena. Most of the time you end up winning in them. The Scribe doesn't even process the reason that he has let you win deliberately a few times was because he found the smile that followed it... pleasant.

Then, bringing a rude end to his little guilty pleasure, the news of your expertise spreads. Scholars from all Darshans come to you to check the accuracy of the rumors during the precious free-time he's been the sole occupant of until that moment. Because of your exposure to many new personalities, it appears as though his had dulled in your eyes.

He gets it, one would naturally be more drawn towards a splatter of color than the monochrome wall it decorates. The same wall also has to make sure the bricks don't fall off from their places. So, he decides to leave you to your devices.

...Except, that plan screeches to a halt when he sits down to sift through applications, his treacherous mind conjures phantoms of your smile directed to people not him, which grips onto his heart and squeezes.

Rejected, rejected, rejected — he tosses every file and application to the trash without blinking once that day. Only when he's done that, does the haze recede and he's staring at the floors in profound confusion. The abruptness of that reaction stuns him so much that he rushes to the Bimarstan for a thorough check-up, the doctor's repeated reassurance that he's fine and healthy does nothing to quell the waves of thoughts spiraling in his head.

Thanks to that, he knows now there is nothing wrong with him physically, but something has definitely happened to his mental wiring and the impact of that change leaves the wellbeing of his physical state to question as well.

Break down, look for the cause, reorganize and form a branch of conclusions — that is the pattern Alhaitham has always followed when presented with a problem. A tiny part of him entices him to jump to more reckless means ; no need to think, just drag them away from the commotion and grovel at their feet so that they'll spare attention to your pathetic existence ! But the greater part of his conscious mind, fueled by rationale, is, understandably appalled by these thoughts. In the end, he circles back to his traditional methods.

Alhaitham has always been cautious, so he quickly crosses out the prospect of confiding with someone else about these urges he's been having. He'd usually consult a book for help, but Sumeru housed no records even alluding to his condition. It's only during a stroll through the Grand Bazaar, a passing glance to the act played upon the center stage, does he finally gain a clue.

“Scrambled thoughts, erratic heartbeats and restless state of being? These could be the prelude to a greater illness! Or, a far, far gigantic sickness may have grasped your soul — love.”

Those were the words that managed to sneak in through the confines of his earpieces, rooting him to his place in the midst of the crowd. At that point, he had been exasperated. Of all things, that is what describes his predicament best? A lead is still a lead though, so he conducts further research on the matter and to no one's surprise, the more he digs, the more it makes sense.

The Sages always advise against vain pursuits involving emotions, it's clear more than ever to Alhaitham exactly why. He doesn't outright reject the notion though, research on this field is scarce in the Nation of Scholars. The available ones only scratch the surface ; there is an ocean beneath the thin ice and the itch of unraveling those depths appears to be too insistent to ignore.

But the centerpiece of his experiment was still missing, prancing around carelessly. If only he could somehow, in some way, at an auspicious moment manage to steal you away from the barrier of that desk — he halts his thoughts with a deep inhale. Surely there are more efficient approaches, he only needs to think.

He's heard that gifts and flowers can soften hearts, perhaps that should be his next course of action. His paycheck is more than enough to cover the expenses for a few continuous months and while he's at it, why not buy that incense capable of dulling people's senses which just so happens to work best with flowers? When you're off-guard he could easily — no, no, no, this isn't working.

In fact, regardless of how many other ways he comes up with, it always circles back to his initial thought. It would be so easy for him as well, certainly less time-consuming than whatever gift-giving and compliment showering the Inazuman light novels are preaching. He's stealthy enough to evade the Matra and his status could tie lose ends. Yes, the advantages of this route outweigh the set-backs in comparison to everything else.

So he refreshes his mind, there is a connection between everything ; it's common knowledge that the librarian of House of Daena will personally rescue overdue books. That record hasn't yet been broken, regardless of whether they had to traverse to the deepest part of the rainforest or some abstruse corner of the desert — the weakest link identified.

He will run countless simulations in his mind, calculating the time and possible day you'll come knocking at his door ; by then, the causal factors will be dealt with.

And everything else will resolve itself.

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 1 month ago

Text

⋆𖥧˚𖤣*ꕤ Viparyas ꕤ*𖤣˚𖥧⋆

Read my Yandere! Capitano fics first (´∀｀*)

Herbarium ๑ Fairytale ๑ Other fics

A long time ago, I thought of a silly Yandere! Capitano x Damsel! Darling scenario, this time featuring the Aranara. Aaand now we have yet another epilogue to their twisted fairytale xD

Thank you so much to @jymwahuwu for inspiring me to finally write this fluffy idea and @diodellet for beta-reading this <3

Tw:: yandere, captivity, Stockholm Syndrome, mention of abuse from Darling’s backstory

Note:: Fem reader who is smaller and weaker than Capitano, spoilers for previous fics

♡ 0.8k words under the cut ♡

The first and last time ______ tried to “escape” from Capitano happened during their unofficial honeymoon in Sumeru.

In all of their nature tours, she has encountered the same…forest creatures? Whatever they are, they are small. Whimsical. Quick to disappear once they sense her gaze. What’s most mysterious is that Capitano and the Fatui are unable to see them.

She stops mentioning them after the third sighting. Clinics aren’t a popular tourist spot, and their leisure time is already cut short by the real purpose of the trip, namely Capitano’s diplomatic mission. If not for her guard’s betrayal, ______ wouldn’t even be here with him.

During his diplomatic negotiations, she stays in their hotel room, unable to interact with anyone except the Fatui agents stationed all over the building. Usually, she passes the time by reading her new books. But one day, towards the end of the mission, she goes to the balcony for fresh air…and sees the forest creatures foraging in the clearing behind the hotel.

Well, it makes sense. They did book a secluded hotel in Dharma Forest.

It seems that this group is more trusting of humans, seeing how they cheerfully called out to her and flew up to the balcony. As it turns out, their species is called the Aranara, and they can only be seen by children and certain adults. They seem friendly.

They invite her to their village, with the promise of flowers and stories. Their offer is tempting, considering the weeks she has spent in constant surveillance and confusion over the Aranara. They even help her leave the hotel undetected!

Vanarana is quite nice and so are her new companions. They sing to her, tell her their stories, and even help her pick flowers. ______ is silent for the most part, but she does express her appreciation with headpats and small smiles.

They are pleasant company, really. And that is why, amidst their lighthearted interactions, ______ can’t help but think: Had she been raised in Sumeru, could she have found solace in the Aranara? If that were the case, would she have settled for Capitano’s love?

A few hours later, she decides it is time to return to her husband. So she thanks the Aranara one last time and accepts the flower crown they made for her. As she leaves Vanarana, her newly-pressed Viparyas transform into regular Padisarah.

Unfortunately, she underestimated the consequences of her actions. In less than a minute, ______ is accosted by a frantic Fatuus and escorted back to the hotel.

As it turns out, while she was enjoying the Aranara’s company, the Fatui have been searching for her all over Sumeru. Their panic only worsened when Capitano finished his meeting and began looking for her.

It has been a long time since she has feared her husband’s wrath. Despite everything they’ve been through, how can she be sure that he won’t punish her this time?

This time, her guards are stationed inside her hotel room. Soon, all of them including ______ are alerted by a familiar set of footsteps. Capitano opens the door and dismisses the guards.

The tension is unbearable. There are no harsh words, no physical violence, but it is clear that he wants answers from his wife. And a part of her feels guilty for making him worry about her safety again, moreso when he asks if he has done anything to make her feel neglected in Sumeru.

So she tells him about the Aranara. She hands over her flower crown for inspection. She swears that she won’t do it again, that she wasn’t assisted by any Fatui traitors, that she only went to Vanarana out of curiosity and not for the purpose of leaving him.

They made a promise on the first day of their honeymoon, didn’t they? That if she ever runs away, he’d capture her immediately?

She doesn’t know how to feel when her husband’s touch becomes gentle. When he apologizes for scaring her. When he says that he believes her story.

Later that night, when ______ takes out her notebook, she flips to the page of Sumeru roses she’d preserved for him. The flowers need a few more days.

The next day, they continue their travels in Sumeru. ______ stops acknowledging the Aranara apart from subtle glances. The forest spirits can only question the increase in Fatui guards, the new locks on the balcony, her husband’s tight grip around her waist.

She is also forbidden from telling anyone about her experience with the Aranara, especially Il Dottore.

✿ BONUS ✿

Fatui:: WHERE ON EARTH IS LADY ______?!! WHAT KIND OF DANGER COULD SHE BE IN?!! OH MY GOD THE CAPTAIN IS GOING TO KILL US IF WE CAN’T FIND HER!! T0T

~Meanwhile~

Aranara:: We should cheer up Sad Nara with the Taste of Happiness!! >:0

Darling:: …Thank you for the dessert.

♡

First Laurestine, now this…….how many old brainrots are going to be written now that Capitano is in the Main Story?? This drabble turned out longer than expected, but it was fun to think about Damsel bonding with the Aranara + another soft moment with Capitano + the Fatui’s panic. I think Seelies would also take a liking to her and her husband (●´ω｀●)

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @brynn-lear @zhongrin @euniveve @naraven @harmonysanreads @stickyspeckledlight @ainescribe @tylerxrbtwhp @whispereons

#«That if she ever runs away he’d capture her immediately?» heyyy capi maybe chill out my brother- —XII #nahh tell dottore he won't do anything bad fr fr — XII #capitano #il capitano #capitano x reader #yandere capitano x reader #yandere capitano #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #tw: dark #fem reader

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 1 month ago

Text

˚⋅౨ৎ Ribbon Knots ೀ⋅˚

Inspired by these posts!! I just like to imagine Capitano and his lover wearing fancy corsets as part of their formal/ regular outfits <3

Note:: Fem reader, domestic fluff + yearning

Capitano and his wife lacing up each other’s corsets as part of their dressup routine…….

Each morning, Capitano carefully pulls your corset strings and ties a secure knot. There is something so tender about the gesture, his gentle touches, this small moment of daily intimacy.

It does beg the question: Can’t he put on his corset by himself? That is true, but he simply prefers your assistance for the same reason you seek out his. You have a distinct way of tying his corset knot, he notices.

This routine is especially intimate on the days of his departure. Before he leaves for his mission, Capitano will lace up your corset one last time. He will think of the long days ahead, of the dresses you will wear in his absence, of corset strings tied in solace. When it’s his turn, he will savor the moment and silently thank you.

And hours later, when he undresses for bed, he will stare at his reflection in the mirror. At the distinctive ribbon knot of his corset, tied by your own hands. He has long memorized your technique but he can’t replicate the weaker force you exert, the feeling of your touch, your concentrated expression followed by a soft smile directed at him.

Slowly, he unties the strings and calculates the earliest possible date of his return. Until then, he will just have to be reminded of your separation each morning.

#XXVII #I keep hearing the SIX: The Musical song when I first read this ngl -XII #capitano #il capitano #capitano x reader #fatui x reader #fatui harbingers #genshin x reader #genshin impact #fem reader

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 2 months ago

Text

˚⋅౨ৎ Ribbon Knots ೀ⋅˚

Inspired by these posts!! I just like to imagine Capitano and his lover wearing fancy corsets as part of their formal/ regular outfits <3

Note:: Fem reader, domestic fluff + yearning

Capitano and his wife lacing up each other’s corsets as part of their dressup routine…….

Each morning, Capitano carefully pulls your corset strings and ties a secure knot. There is something so tender about the gesture, his gentle touches, this small moment of daily intimacy.

Slowly, he unties the strings and calculates the earliest possible date of his return. Until then, he will just have to be reminded of your separation each morning.

#(suffering from sucess: too strong to replicate darling's weak force /silly #capitano waking up to a cold n empty bed every morning... make it worse if he has the tsaritsa's gnosis lmfao — XII)#capitano #il capitano #capitano x reader #fatui x reader #fatui harbingers #genshin x reader #genshin impact #fem reader

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 2 months ago

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.˚₊‧໒❀˚‧ Laurestine ‧˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Read my Yandere! Capitano fics first ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

Herbarium ๑ Fairytale ๑ Forget-Me-Not ๑ Astilbe ๑ Artifact Set

Aahh I can’t believe it’s been two years since I wrote my Yandere! Capitano x Damsel! Darling longfic!! This epilogue has been in my drafts for nearly as long, and I figured now would be a good time to revisit my favorite fairytale <3

Synopsis:: “While the Captain carries out his mission in Natlan, how does he protect his darling from afar? Her guard is here to provide the details.”

Tw:: yandere, Stockholm Syndrome, invasion of privacy, implied abuse from darling’s backstory, MINORS DNI

Note:: Female reader described as physically weak and smaller than Capitano

♡ 1k words under the cut ♡

Sender: Sergeant C. Naiad

Note: CONFIDENTIAL

My lord,

At the time I am writing this report, it has been eight days since your departure for Natlan.

Your wife is in good health. She rarely speaks to me and the new live-in servants, though she seems to have fully adjusted to our presence.

Below is a record of her daily routine. There may be slight variations depending on her energy levels and emotional state. But for the most part, Lady ______ adheres to this personal schedule.

7:00 - Lady ______ wakes up.

7:10 - Bathtime.

7:30 - Lady ______ leaves the bedroom.

7:35 - Breakfast.

8:00 - Lady ______ strolls around the woods, escorted. Occasionally picks flowers.

8:30 - Lady ______ preserves new flowers (if any) and checks on the other flowers in her collection.

9:00 - Lady ______ begins reading her first book of the day.*

12:00 - Lunch.

12:30 - Lady ______ continues reading.

15:00 - Lady ______ finishes her first book and arranges it in her personal library.

15:30 - Lady ______ begins reading her second book of the day.

18:45 - Bathtime.

19:00 - Dinner.

19:30 - Lady ______ continues reading.

20:00 - Lady ______ finishes her second book or stays up late to finish reading it.

20:15 - Lady ______ makes her request for breakfast the next day and goes to the bedroom.

20:30 - Bedtime.

*Depending on the length or contents of the story, Lady ______ may devote a full day to a single book. Other times, she chooses to instead rest in the bedroom, cook her own meals, or learn the Snezhnayan language through her textbooks and my assistance.

Regarding the last activity, her pronunciation is improving.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

Today, Lady ______ read Records of Jueyun Vol. 2.

Based on her expressions, she seemed particularly fond of this story. The day prior, she also expressed interest in continuing Fables de Fontaine and Tales from the Waves.

Once you give your approval, I will place an order for the remaining volumes of all three book collections.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

We have received the garments commissioned for your wife. She seemed pleased with your gift, even going so far as to change into one of the dresses. Specifically, it was the lavender corset gown with off-shoulder puff sleeves.

Later, I overheard the staff praising her—a common topic of discussion, if I may add. This time, their compliments revolved around her physical appearance and your love for one another. Aside from this, they continue to serve her with utmost devotion.

Attached is a candid photograph of Lady ______ in the aforementioned gown.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

During my morning rounds, I discovered a Cryo Whopperflower two yards north of your residence. It was immediately eliminated, and I dispatched agents to eliminate any remaining monsters within the woods.

I have Private Hercyna’s confirmation that your estate has been purged of all potential dangers to Lady ______. She continues to enjoy her morning strolls.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

Lady ______ has reorganized her personal library. The servants offered their help, but she insisted on lifting the books and climbing the ladder by herself. Nonetheless, I remained by her side in case of an accident.

Afterwards, she reread Heart of Clear Springs. She then requested a shipment of Dandelion Wine and ingredients native to Mondstadt.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

I have a serious matter to discuss with you.

This afternoon, your wife requested a cup of Love Poem tea. It was served in the living room, and the maid tripped while holding the tray.

I was able to keep the hot tea from splashing all over Lady ______, but she was visibly shaken. Even after I confirmed that neither of us had been scalded, she went upstairs and spent the rest of the day in her bedroom. She explicitly ordered a cold beverage for dinner.

I can only imagine the traumatic memories that resurfaced, based on the personal information you have disclosed to me.

From what I saw, it was purely an accident though that does not excuse Lady ______’s distress. I also had the tea checked for any poisons that could be absorbed through the skin.

Attached is the personal file of the offender. Their punishment is at your discretion.

Rest assured, there will be no repeat of this incident.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

Lady ______ has received your package from Natlan.

The flowers arrived in perfect condition. She spent the most time admiring the Brilliant Chrysanthemums.

She cried while reading your letter.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

Lady ______ finished preserving her previous batch of flowers.

I was also told that she needs a new notebook for her collection, as her current notebook only has a few blank pages left.

She suggested a trip to the local bookstore upon your return.

✿ ⚘

My lord,

At the time I am writing this report, Lady ______’s letter should be en route to Natlan, along with the flowers she preserved for you.

After she gave me the sealed envelope, I checked the trashcan and noticed a crumpled sheet of stationery.

Given the circumstances, I chose not to read it. Instead, I have enclosed the stationery in my report, so that you may be the one to check if there are any secret codes or messages.

I hope you like the laurestine. I think it turned out better than the other flowers.

After your mission, what do you want to do? We haven’t traveled to Fontaine yet. The botanical gardens should be in bloom next season. Or if you want, we can just stay at home. I’m fine with anything.

Please take care of yourself. And tell me if the mission has to be extended.

I miss you.

♡

Read Artifact Set for Capitano’s letter <3

Aahhh I still can’t believe we’ve finally made it to Capitano’s in-game debut. So much has happened since A Winter Night’s Lazzo, and I can’t wait to write more Capitano x Damsel once his lore is available (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡

Lastly, I just want to give a shoutout to my beta-reader @diodellet, my mutuals (you know who you are), and my readers!! I rlly appreciate your presence over the years, and thank you for enjoying my work :’>

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @brynn-lear @harmonysanreads @euniveve @naraven @ainescribe @mochinon-yah @navxry @euniveve @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @lucidasara @dulcetailurophile @melody3cherryblossom @avryxlle @lumincryo @pinkislost @tylerxrbtwhp @whispereons @tamikahoshiko

#(she.cried.while.reading.your.letter. imma haunt u down capitano- —XII)#il capitano #capitano #capitano x reader #yandere capitano #yandere capitano x reader #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #tw: dark #tw: stalking #mdni #fem reader

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 2 months ago

Text

Power Struggle

Unreliable summary: Pantalone is a Svengali figure. He dominates reader's life in the most backhanded and subtle ways without trying to be subtle. // Pantalone consumes everything he touches; he is a black hole with no affection but only the need for possession. Warnings: Yandere, unhealthy relationships, power abuse, toxicity, manipulation Note: We're breaking free from the rewrites with this one >:3

Business is profitable for any banker in the current season. Every year, a few days after New Year's celebrations, people can’t resist the urge to take loans and make uncalculated decisions to achieve the goals they have set for the year.

For as long as you have known Pantalone, he’s been unavailable until the season of new debtors passes,

—every year, except this one.

Despite being overworked and underslept, tonight, he has decided to make time for you.

Pantalone’s voice is less sharp than usual. It’s the only way you can pick up on his exhaustion. Otherwise, his outfit is as clean as his calm expression is; a neverending masquerade where he hides his real thoughts and self.

Yet, despite his exhaustion, he talks as if he hadn’t been able to in weeks. And because Pantalone tends to monologue, you naturally take on the role of dutiful listener.

“I’ve mentioned this in our last meeting, but there is an upcoming party. One that promises to be quite bothersome. I wish I could take you for it’d bring me a sliver of joy, alas, bringing a commoner would be an insult. Not that I’d think that. You do know I adore you, right? Either way, you wouldn’t be interested in coming. Politics don’t suit you. You’re too meek.”

The words fly past his teeth without any guard. Part of you takes offence, yet another part can’t be bothered to care.

Today, it’s much easier to let everything drift by. The promise of the clouds in the air and the lingering freedom they bring guide you towards a new future. Your eyes drift lower out of the window. Many tall and imposing buildings flash by as the car drives forward. Those, too, are but a nuisance.

You wonder…

Will Pantalone accept your choices when you share them tonight?

He has always been peculiar and too specific with how he prefers things.

Would he judge your future?

In the background, you hear more words escape his lips. You enjoy the sound of it.

Pantalone’s voice has always been soft. He despises it, but you like how it lingers over your thoughts and blocks out your worries.

It’s a reminder of his presence and how he keeps you close to him—grounded.

“—one of the maids working in my mansion seemed to take offence when I arrived at my own home unannounced. People truly are despicable. No matter how many chances you give them, they can’t help but disappoint.”

More words, yet the meaning behind them gets lost the more he talks.

Normally you’d listen closer, forcing yourself to stay close to his thoughts.

Right now, you’re unable to blame your distraction on the long words he uses.

Today, something bigger has consumed your mind.

“Y/n?”

Pantalone calls out to you.

Only after he calls out your name you notice that the car has stopped at his chosen destination. Quickly, you glance through the dark-tinted window separating the car from the outside world. You catch grand doors under a lit-up sign; ‘Northland’s Delight’.

How did you miss your arrival?

‘Northland’s Delight’...

—why does the name spark familiarity?

Despite you being the one who had not-so-subtly dropped hints about wanting to meet up with him, Pantalone took the initiative to pick a date, time, and place to meet, and perhaps that’s where recognition falls. Surely he’s mentioned the name somewhere in your prior conversations. You likely forgot about it.

As sudden as your arrival had been, Pantalone appears in your vision, blocking the sight of the restaurant from your eyes. Instinctively your hand reaches for the seat next to you, only to find it empty.

You frown. He’s not there.

Are you really that out of it?

Dazed, you stare as Pantalone opens the door for you, something he insists on doing whenever you ride with him. A smile is on his face when he looks down at your sitting form. You notice how his figure casts a shadow over you and consumes your entire line of sight.

“You are preoccupied today.” Pantalone doesn’t sound angry, but his words make you feel nervous. You crane your neck upwards, hoping to catch a glimpse of his expression and thoughts. “Am I supposed to be offended?”

His hand outstretches in front of you. Without a second of delay, you reach for the grasp of his cold leather gloves.

You’ll have to mind your daydreaming from this point forward. It’d be rude of you to be distracted when he had cleared his busy schedule in favour of you.

“I’m sorry. It isn’t my intention to be distracted. Honestly, I am more excited for tonight than you could be.”

There is a small interruption between your sentences as he brings you up on your feet and out of the car.

“I didn’t expect that you’d take time off for me. I knew you would be busy and I didn’t want to cause you trouble,” you admit, though, your nerves are only partially to blame on him clearing his schedule for something less important—like yourself.

His eyes linger on your figure as he smiles wider. “An evening spent with you is an investment worth making. Though, I hope you’ll make it worth my time.”

His voice is laced with enough joy to make it sound like a tease. In the end, you can’t fight the smile forming on your face as his thumb caresses the top of your palm.

Feeling more at ease, you move to link your arm with his non-dominant one, knowing he’d shake you off if you tried to go for the other side.

Pantalone has always been a touchy man, even when you first met him. If your arm wasn’t around his, he’d put his hand on the small of your back or your shoulder. It seemed like he preferred to be as close as possible, never letting you escape his presence.

And while you hadn’t seen him around other people, you assumed it had to be a habit of his.

Over time, you shrugged the action off as noble formalities and offered your arm without him needing to ask.

Pantalone tugs you closer with his arm. By his side, you smell the rich perfume he’d put on. His other hand moves to your arm, gently patting it as he leads you forward.

When you walk up the stairs leading to Northland’s Delight, you notice two bulky men standing on either side of the grand doors. By the time you’ve reached the small staircase leading up to the entrance, they’ve moved to open them, inviting you into the warm interior of the luxurious place.

You can’t help your visible awe as you take in the entrance hall of Northland’s Delight.

The first thing your mind catches is the almost overwhelming grandeur of the interior. The entrance hall is expansive. Broad, high ceilings adorned with exquisite chandeliers cast a warm and inviting glow throughout the room and decorate the reflective floor with shimmers from their crystals.

Your eyes dart over to the walls, which are decorated with wallpapers complimenting the royal theme of the restaurant. As you look closer, you notice their intricate designs drawn with subtle colours. Small curls and elegant shapes move from the ground to the nooks and crannies, filling the entire space with luxury.

As your feet step on top of the red carpet that drags into another room, you see yet another space—one more grand than the current.

With only a glance, you can captivate its carefully arranged seating; noticing that it must be the main dining room. Further, thick velvet curtains create a sense of privacy for the patrons within the room. Another chandelier hangs above the people, and each table is decorated with plates that resemble art rather than food.

You feel out of place amidst everything, but this certainly is a place Pantalone would dine at.

Distracted by the luxury, you only notice the woman who has approached you when she pulls out a standard greeting. Dressed in deep reds, golds, and browns��similar to the interior—the hostess of tonight introduces herself to Pantalone.

While the ‘good evening’ and ‘I hope your travels were safe and without trouble’ passes, your thick winter coats are taken by other personnel.

Through it all, you continue to hold Pantalone’s arm.

Between all the things overwhelming you, you realise that the hostess had addressed your company as if she recognised him. You silently note that Pantalone must come here often on business dinners, too.

“We reserved your usual seat, my Lord.” The woman informs him.

Pantalone doesn’t do more beyond nodding his head subtly.

“Please follow me, my Lord.” The hostess takes a short bow before she leads the two of you out of the entrance hall and into the main scene.

Being led deeper into the building, previous distant conversations become clear. As you move in closer, your eyes instinctively move closer to the rich joy of the others.

From what you can see, tables are spread wide and far enough to grant each patron a feeling of seclusion yet a sense of fullness and intimacy from the decor that fills the empty spaces. From every side, laughter chimes like a song and an irresistible warmth hangs over the room.

You are certain; this is a place for get-togethers, somewhere no business is dealt—safe for the exchange of smiles.

Here, lovers from rich families are able to retreat. They can enjoy themselves from the prying eyes of the public or their families.

Not a single person looks out of place.

As you come close, the hostess suddenly changes enroute, instead heading to the stairs.

You are led to the first floor, and almost instantly as you step up, the atmosphere changes.

A part of you should’ve known today wouldn’t be the day where Pantalone would mingle with others. He is paranoid to the point where he believes any person is out for his demise.

With this, you guess that he must’ve hired a private room for tonight.

By the time you reach the top of the stairs, the laughter has become a background noise again. Then, it takes a few more steps before you arrive at tonight’s dining room, which is basically a large closed-off room with a single table in the middle.

You watch the candle that’s been lit and placed on top of the round table. It is the only source of warmth, much unlike the space below you.

Pantalone pulls one of the chairs back and helps you get settled into the lush, upholstered seating before he pulls out the other chair for himself.

When you’re both ready, the hostess has been replaced by a common waiter and Pantalone awakens the evening by ordering a bottle of his favourite wine—something that’s become a routine. Always insisting on pouring your glass without consent or questions.

In repressed silence, you let him.

“How was your day, darling?” Pantalone’s voice is relaxed. Unlike before in the car, he is now fully alone with you. Thus, he feels some sense of safety in exposing the barest of his vulnerability.

Crossing one leg over another while straightening your back, you ineptly mirror his relaxed but undoubtedly composed (if not perfect) posture.

You lower your head.

Truth be told, you’ll always feel out of place in these affluent settings.

Growing up in the middle-to-low class has made you feel guilty whenever Pantalone brings you luxurious places. You know that you can never repay him, but you also know that if you were to share your discomfort he wouldn’t bend.

Pantalone would never lower himself to anything but opulence, so he forces you to become one with him instead. He lifts you up in status, merging you into his ideals as he takes you wherever he wishes to go.

Your lips find the rim of the wine glass and you take a sip as you try to relax your nerves.

When you set it down on the table again, you look up at Pantalone, who is already looking at you, waiting for an answer.

A slight flush forms on your cheekbones under the weight of his golden gaze.

“It’s been nearly two months since I’ve last seen you. I know you’ve been busy, and you still are, but I have something important I’ve been working on too. Ever since the moment you told me about tonight’s plans, I’ve been excited to share them. But, perhaps, a bit nervous too.”

While a smile forms on your face, Pantalone’s dips. It is for only a second, but you swear you saw his lips part and the uncertain furrowing of his eyebrows.

He sits up straighter, uncertain in only the seconds before he speaks.

“Hmm. It is nearly impossible for someone to bring me something I don't already possess. You almost make me curious for this ‘exciting news’.”

Is he mocking you?

You blame it on ignorance.

“I would hope so. Though…” You fiddle with the lace ends of the cloth that spread over the table.

In case your news is unwelcome, you’d like to delay the moment for as long as possible. If it goes well, you can ask him to stay, if not, you can simply leave by the end of the night.

“—is it alright if I tell you at the end of dinner?”

The way your voice came up at the end of your sentence made it sound as if you unconsciously sought approval. It had made it seem like a question when you had already made up your mind.

Lucky for you, Pantalone doesn't seem particularly bothered by what you had to tell.

“Of course, my dear.”

His smile is back on his face and he falls back to his act of casualty, being quick to brush you off as he resumes his monologue.

And as the night continues, the space you occupy becomes smaller.

The previous distance and coldness in the room are filled by his endless chatter, being further accompanied by gentle touches as he compels to invade your space. His actions make any stretch between you null.

Soon, hours have passed, and before you know it, Pantalone has ordered dessert. One for you, none for him. A treat, or so he’d say.

You attempt to ease into the topic you want to talk about.

“Pantalone,” you hesitate.

With a slight delay, he answers your call with a casual tilt of his head as he intertwines his hands in front of his chest.

“Remember when we first met?”

A chuckle escapes his lips. “I recall correctly, you were but a freshly graduated student with more debt than one could pay off in a lifetime. More importantly, you were serving me in a restaurant similar to this. Your uniform was always stained from your hard work.”

You make a bow, as is customary before introducing yourself.

Tonight’s patrons are ‘VIPs amongst VIPs’—as had your boss mentioned before. Initially, you weren’t supposed to serve them. Your task was menial, greeting the people at the entrance hall and taking their cloaks.

It was supposed to be that easy, but…

“Y/n…” The man with hair as dark as ink echoes your name. While you avoid staring as much as possible, you catch his eyes darting over your figure; from your face to your neck, down, and up again.

He is gorgeous…

The man speaks again. His voice is gentle and smooth, yet he talks with authority and control—as if he owns the place and its people. “Are you serving any tables tonight?”

“No sir.”

“Delightful. Then, tonight, I’d like you to serve me.”

It turns out he needs only a single word to change the entire plan for that evening.

One word, and he changes everything.

At first sight, Pantalone had taken a liking to you.

“You graduated from one of the most respected universities in Snezhnaya, yet someone like you ends up in a restaurant. Truly a pity.”

“...”

“If and when the opportunity arises, would you be willing to change your predicament?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“From what I see; you either take fate in your hands and bend it to your favour—taking every opportunity for yourself, or you stay in your current position—surviving, but never more than that.”

“I think anyone would want to take control of their fate.”

“In that case,” he gestures to the other end of his table in the private room. “Convince me to hire you.”

Meeting him had changed your life.

After graduating you fell into an impossible situation. While months passed of you applying anywhere and everywhere, you were unable to secure a job. Before you knew it, you got in trouble with debt collectors trying to collect what debt you had accumulated during your academic years.

To keep your life from crumbling apart, you worked multiple low-wage jobs that you were overqualified for.

Then, during that fateful evening of you acting as his server, Pantalone had invited you to sit with him. He ate, and you promoted yourself and your qualities. Supposedly, he liked your polite attitude or unwavering patience for his endless questions, because by the end of that night, he offered a proposition.

You could either continue to work multiple low-wage income jobs, or you could work for him.

As the night came to a close, and he outstretched his hand to you one final time, he had left with you by his side.

You haven’t looked back since, and with all in consideration, it is a happy memory. Since that moment, things have gone uphill. Your debt has been cleared; you work a job you’re qualified for; life positively challenges you, and you still talk with Pantalone.

Still.

Why does it sound like he’s pulling you down when he recalls it?

Shame settles in when you remember where you come from, then resolve seeps through as you realise he hadn’t forgotten either. Over the years you have proven yourself.

Surly, him remembering where you came from must give you credit.

You suppose… these dinners are one way of showing his affection to you, albeit it being a bit roundabout.

…

Right?

Pantalone taps one of his intertwined fingers against the knuckle of the hand it rests on. His rings and the gemstones on them shine against the candlelight.

Again, you try to get to the point, “When you had asked me about my dreams that evening, I answered: ‘I want to see the world someday’. Back then, that seemed impossible. Without you, I wouldn’t have made it past the shabby part-time jobs and my run-down apartment—”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Pantalone’s nonchalant voice drips with ego and pride when he cuts you short. “I know you are appreciative.”

Your lips purse for a second and you fiddle with your fingers below the table. “That is not what I was trying to say.”

“So, you’re not?” He raises an eyebrow, either in offence or amusement. You’re not willing to guess.

“I—…You know that is not what I meant. I am indebted to you, I know that.”

Frustration bubbles up when you see a soft smile on his face. It makes your anger feel out of place, especially considering your meeting with him was supposed to be a good memory.

The news you’re about to tell is supposed to be good news.

Are you the one in the wrong?

Pantalone relaxes by leaning back into his chair. A gentle turn of his wrist urges you to continue, despite the mixed feelings in your chest.

You sigh,

“I have the opportunity to make my dreams come true and I wanted to tell you first. I’ve finally taken fate into my own hands. I am planning to leave for Snezhnaya.”

The news falls flat. Your previous frustration at Pantalone seeming to disregard you. has made your voice devoid of joy. Only a sense of letdown remains.

Out of everyone, you felt most proud to share the news with the one who made you fight for your future.

Your fingers hover over your pocket. The business card given to you by your friend brings a sense of pride and freedom. You’ve waited all your life for this—worked day and night.

Shouldn’t Pantalone be happy?

You look up from the half-finished dessert plate.

Pantalone's face is twisted in an unusual expression. His mouth is turned in a way that looks strained and awkward. His hands are still intertwined, but the grip has strengthened. Then, as you meet his eyes, you hold your breath.

The man sitting in front of you has always had a difficult time controlling his expressions.

Though, it is obvious you’ve never seen him this apoplectic before.

Then,

—he smiles.

The room grows cold, and a sudden chilly breeze brushes against the nape of your neck, making the hairs stand up straight. That laughter… You don't know what makes your skin crawl more, the disgust on his face or that vile condescending laughter.

Shocked beyond what you know to do, you mimic him with a nervous chuckle. If you didn't know better, you would've felt like you were in danger—prey to the predator.

After a few seconds, you carefully call out to him.

“Do you feel lonely, Y/n? Is that why you’re doing this?” Pantalone’s voice is unwaveringly strong and conclusive. It feels as if your answer won't matter because he already has his truth set in mind. “Do you feel neglected by me?”

Your throat is painfully dry when you swallow. You're both thirsty for water and a way out of the current topic. When you answer him, you sound like one of tonight's waiters bending and nearly snapping to his extreme expectations. “No, sir.”

“You know that I hate when you do that.” He stands up from his chair and instantly, one of the waiters on standby comes to his side.

Pantalone’s voice is cold and distant, “We’ll be taking our leave.”

“Yes, my Lord.” The rehearsed reply falls out of the worker’s lips instantly.

The young man who was unfortunate enough to serve him tonight hurries off to, what you assume to be, the hostess, so she can let the curtains fall after the last formalities have been told.

You’re still in your seat when Pantalone walks up to your side.

From the moment you met him, he has radiated grace, kindness, and a friendly appearance. Now, he hovers over you in an authoritative, if not menacing, manner.

Your hand shakes when you move to grab his. His fingers snake over your skin, holding on to you as if you’d disappear—tightly and oppressive.

Where did tonight go wrong?

Was it the news?

…

Though… why?

…

Have you always walked on eggshells around him?

The walk out of the restaurant feels heavy and solemn. The once lively background chatter goes now unnoticed. The opening hall also appeared less warm. From the moment Pantalone set his foot onto the last step of the stair, all the workers were focused on him, but never on you or the bruise forming on your wrist as he pulled you along.

By the time you reach the car, silence chokes you.

In the absence of his usual overly-present voice, you become more aware of Pantalone’s eyes. Those orbs, usually hidden by his thick dark lashes cling onto you, possessive, owning.

You don’t recall your arrival home, for Pantalone’s grip haunts your body like a burn that’d scar.

Somewhere between your arrival and now, you had walked deeper into the space. A trial follows you. It falls onto the cold tiles leading up to the bathroom, piece by piece getting rid of the fancy clothes Pantalone had brought, forgetting the necklace he had gifted, ridding yourself of the scent he had worn.

Hot water crashes into your neck and falls onto your body as you stand in the shower. You wonder, how can the world be so deafening quiet? Droplets trail down, racing to meet the drainage below, and your only thoughts consist of wanting to do the same.

On your wrist, you see the outlines of his hand by the bruises he gifted.

Your chest hurts. Your body aches. All you can do now is rub tonight’s events off your body until your skin is red and threatens to break.

You feel disgusting.

You feel trapped.

You feel alone.

You trace the mark of Pantalone’s hand on your wrist, finding that the marks remain even as time moves on.

By now, you realise it’s impossible to fall asleep when even in your dreams you feel his presence consume your life.

Soon, sunshine creeps through the windows, failing to wake you, for you hadn’t fallen asleep in the first place.

You sit on the ground with your phone in hand. In the other, you feel the business card that’s been ripped out of yesterday’s pockets.

Around you, littered throughout the luxurious apartment, lie two packed suitcases and a trail of the belongings you hadn’t deemed important enough to bring with you.

If you could, you would've left Snezhnaya yesterday.

In the capital’s streets, you recently had the pleasure to meet a familiar face. A friend from your university had found a job and has been travelling the world, turning their business course into a travelling agency so they can sustain their life.

After catching up with you, they had offered to take you with them, for—“dreams are meant to be chased. If we can’t, what else do we live for?”

The first chime of the clock hits and you click the button on your phone, dialling the number on the business card.

The call goes through.

“Beep… beep… beep… Hi! If I am unavailable, I am most likely busy. Don’t leave a message, just call again later. Thank you!”

Voicemail.

You try again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

And again.

After failing the call a sixth time, a gloomy feeling settles in.

You weren’t keen on going to work today and hoped that solidifying your plan with your friend would give you some positivity to make it through. Recalling the events from yesterday only made it more awkward to work in Pantalone’s bank, even if you never saw him at your workplace.

In theory, you can call in sick, but that’d only lure Pantalone out more.

A sigh escapes your lips and you lift your hand to your forehead.

It’s too early. Your friend must be asleep. By the end of today, you’re certain you'll get a callback. After all, when you met, they seemed just as excited to travel with you.

Now, you only needed to hang on a while longer. Soon, you’d be gone. Gone from this feeling. Gone from the control you’ve lost since you left university. Gone—reclaiming freedom once and for all.

The only one who knew about your plans was Pantalone.

Surely, if you ignored the unsettling feeling in your stomach, today would be like any other day.

“My Lord has requested your audience.”

You recognise the chauffeur in an instant. The car parked in front of your apartment is impossible to not recognise. Pantalone is here? With two suitcases in hand, you watch the chauffeur open the back door.

Fortunately, you find the inside empty.

Your eyes move to Pantalone’s chauffeur. “Why?”

“I apologise. My Lord only ordered for me to accompany you. He did not tell me why. Please, allow me to carry your bags to the car.”

You nod, grasping the phone in your pocket tightly. Ultimately, you had neither gone to work nor called in sick. Once the sun had risen, you had made up your mind and left your home with the idea of no return.

Is Pantalone upset?

Things were left on a tense note yesterday, you wonder if he wants to talk about it. Either way, now there is no chance of avoiding him. He made certain to stress that by sending one of his personnel to fetch you.

Did he decide to let you leave on amicable terms?

The drive from your home to Pantalone’s office is long and silent. You know he only hires the most competent people, and so, you are left with only your thoughts when the chauffeur refuses to keep you company.

The outside world shifts by in a blur. Soon, you find yourself in front of a familiar business.

‘Northland Bank’.

Ah…

When you finally step into his office, you meet Pantalone.

He sits behind a grand desk. And while his office is as luxurious as you had imagined it to be, you can’t appreciate it in the moment. Comfort and status radiate from his occupational area, and even the obscure spaces such as the wooden outside of dark cabinets against the walls were engraved in details and gold.

It feels stuffy, crowded, too much.

Your eyes meet his. Pantalone’s golden irises eerily match the furniture and affluence. Even while you’re standing as he sits in his chair, you feel as if you’re below him in every way—status, power, and control.

“I assume you’ve heard about your promotion?”

Pantalone intertwines his hands in front of him.

You’re surprised to hear his usual calm and soft voice.

He does not acknowledge yesterday’s happenings.

Wait, promotion?

“...what?”

“Sit down, my dear.” He signs to the chair on the other side of his desk, facing him instead of the room. It is much smaller than his, yet it is beyond extravagance when compared to the seats you usually sit in.

For a second, you’re unsure whether to bring up yesterday or to let it go and pretend it had never happened. The latter sounds more alluring at the moment.

Pantalone continues.

“I have been searching for a new assistant since the previous one unexpectedly… quit.”

He takes a second, looking into your face patiently as he tries to fish for a reaction. The grandfather clock that ticks throughout the room feels like the last digits counting down before a bomb goes off.

He continues, “After careful consideration, I felt you were best suited for the job.”

“Thank you, sir, but—”

“Pantalone,” he corrects you.

“Yes… Pantalone,” you hesitate. “I am extremely grateful for your generous offer but I have to refuse.”

“Nonsense.” He smiles, waving you off like a fly. “You’ve worked for me as an administrator for long. I know you have the skills and rigour for the task and I certainly don’t doubt your potential under my guidance.”

His words snake out of his mouth like tiny daggers pinning you down.

“No si—Pantalone, that’s… I am thankful for your praise, but I recall mentioning my plans to travel to other nations. I-it has been a dream of mine since I was younger. Now that my debts have been repaid—I—”

“Debts repaid?”

You watch as Pantalone’s smile broadens. He gently shakes his head.

“If I recall yesterday’s happening correctly, you admitted you are indebted to me. Is that not true? If so, do you believe you are in a position to refuse me? Is this not the perfect chance to pay off your debt after all I’ve given to you?”

Your resolve waivers at his words. He is right about the first part, but you always worked for him and he paid you. As much as you feel indebted to him, it was baseless. Chains made from nothing but air.

This, everything, is a fair exchange.

When you try to interject, Pantalone returns to the paperwork on his desk.

Without a second glance, he shakes his hand into the air and disregards you with little to no more respect than he does the waiters in the restaurant—always below him, ready at his disposal with a single word.

You barely get a single word past your lips when he overtakes the conversation, turning it into a monologue in the absence of your input.

“For now, be a dear and fetch me something to drink. I’m sure the kitchen staff will help you figure out what I usually get. I’ll explain your tasks once I’m finished.”

Your eyes move over to his desk.

Your friend’s business card.

Where did he find that?

The phone in your pocket is heavier than ever. Refusing him at this point would bring you more conflict.

Your plans with your friend were still intact.

You can and will leave this nation.

You only have to remain strong for a while longer.

It takes a second, but you eventually move up from the chair. “Once I’ve brought you your drink, where can I find my desk?”

“Desk?” Through his glasses and long lashes, he looks up at you. “Do you honestly believe I’ve brought you here to do administrative work? No, your new job is to keep me company.”

When your confused expression bemuses him, he dismissively continues.

“Just sit in one of the chairs, or the couch. I don’t particularly care as long as you remain in my office. Feel free to read one of the books on the shelf. As long as you are able to put it down whenever I want you to, I’ll allow it.”

You stand still, letting the words fall over you as you grow numb.

“From now on, your job is to listen to me, understood?”

For the first time since you met him, you realise why you feel so detached from him. You’ve become so accustomed to luxury, it became hard to look past the shimmer and gold.

But now, when you look into Pantalone’s eyes, they’re worth nothing.

Once you stop idolising the gold that surround him, you find a dull and exhausting life filled with nothing but vengeance and spite.

You’re nothing but a pet to him.

You never had the chance to be anything else.

“Beep…beep…beep… you have one voicemail. Press 1 to hear it.”

BEEP.

“Hey, Y/n. Sorry, I missed your call. See— I, uh… well… I needed to leave Snezhnaya. I can’t bring you with me. So please don't try to reach me again… …stay sa—”

“End of voicemail message.”

…

“Beep… beep… beep…

Unfortunately, the number you have tried to call no longer exists. Please check the number and try again later.

Beeep—”

©dottiro. Do not copy, repost, translate, feed to AI, or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thank you for reading ♡

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 2 months ago

Text

A Dear in the Headlights

Unreliable summary: Your date doesn’t show up after hours of waiting; in frustration you drive over to Pantalone’s house, knowing he’ll always comfort you. / You get into a car accident due to a deer in the headlights—deer, dear? Does it matter? Warnings: Yandere, car crash, implicated kidnapping, Pantalone is rich, descriptions of dead/mangled body(ies), DEAD DOVE DON'T EAT Note: This is a rewrite of THIS fic from my old blog.

"Hey, it’s me. Your phone has been going to voicemail for a while—you’re probably asleep, but I'm almost at your house. I know, I know, I shouldn't have come to your home in the middle of the night, but once again; you were right."

You press your lips together during the silence that follows. The road ahead is dimly lit by lanterns that do a poor job of showing the way. Only your solitary headlights indicate what's ahead of you.

Disappointment has yet to leave your system as you recall the events from a few hours before."It’s annoying. I wish I could see through people like you do."

Earlier in the evening, you'd been getting ready for a date with a guy who never showed. Unfortunately for you, these occurrences have become normal. The worst part is that hope remains within you. No matter how often it happens, you still believe the next would be better.

You wonder why those assholes bother to chat when they never plan to show.

A bitter sigh escapes your lips. You’re rambling again… how embarrassing.

For a moment, you hope Pantalone will leave his voicemails unread. Perhaps that’d save you face when you’d wake him up in the middle of the night—but you know better. Pantalone does not let anything go unnoticed. Sooner than later, he’d pick up his phone to hear your aimless talking and waste of time.

“Anyhow, I’m almost there. Since you gave me the keys to the gate; I’ll be entering your property. Sorry, not sorry.”

There is a short silence before you end the voicemail.

Although you know you shouldn’t drive and call, the road to Pantalone’s home was—and will always be—abandoned. Not once have you seen traffic coming in or out. Keeping one eye open will be enough.

As you continue forward, the gates surrounding his estate come into sight, and no matter how often you see it, you continue to be in awe at how much he owns.

You’re not sure what his job exactly concludes, Pantalone is a private person, but you know he organises parties for nobles in Snezhnaya. Only the top percentage of people are invited—vision wielders with high ranks, the top businessmen, and daughters born into money pleading for his attention; they all flock for an invitation so they can have the possibility to fall in his graces.

By now, you’ve been able to guess he works as a finance minister for Snezhnaya. If not, something similar will be the answer.

Yet, despite his charming personality and social life, Pantalone continues to appreciate the quiet over the chaos of Snezhnaya’s capital.

At the end of each week, he’d return home to his mansion for the weekend.

You can't blame him.

With one last turn, you arrive at the entrance to the large gate. Usually, it’s closed. However, tonight you find them wide open.

You can’t find a reason why they should be.

The car slows down as you hesitate to intrude into his property.

In the distance, a gentle light is cast inside his mansion.

Is he still awake?

With uncertainty, you let your car roll past the gates, speeding up in curiosity. Wanting to be secluded, Pantalone has surrounded himself by nature to hide. You have to drive through the dense greenery before you reach the lights in the distance.

Your frown turns into a smile when suddenly the upbeat tune of your ringtone echoes through the car.

“Pantalone!” You pick up, holding your phone to your mouth. Your voice is upbeat—you didn’t expect him to call back so soon. You’re surprised he doesn’t comment on its loudness.

“Dearest, would you be so kind as to tell me where you are right now?”

You raise an eyebrow before a chuckle escapes your lips. “Did you or did you not listen to the voicemail?” you ask.

Only a mere few minutes have passed since you ended the one-sided call. If he had listened to it, he would’ve known that you were on the way—already approaching his home.

Background sounds on his end of the call muffle his reply. For just a second, you take your eyes off the road to turn up the volume.

“Are you busy? I hear lots of people.”

You glance at the road as you keep one hand on the wheel. Then, you turn back to your phone, trying to adjust the volume again.

“Pantalone? I can’t hear—”

A loud crash makes you drop the phone before you finish your sentence. In a panic, you release the gas pedal; trying to break instead, resulting in the car drifting as it loses control. Instinctively, both your hands reach for the steering wheel. With all your power, you try to go against the current your car is trapped in—hoping to stabilise it, but failing as you drive over a hobble. Instantly, a thud is created, and something slams against your window, breaking it and shattering shards of glass across the front seats.

Your arms fly up in front of your face, losing your grip on the wheel as you brace yourself. In seconds, you fly forward as another crash happens; and this time your car comes to a full stop. Instantly, the airbags register, pushing your body back into the chair with immense force.

Your ears buzz as you struggle to breathe, feeling like the wind has been pushed out of your lungs. A million thoughts enter your mind and at the same time, you can’t register any of them. Time passes too fast, yet too slow. You try to grasp what happened, watching darkness swallow you whole when the headlights flicker one last time before turning off.

ㅤ

It’s dark, it’s silent.

Faintly, somewhere distant, you hear the motor continuing to hum.

The sound becomes louder and louder until you hear a familiar voice.

“Y/n—?!”

Pantalone?

You hear Pantalone’s voice through your phone. A dim white light tells you it must still be in the car. With only the artificial- and moonlight to guide you, you try to recall your surroundings. Did your phone get thrown back to the back or front during your crash?

As the sound of voices continues to increase, they become deafening. With a throbbing head, you push the deflating airbag out of your way, clicking the seat belt loose and climbing out of your seat with shaky legs.

You take steps forward.

One…

then two…

—you think you stop after that.

Cold air falls into your face, embracing you like death’s hands tickling your face as he debates whether or not to take you with him to the afterlife. Behind you, the front door of the car falls shut. After the slam, the blinkers go off; beeping as one of the orange lights flashes on and off.

You take a deep breath.

Your entire body pulses as your body sways. You have to put your hand on the car to keep yourself upright. Slowly, your other hand reaches for your head. Aside from the confusion, you don’t feel any pain. You wonder if it’s the adrenaline.

Right.

What did you hit again?

A deer?

You block out the distant voices as you make your way around the car. By keeping one of your hands against the metal surface, you circle it without losing your balance.

Without the headlights shining the path ahead of you, it’s hard to see what might be on the street. But, even without lights, no one can miss the mangled silhouette crawling forward. Its legs are bent; one loose to a point where you fear it’d fully snap off if it continues to drag its limbs across the cement.

Suddenly, its head turns up and it cries out like a human. The sound brings chills to your bones and the hollow feeling it leaves behind makes a sob escape your lips. A small button nose lifts into the air as it looks at the moon shining above the gates.

You are paralysed.

A button nose?

The figure crawls again, using its twisted arms to move forward and dragging what remains left behind onto the concrete floor.

You blink through your tears. The world continues to spin and you eventually force your eyes closed. The voices in the background are becoming increasingly louder, making your head scream as it becomes too much. Almost instantly, your body starts to feel warm as pain floods over your being.

The silhouette on the floor is still there when you open your eyes.

Long hair is matted with blood and dirt. Eyes threaten to cave in as the circles under its eyes claw holes in its skin. Sharp cheekbones peek out, cutting through the air as it drags its nails through the rubble, inching forward slowly but surely; much like a poor animal.

You now realise it’s crawling away from the house.

Right…

Pantalone.

You turn around back to the car. With the adrenaline leaving your body quickly, you need to tell him to call for an ambulance.

Before you can do as much as turn, a light is cast upon you. At that moment when you see her clearly, the girl screams in agony—not in pain but out of despair.

Her clothes are ripped, and blood pools up around the middle of her body and she seems skinny, underweight even. Likely, she was already in a bad state before the crash; underweight and starving at the least. Her figure is already dishevelled and now deformed because of you.

Hysterically, she claws forward, further gashing her skin and leaving more blood in her trail.

The thick long stripe of blood going from her body to the end of the car; down under your feet.

Did you hit…?

…No…

“Y/n.” Pantalone steps between you and the girl. With ease, he shields the sight from your eyes. His eyes inspect your body,

Much as if you were his priority.

“Can you move?” he asks.

His figure is blurry yet his face is so perfect… much unlike the girl. Your limbs feel weak as the image is etched into your mind like an ugly scar. Every time you close your eyes, you see her. Even as the people surrounding you reach over to Pantalone to help, the cries only double and combust into a choir of anguish.

Pantalone says something to you, but you can no longer process what he’s saying.

He seems calm…

You think of how easy it’d be to fall in his arms and believe everything to be a dream. Surely, it must be—!

The back of his hand comes up to caress your cheek, dragging a line of thick blood from your forehead to your chin and staining his gloves

His eyes open, and the intense colours of his irises flood sense into your brain. With his hand keeping your head steady, he says, “you’re alright, my dear.”

Then, he repeats it.

You’re alright.

Pantalone wouldn’t lie to you. He hadn’t lied in the past, and neither will he now. You choose to believe him.

His hands hold your face. He brings you closer until his lips fall next to your ear.

You diminish your thoughts as you let his voice carry over.

You got into a car crash because you hit a deer. You lost control of your wheel, ran into a tree, and as a result of the impact you got a concussion—your mind is scrambled, trauma making your memory warped and untrue.

He repeats it, whispering the words like a gentle song as his arms turn you around. One hand creeps up to your neck, while the other pushes the small of your waist forward.

Lights shimmer onto the roads. For a moment, you’d believe they’re fireflies. Voices surround you, either barking orders or following them with timid voices. Pantalone’s presence stands out among the others. His warmth makes you continue forward. You want to continue forward with him.

He repeats the words.

You got into a car crash because you hit a dear. You lost control of your wheel, ran into a tree, and as a result of the impact you got a concussion—your mind is scrambled, trauma making your memory warped and untrue.

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in Pantalone’s room.

His silken sheets are a beautiful dark violet. They feel soft against your skin. When you place your head against the pillow, you smell his natural scent mixed with a soft lavender. It's different from the perfume he wears daily—more subtle and inviting—but you find that it suits him. You wonder if the lavender is a remnant of the many bath scents he uses.

You savour the short moment of your headache disappearing. The fresh and calm scent makes you want to turn around in his bed for longer. Your fingers dig into the mattress, enjoying the remaining warmth, and then you close your eyes.

You think of last night.

You clearly remember the date date-gone-wrong; and the crash too, but you fail to recall how you got to Pantalone’s house. Did you pass out?

You know you shouldn’t have called without driving, and you know you shouldn’t have assumed his roads would be abandoned as always,

But…

What got in your way…?

As you shovel through your memories, Pantalone enters the room unannounced. His expression shifts from a frown to something you’d describe as relief.

He apologises for entering before knocking.

“It’s alright. I’m the one who should say sorry. I…”

Your headache returns as you try to remember what happened.

“I can remember crashing my car but everything after is fuzzy, like… a scattered memory or dream…?”

You stop, taking a moment to find your following words.

“It’s like my brain stopped working.”

Pantalone sits next to you on the edge of the bed and places his hand near yours. His fingers snake forward, reaching to intertwine yours in his. “The doctors tell me you suffer from a concussion. I believe it’d be best for you to remain in my care until you’ve recovered.”

“I’ve already made a big enough mess. I wouldn’t want to bother you more.”

You place your hands down on the blanket that covers your legs. Your fingers fiddle with the fabric as a way to distract yourself. Only now, you notice that you’re dressed in an oversized pyjama, which you assume is Pantalone’s. You are left to wonder when and how you got changed.

Pantalone tilts his head, eying you down from over his glasses. You know that look, he’s sent it many times before. Never does it fail at making you feel small.

He brushes his thumb over your knuckles and you realise he has shed his gloves. It’s a rare sight and you take comfort in his natural warmth when he squeezes gently.

“You can depend on me, dear. I’ve informed my assistant that I’ll be home this week. You only need to recover; let me figure out the rest.”

You sigh, letting out a mix of disappointment and frustration pointed towards yourself.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have called while driving, but—“ You groan in frustration. A fragment of yesterday flashes through your mind. “It just… ran in front of my car. I don’t know what animal would do that.”

You recall the first impact into the second. The pain in your body is a reminder of what it felt to take one hit after another.

When you lift your head from your hands—you gaze at Pantalone. The hand that had held you is now under his chin. He appears to be lost in thought, slightly frowning with lips pursed as a habit of focus.

“’lone?”

His frown turns into a soft smile at the sound of your voice and he puts his hand on your knee. “Sorry, dear. Just thinking.” He continues, “let me fix your problems. In the meantime, rest. I shall be here if you need anything.”

You watch him stand up from the side of the bed, patting your knee affectionately before disappearing into the corridor.

As much as his presence calms you, you sense a feeling of dread.

You’re missing something.

You try to summarise last night’s events one last time.

It starts with the date. An hour before you left for the restaurant, he had messaged you; telling you he was excited and ready to see you. Then, when he fails to show up, you call him, but end up with an ‘unknown number’ response. He had blocked you.

After this, you drive home, only to turn around as you arrive home and decide to head to Pantalone’s instead. You try to call him, feeling guilty for showing up unannounced in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t pick up and you leave a voicemail instead.

You pass his open gates—did you open them?—and your cell phone goes off as Pantalone calls you within mere minutes of the voicemail being sent.

When you can’t hear him—why couldn’t you hear him?—you turn up your volume.

You crash… but you run into something first.

What did you run into?

Something ran from the woods into the pathway.

You remember vaguely getting out of the car, but you’re not certain…

What comes next…?

No matter how much you try to shuffle the events; certain things remain a mystery. Gaps are left unfilled as you toss and turn under the soft sheets. On the feathered pillow, you lay your bandaged head in defeat.

You try to push the questions out of your head, letting the lingering scent of Pantalone consume your mind. When you close your eyes, you force the cries of last night out of your mind. A vague image of a mangled body comes up. You try to remember Pantalone instead.

His reassuring words, his gentle touches. His generosity and never-ending patience with you; even in this situation. You think of how calm he is and how restless you are.

Sooner than later,

It’s not enough.

You sit up and toss the covers from your body.

The cruel cold embraces you. A chill crawls up from your feet to your neck. You remember it similarly last night.

If you could, you’d stay in his bed forever. Alas, your mind plagues you and even he could not bring comfort in your darkest hours.

The room has been darkened, yet, stipes of stubborn sunlight continue to escape the cracks of the thick curtains. The time is evident to you even before you pull open one side. In the late morning sunlight, all of Pantalone’s property is visible.

Unlike last time, you now see his beautiful garden. At the window, you can see the gardener tending to the plants available in Snezhnaya below you. You see the few servants walk around at the front of his mansion. Then, your eyes follow the gravel path that’s framed by trees.

Your car is gone,

But the long trail of blood on the street remains.

To your surprise, it drags into two directions, as if there were two separate entities. One seems to have combusted into a pool at a tree, while the other continues to drag towards the gate for a few meters.

The image of a mangled woman pops up in your head. You remember her dirty and worn-out clothes, her leg that had been twisted at an inhumane angle, her bones that stuck out from beneath her skin.

“Y/n.”

You let the curtain fall from your grasp and you turn around.

Another flash pops up in your mind. You remember the stranger that walked up to you with the flashlight, the other people who Pantalone yelled at, the way the mangled woman started begging for her life when one of the men crushed her skull with his boot.

Two hands place themselves sturdy on your shoulders. You jolt backwards, but Pantalone’s hands keep you close.

His expression is peaceful. Gentle. Calm.

So many things you’re not.

He calls out to you again, dragging one of his gloved fingers like a familiar habit over your cheek. So so familiar.

His eyes remain closed and he users you back to his bed, telling you that you’re still unwell and that you need rest.

You ask him about the mangled woman.

He frowns.

“Dear, your brain is shaken from the crash. When I, alone, came to your car—you were passed out. I had to carry you back to the house.”

You ask him about the trail of blood and your missing car.

“I first called a mechanic to drag your car away, then I called a friend who works as a vet to carry the deer away.”

Pantalone holds your head in both of his hands. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, and he brings you closer to place his lips against your forehead; leaving chaos in its wake.

“The doctors told me your head suffered from injury after the impact. I feared I might’ve underestimated it. Your mind is already filling these gaps of your mind with horrid ideas. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you.”

He looks solemnly down at you.

“That, my dear, is why you should stay here. I can take care of you until you’ve recovered. I’ll call a private doctor for a check-up. He should be able to tell you if it’s advised to go home or stay under someone else’s care.”

You nod your head.

It’s slow and unsure, but you show your trust in Pantalone.

You’ve been friends for so long… He wouldn’t lie to you.

You trust him.

After all…

A ludicrous laugh escapes your lips at the notion.

ㅤ

“—as if a woman would be running at your property. It’s nonsensical, right?”

He smiles;

“Yes, it is.”

©dottiro. Do not copy, repost, translate, feed to AI, or take heavy inspiration from my content. Thank you for reading ♡

#(i was imagining a deer with rabies when i got to that part and that probably made the reading experience more unhinged #also why was i having intense deva jus i swear i read this before and mentioned FNAF is mg brain nkot working #right rn. did pantalone get ride of a dear for me too? /silly)#NO WAIT YEAH IT IS THAT OMG LETS GOOO!!! I SWEAR NOT TO put your earlier work down but this is such an improvement in writing? like. a #LARGE change! the descriptions are mkre vivid and the vibe more haunting!!! oooooo i love this!!!! -XII)#pantalone x reader #yandere genshin x reader #pantalone #yandere pantalone #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #tw: yandere #yandere #harbinger x reader #genshin harbingers #fatui harbingers #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #tw: car crash #tw: dark themes #yandere pantalone x reader #tw: dead body #fatui x reader #dead dove do not eat #0

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 3 months ago

Text

0. his garment is covered in dust. // a foreigner's god

synopsis. bingyin finds himself with a broken child and a fuller house ( and you...you are a little lost ).

themes. ( 2.14k ) implied parental death, landslides, one traumatized child, brief mentions of grief, reader's nation of origin is left ambiguous ( though my indulgent ass does lowkey hc the sumeru gang ), grumpy old men. the chapter is relatively tame. no zhongli yet hehe. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS WITHIN THE CHAPTER LIST.

this work has been marked mature. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs, do not interact. any individual who is not a legal adult or has an age indicator on their page will be blocked without further notice.

# chapter list ノ ao3 ノ next »

"open thine eyes and see thy god is not before thee! he is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the path-maker is breaking stones. he is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!"

― GITANJALI 11 , RABINDRANATH TAGORE.

There is a story the young ones love — of the heavens, a god and a chariot of gold filigree.

It was told to him in passing once, when he asked about a streak across a painting ( the rice paper had blotted at the edges with ink. The grass had bled into the fallows ). The painter was an old man. Too old, perhaps, to be holding a brush and hobbling to the stepped terraces of Qingce. But Bingyin could appreciate that flavor of stubbornness that steadied those trembling fingers. The man talked about his children first, then his wife, then the fallen sun and the yawning chasm. He listened in turn, because stories were meant to be heard and now he tells it to his audience.

Today, there is another to follow the usual. The sun chariot was a mainstay. The children like skyward carriage crashes for some reason ( is it inherent violence? A sadistic pleasure in divine accidents? He is worried ) and they liked dragons more. So this one has a dragon.

A dragon encrusted with cor lapis and a mountain cave that cloistered its coiling wreathe.

It was an undulating, glimmering thing. The skin puppet he carved out and painted was long, segmented and his hands ached navigating the way it flies and flies and flies ( dragons fly a lot. Far too much for his tastes. Damn dragons ).

But Bingyin could see the clapping through the thin screen, hear the laughter. He keeps singing. He sings about the flooded plains and the guided people and the mountain erected at the harbour’s head. Then he sings about how the dragon retreated into Jueyun Karst once more, curling under the cavernous tunnels like jade pressed to the earth.

His voice is hoarse when he stops and the cheers ring out. The puppets were tucked away. He stretches out his arms and feels the throbbing press on before it fades. It was another day of work for him. Tomorrow, he’d be working the tea slopes then returning home with a new story to tell and it would grasp and grind at his mind till he writes it down and forgets it’s existence. Perhaps he’d make a few new puppets, perhaps not.

This time though, when he gathers the last of his spoils, he sees Haoran lingering by the wooden seats, and you, still too young to properly let your feet touch the ground below. Bingyin had seen that look on your face, and he’d seen the mud caking your shoes and hem. They shouldn’t belong to a child. Not those eyes. Not those distant, dead eyes.

“Is there something you want?” he tries to pack faster despite this. His drum rolls to his feet. Bingyin tries to right it up again, half flailing like a winded octopus.

“Yes.” Haoran nods with a solemn set to his mouth. Why does he look like that? Bingyin thinks with a frantic shriek echoing at the back of his mind. He peers into his mora bag, at the glint of metal peering back up, then at you wearily. Why am I being stared at? Stop. Stop staring. “Could we have a moment of your time please?”

“No. I’m busy now. You should have been quicker.”

“Please.”

Oh hell to it.

Bingyin puts on a show of tempered frustration and glares at Haoran with his lips pressed to a harsh line. He needs to crane his neck up a bit. That foolish boy was a head taller than him with a gangly set of arms to match. You are attached at one end like a leech struggling to keep up. “Alright. Don’t waste my time.”

“Okay.” words stumble over themselves. “Do you recall the rains a few days prior? They were particularly heavy weren’t they?”

“Yes.” he wasn't stupid. He could see rain just fine.

“Well…” Haoran casts a glance at you. There is pity there. It’s cloying and it’s unpleasantly thick. You seem to disappear within the shadow cast upon you, small, so small and so fish eyed. “There was a landslide at Juehyun Karst and a few travelers were caught within it. This little one lost their parents.”

Haoran’s voice drops to a whisper. He talks about it like it’s forbidden. A taboo. A cover up. He doesn’t mean it. Bingyin can’t quite judge a fool’s pragmatics and Haoran was well intentioned in keeping you separate from something dour. But Haoran’s pragmatics were meant to be judged at this point because he was, in fact, terrible at it.

“They can still hear you,” Bingyin points out. He is right. You can. You are trembling. His story was about the Karst too, wasn’t it? He wonders if you heard it and he hopes to the wayward gods that you did not. “Why are you telling me this?”

“They meant to come to Chenyu Vale. They meant to come here…them and their parents. They were tea farmers…” Archons. “Yes, yes I'm getting to it. Their parents knew your wife.”

Bingyin stills.

“My wife?” he repeats.

“Your wife…oh don't look at me like that Mr. Bingyin.” Haoran helplessly looks between the two of you. Bingying shuffles in place, discomfort edging his stance. He feels flayed open.

“And…?”

Haoran blinks. “I…well…that’s all I suppose. We were hoping…they’re still a child, you see…”

He knows what he’s asking for. He knows why he’s asking it. Bingyin seizes up and his throat runs dry. He thinks of the mora tucked away in his cupboard and the supplies it would buy for the week. Just enough for two. Not three.

“No. Absolutely not.” he decides then and there.

“But.” Haoran begins a protest. Bingyin cuts him off.

“We have no time for children,” he states.

“You could ask your wife first — ”

“And she’ll say the same thing.” His words are sharp, metallic, cold. They shudder against the impact like a weak knife. “We have no time for children. Find someone else. A relative. Where are they from?” He doesn’t bother listening to what comes next. The conversation is dead at this point. Still the footsteps behind him persist between Bingyin navigating the stone walled houses. There was white at his periphery and the mountain green of Haotan’s hanfu and the flashes of your clothes after. A perpetual annoyance

Stubborn little —

“You wouldn’t abandon a child!”

“I don’t even know them!”

“They have no one else!”

“You seem eager to find them a home. You have a perfectly decent one!”

Haoran throws his hands up. They are drawing gazes at this point; the beady eyed, nosey sorts. People will be talking after this in the rumor mill. “Someone needs to go to the harbor to sell your tea. I cannot ferry the youngling with me on my travels!”

“You’re just a coward! I’m old and frail and near death! I can't keep up with a child!” he spares a glance your way. “No offense kid. Strangers and their dangers, I suppose.” You almost look pensive as you nod. Maybe you being ‘perceived as a threat’ was taken as a vague flattery. Bingyin can’t quite tell. He swears under his breath. There is a bitter aftertaste. He despises it, how his movements slow and let Haoran and you clumsily keep up.

( He’s worked his craft and walked these beaten paths for years. Bingyin still can’t quite call himself jaded. Not yet. )

“Their mother was one of her students.” Haoran continues. “We managed to salvage a few belongings and there was a photo…” He fumbles, unfolding a faded bit of paper. Bingyin recognized the younger face of his wife sidled up next to a smiling girl ( she was dead now. He looks at you again. You don’t look at the photo. You do not want to ). He gives pause, lets that bat around his mind.

( He remembers the letters. He remembers Nayao talking about a visitor. His stomach lurches. It’s unpleasant. )

Finally, he speaks. “You can stay for tea. We will see what we can do.”

Haoran’s shoulders sag. “Oh.” and there is relief there, clear relief like witnessing the rainclouds shadow scorched lands. “Oh thank you.”

Bingyin only shuts his eyes and utters a sound of defeat.

The walk home took longer than it should have. Your shoes kept getting stuck in the mud and your small hands were caked with it till the lines of your wrists. Bingyin tries not to mind. Children stumble and fall and he watches you straighten yourself up with a near robotic stiffness and pace after him. He half wonders if you died in that landslide too. He half wonders if you were just a ghost.

Nayao, perhaps, was the softness you might have needed, between Haoran’s awkward comfort and his own brittle countenance. She lets you clean up by the basin and warm up by the stove and let the pleasant heat of tea brew spot your skin. By the time Haoran had left, she was already reaching for the mat and spare sheets.

“So he wasn’t lying then?” he asks.

“No.” she replies. He rests his hand on her shoulders. There is a weight to her voice. She seems ready to cry and she almost does, between her furtive wiping. “I did know her…”

“I suppose we’ll be caring for them, then.” Bingyin reasons. Because there was a cruel world behind these walls and no other face to have you. Nayao had made up her mind. Bingyin knows he can’t protest. She had the same stubbornness that painter did.

He visits your little space with a blanket. You were curled up and a little shaken and swept, and still quiet.

“Thank you.” you mumble. It’s the first words you tell him. Bingyin jerks his head.

“Don’t. It’s the least we could do.”

Your hold on that single photo tightens. You’re shaking, shaking, shaking and Bingyin knows that you want to cry. Not now though. Not in front of him. “You’ll be living with us. At least until another relative comes to take you…if there are any.”

“I can do things.” you continue, half rambling. It’s almost obsessive. “I can work…my father was in a tea farm too…Mr. Haoran told you right so of course you do, and I helped him a lot. We grew lots of things and…and…”

Bingyin considers you. His lips press. “I think that’s child labour.” he admits. “No, it actually is. And it’s quite illegal. Do you really want to do that?”

You fold into yourself, hands clasped and trembling. You look raw, scraped hollow. “I don’t want to stay.”

“I know.”

“You’re really mean.” you sniffle, wipe at your eyes and squeeze them shut. “And you lie.”

Bingyin tilts his head. “Did I lie?” he intones. He didn’t speak to you much before this. There was no room to lie.

“You lied about the dragon.” you repeat. “You lied about the dragon in that show. There’s no dragon there….otherwise…” you trail off. The tears start prickling through. Your shoulders hunch and your nose prickles, fighting back against it. You sound sad, raw, lost. “Are they really gone?”

“Seems so, yes.” he tries to be as kind as he can. However there is so much he could be kind about with a question like that. Dead means dead and sugarcoating it meant rubbing salt over an unwanted wound. He is brittle, a little rough, yes, but he is not soulless. “And that was just a story. It’s not real. I’m sorry if it made you sad.”

“There is no dragon then?” you seem heartbroken, saying that. .

“No.” He shakes his head. “No, there isn’t a dragon. Just a few vishaps, yes but they spend their days letting the sun burn their backs.”

“If there was….would he have saved my parents?”

Bingyin looks you in the eyes. “Maybe. They said he was a god. Can’t be sure if gods exist, but I think he would have.” They don’t exist though. There were a few who did believe, perhaps. Once upon a time, he did too and those stories were a greedy mouthful after mouthful of assurance. But if Liyue did once hold gods within its mountain scathed scape, Bingyin assumes they were long gone.

You lay down against your mat. Bingyin lets you be, lets Nayao soothe you with some cut fruit and a few kinder words. You take them quietly, delicately picking at the sunsettia flesh and the sweet juice till a half empty plate was politely pushed away and you face the wall.

When they both leave you be, they hear a faint sob ring out. Nayao leans her head against his shoulder.

They linger by the door and let you cry.

❪⠀🔶⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

before we start, a word of warning : updates to this fic will be SLOW. i am a full time college student so juhgfvcvghj gg i won't have the energy to write a whole chapter in a week tbh XD.

but jhgfvcvgbh here we are! the prologue! gg! it was in my drafts for SO LONG!!! thank you for taking the time to read this! and a special thanks to @silentmoths and @euniveve for veta reading this chapter for me ( and sitting through my mad ramblings because gg guys you two have the patience of a saint ).

either way my little brainrots for this fic were plenty and numerous and slow updates aside, i do look forward to writing the little bits and pieces! i just hope you guys stick around lol.

AINE | 2024. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

#(my guy saying he don't have time for children- what a mood — B. Lear)#zhongli genshin #zhongli x you #zhongli x reader #morax x reader #morax x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin zhongli #zhongli #morax #genshin morax #series : a foreigner's god ;

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 3 months ago

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Dosis Sola Facit Venenum

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Yandere!Jiaoqiu x Reader

cw(s) : yandere themes, force feeding, drugging, implications of munchausen syndrome, biting, gaslighting, non-consensual touching, intrusive thoughts, victim blaming. read at your own discretion.

「 word count : 900+ 」

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Tagging @yandere-romanticaa I did not expect to write Jiaoqiu content so soon TvT

Your naïveté knows no bounds. Pushing, objecting, fighting and defying a phenomenon your senses can't even perceive. Blinded in spite of a functioning vision, immobilized even at the absence of tangible restraints. You protest and mewl and reject, but you're oblivious to what against. It's enough to lure out the claws kept in check, entice them to sink into layers of tender flesh.

Your turned head and stretched palm before his insistent advances are delightful to spectate, so much so the healer can't for once peel his eyes away. “I feel full.”

“Full? From two measly spoons of medicinal stew?” he tilts his head as though to better gauge the increasing pressure between your reddened lips. Blood rushes to and paints your skin in a flush, he can very well predict your next words.

“You call that medicine? It's spicy enough to burn my whole digestive system!” you all-but roar at his placid face, Jiaoqiu gives but a hum in exchange.

The bite of the capsaicin renders you restless, his scheming gaze doing little to soothe your distress. You are a pitiful, confused thing ; aiming your arrows without direction in hopes of eliminating whatever it is that sends you in disarray. A hunter lost in a maze of a forest, soon to lose their titular identity and succumb to the shadows' calling.

Your stare is dumb when his thumb swipes across the residue stew clinging to the corner of your lips, a shudder nearly cracks his facade when his tongue acquaints with the taste.

“Barely stings. If I add any less of a spice than this, it's going to taste like distilled water.”

Jiaoqiu nearly tsks at the way your fingers clench the ends of your garment, it should've been him — not some measly piece of fabric in the clutches of your attention. But the silence that now spreads around the room intrigues him, for once you have nothing sassy to say.

“Whatever. I'm not eating any more of that Jiaoqi—mmph!”

Silly little thing. Cloaking yourself in sickness in order to escape your duties, provoking a famed healer to cure your mystery, non-existent ailment. You're a sinner just as much as you're a sin, bit by agonizing bit, ensnaring his soul in your dainty grasp yet sporting the audacity to not see it. Jiaoqiu knows he could never escape from beneath your fingertips, but he can attempt to seize your flighty little being in a death grip.

There's a scintilla of defiance in your pupils even as his hand grasps your jaw, shining through the discomfort induced by the silver spoon shoving a mouthful of that detestable stew and not relenting until the movement of your throat determines its consumption. Your breaths are stirred in abrupt patterns, titillating the Foxian's interest. You eye his lingering fingers absentmindedly squeezing close the flesh of your cheeks, a few dots of darkness almost blurring your vision.

“Was that necessary?” you bite out vengefully.

“I think I need to cure that attitude of yours before whatever sickness it is that prevents you from doing that one particular work. As for whether this is necessary?” Jiaoqiu's free hand slides down to your right wrist, the fabric of his glove makes unwanted gooseflesh appear on your skin.

“Look at how skinny you're getting. Even an old fox like me could snap this in half and you're whining about me keeping you under observation? You really don't know what's best for yourself.”

You sputter at his pointed words, “I'm not that weak... and I definitely don't need your specialized medicinal stew to cure me—heck, I'm not even actually sick!” you snap with vigor but can't find the energy to snatch back your wrist.

“Oh really?” a squeeze to your cheeks shuts you up, the heat in his orange eyes threaten to engulf the spark still keeping you alight.

“But that's where you're wrong. You are sick and you do need me and my healing art. If you aren't in fact sick, how come you can't even keep your eyes on mine anymore?”

No amount of spice could rival the image that paints itself before him, muscles fighting the pull of slumber and sagging before his voracious gaze. Not even a single coherent word can escape from your heavy tongue and shut lips, no finger vigorous enough to lift against his grabby hands.

Jiaoqiu observes the pliant face in his grasp. The scent of fear and desperation tickles his nose and beckons him closer to the sin, fangs so insistently obscured now sinks on the first bite of his demise. You flinch upon the intrusion of something sharp on the skin of your throat, collapsing to a pair of awaiting arms. Indentions marr the previously flawless canvas, a sheen of saliva shines obscenely and the Foxian is certain he's too far gone.

Your resilience is an infuriating trait, especially in response to the forces that try to weaken the fire in your soul. When one drop of Tumbledust fails, a second is added and if this continues for more than one meal — even the most roaring flame will be rendered suppliant.

The dosage of medicine is an area of caution for any physician, prescribing more than what is necessary can accelerate the erosion of health. But without sickness and ailment, what value does a healer hold? Without the presence of this flame that brightens his stale life, what purpose is there for Jiaoqiu to continue pursuing this existence?

Naïve, pitiful, agonizing, sinful, intoxicating — he'd never run out of adjectives to describe you. You brought him to ruination, and an eternal damnation he'd choose still before the prospect of losing you, too.

#im ignoring the kit forget that he is OUR man okay shhhh our beloved fox boy... -brynn #so true i need him in my healing arc hmm hmm - brynn (okay ill stfu HAHAHAH)#jiaoqiu hsr #yandere jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu x reader #yandere jiaoqiu #jiaoqiu x you #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 3 months ago

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Hiii! I hope you haven't been asked this before, but out of curiosity, what do you think Capitano and damsel's opinions would be on having children? Would damsel or Capitano propose the idea first (IF they were even thinking about it in the first place)?

ALSO, a bit off topic but which nation do you think Capitano is from?? I originally thought Mondstadt, but him being introduced in Natlan probably means he's from there based on the other harbingers' nations

Thank youuu (and sorry for all the questions 💀)

Read my Yandere! Capitano fics here <3

Ohhhh I’ve actually thought of these questions before!! Thank you for asking, dear (*´ω｀*)

1. Do you think Capitano and damsel's opinions would be on having children? Would damsel or Capitano propose the idea first (IF they were even thinking about it in the first place)?

Personally, I hc Capitano as equally fine with having children or being childfree. So it all depends on his darling’s decision.

My version of Damsel has zero interest in expanding their family, so the two of them are childfree. At most, maybe they’ll grow a flower from a species so rare that Capitano could only acquire its seeds.

Cue Capitano and Damsel going “!! :0” on the day their plant child begins to sprout. Then “!! ^o^” when it blooms, followed by Damsel snipping the flowers for her collection xD

2. Which nation do you think Capitano is from??

Atm I think he is from Mondstadt due to the Capitano = Bloodstained Knight theory. I guess we’ll just have to wait for more lore crumbs :’>

#capitano #il capitano #capitano x reader #yandere capitano x reader #yandere capitano #fatui x reader #yandere fatui harbingers #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #fem reader #XXVII

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 3 months ago

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You fear the day Chrollo becomes bored of you.

He’s a cold man who cares about very few things. The closet thing to care most of the world will see from his is waning interest. For people, for abilities, for heists; the only thing anything holding his interest have is that they will eventually fall at his hand.

Many of them, like you, are also completely unaware of who he truly is until that point. Though in your case, you’re still alive; on the other hand, like many cases, it’s only because he gets something out of it.

You mourn the loss of your ability even now. You weren’t ever an especially note-worthy nen user, but your hatsu was a vital part of yourself all the same. With it, you saw the world in ways no one else could; see the vibrancy and color of emotion, the sound of truth and lie, and the taste of sincerity and deception. Your world was a special thing that was your own.

Until it wasn't.

Chrollo first appeared to you as an odd salaryman: normal (and sane), with a few quirks here and there to distract from a completely monotonous existence otherwise. He bumped into you during lunch hour, eyes frantically dancing about looking for empty seats that simply didn't exist. The sight endeared you somewhat, and you invited him to your table. You would share a sweet conversation that now rests bitterly on your tongue. He was a bit bumbling, but quite intelligent, talking about all manner of literature you recognized only from half-remembered classes back in high school that the teacher would rave on and on about. Suffice to say, you were completely charmed by Chrollo Lucilfer, the charming salaryman going about a monotonous existence.

Yet, you cannot say you were completely oblivious to his act. If anything, it was because you recognized that he was an actor that you kept on coming back. You'd never seen such a colorful emptiness before, after all. You never felt the sensation that you were looking at nothing and yet everything; never had you seen something so colorless be so compelling. It was primarily that which you pursued, nevermind the lies devilishly flaring your senses. Nevermind the fact you could see a color so rotten and sweet, forming into an insatiable beast.

You were determined to sate your curiosity. Sated it was; and then some.

He revealed himself to you as a spider, weaving an intricate web of lies.

The last thing he asked you before he stole your world from you was this:

"You could tell I was lying. You could tell I did not harbor sincere or good intentions. Why keep talking to me and wrap yourself in that web of lies, then?"

That question was the first time you'd seen him be so sincere. It was the first time you'd felt something so pure from him.

When you answered, you saw the world the way you did when you were younger: dull and real. Color did not pop, sounds did not flutter, and taste did not dance.

Chrollo, however, smiled; and you could not help the fear-stricken into your heart when you could not tell of his sincerity.

"Helplessness is a beautiful color on you, dear."

It's been months since that day, since he's taken away your world to replace it with one of his own making. No matter the luxury he provides you with though, the world has never been so dead.

You're still not quite sure what he wants from you. You act so utterly dead, so there can't be much color or sound or taste you can provide to him. You are merely something of interest and not something he cares about.

And it's true. Chrollo does not come to care easily.

It’s only a matter of time before you realize that is exactly why he refuses to let you escape his clutches. Even if it's your corpse he holds.

#XX #Yandere HxH #yandere Chrollo #yandere Chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #Yandere x you #yandere hunter x hunter #drabble #(speckled tryina convince me to watch hxh and it's working honestly- -XI)

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 3 months ago

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from a request sent by @stickyspeckledlight for yan! Aventurine with "What's the story behind that tattoo? It looks pretty cool, if I do say so myself."

(excuse me, for the ask had disappeared from my inbox)

requests are still open! please read the rules before requesting.

edit: all characters will be written with yan in mind since this is a dark content blog

Aventurine is fresh out of the shower when you pounce.

Hair is dripping wet, and you take the opportunity of him being relaxed and all smiley wiley to ask him what needs to be asked. It’s a bit of a petty request, yet a request nonetheless. With hands behind your back, you approach the man, a matching smile on your face in an attempt to appease.

“What’s gotten you looking so happy?” he asks. Aventurine’s voice lacks the gentle authenticity it subtly hides, which means that he’s on guard. He’s on guard. Tread carefully.

You stand beside him as he stands in front of the mirror in the bedroom, a towel gently patting the ends of his hair to dry them. “Do I need a reason to be happy?”

“Mmmm considering your previous displays of ‘happiness’, yes. Yes you do.”

You gasp dramatically, unbelieving of his blatant accusation. “You wound me! My peculiar actions have nothing to do with the reasons behind my emotions. Nevertheless, whatever. I have something I wanted to ask you.”

Aventurine tilts his head to his right, wet hair falling to that side as well, and starts drying his hair with the towel on that side. The U-neck shirt does a wonderful job at showing his collarbones and neck, and even when he asks you to continue, your eyes remain fixed on the sight in front of you. It’s when your gaze falls onto a familiar inked tattoo that you snap out of it.

“Aventurine?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

Your eyes are still glued to the tattoo. You can tell he noticed. “What’s the story behind that tattoo? It looks pretty cool, if I do say so myself.”

The way he immediately freezes does not go unnoticed. He recovers fairly quickly and brushes it off with a smile like it doesn’t bother him, but you two are close. You’ve been close. You’ve been closer to him than any sun ever has even if you didn’t want to.

“Why the sudden intrigue?” he asks with a smile. Aeons, he’s trying too hard to act nonchalant. “We’ve been together for so long. Why the intrigue now?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I always notice it. I guess I just asked about it now.”

He does not respond, instead placing the towel over a shoulder and squeezing product onto his palm before applying it to his hair. It takes some time, but he does respond. With you now seated at the edge of the dressing table, Aventurine stands in front of the mirror with slightly less wet hair and hands hanging by his sides.

“It’s just a little something. A word or metaphor turned into something that resembles a design,” he responds. “I think that’s the easiest way I can explain it to you.”

“What does it read?”

Aventurine smiles, vibrant eyes looking into yours in a way you instantly know he’s lying. “Nothing you need to know.” it breaks your heart a little, but you suppose your odd relationship does warrant wariness. You’re yet to study him like he does you. Perhaps his carelessness isn’t as debilitating as yours.

“Since I want to know,” you push, “will you tell me.”

He just shrugs. “Maybe. Not now though.”

You remain quiet, waiting for him to say anything more, but he simply walks away. Aventurine returns a moment later, but with the moisturiser you hid from him hours ago as a form of subtle rebellion. “By the way,” he says, “what were you going to ask me earlier?”

“Oh! Right. Can I sleep on the couch tonight? You starfish on the bed, and I have to deal with your legs over mine.”

“...”

“Please?”

“No.”

#XXI #aventurine x reader #yandere aventurine #yandere aventurine x reader #azuretea requests #(i finally got a notif for a fic I'm sobbing lets go - brynn)

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dreamjolt-hostelry · 3 months ago

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Hide & Seek

Unreliable summary: If you’re a visual learner, Dottore is more than happy to give some help. // Dottore brought you to Snezhnaya so he can perform conscious brain surgery as an act of love. Warnings: Yandere, Medical malpractice, awake brain surgery, kidnapping without an actual kidnapping scene, Dottore cuts through the skull of a person (not you), being drugged, Dottore dissects a brain (affectionately), GN reader, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! Note: This is a rewrite of THIS fic from my old blog. This could've been longer, but I cut out the gore parts to make it less dark. // This fic is NOT set in the canon Teyvat; it is a mix of my modern AU + personal projection. My perception of him might not align with the OG. I wanted to write this scenario in my way/this is supposed to be a SERIES—if I post more of this AU the setup makes sense (trust).

You used to study in the illustrious Akademiya, hoping to pursue a life filled with studies regarding the human psyche.

You used to—until you got acquainted with Zandik and your life turned around for the worse.

Perhaps if you weren’t so busy pursuing knowledge, you would’ve seen that his help was never given without a debt to repay. The charming facade with which he lured you in is only one of the many masks he wears. Zandik, or as you now know—Il Dottore: the second of the eleven Fatui Harbingers, never intended for you to escape his grasp.

Not then,

Not now.

You try to remember where it went wrong.

Your head buzzes with a weird feeling when you open your eyes. You’re dazed, and your environment is unfamiliar to you. For some reason, your mind can’t think straight.

Outside the window, you watch snowflakes twirl down until they meet upon a pool of white that stretches beyond the horizon. Only a few pine trees interrupt the otherwise dull landscape.

You try to remember how you got here, only to find a gap in your memories.

The bed in which you woke up is unfamiliar too. At the foot end, you see your jacket. It has been folded neatly and is accompanied by your shoes which are tucked underneath the bed.

It had been visible enough to notice but placed purposefully to avoid anyone tripping.

Someone put it there on purpose.

After inspecting the pockets of your jacket, you find that your belongings have been taken.

Your eyes move further across the room until you catch a familiar sight. The notebook that had catalysed your current situation. Similar to your jacket and shoes, it has been placed in sight for a reason.

When you open the notebook on a random page, you can see new additions; or rather—changes.

Zandik’s handwriting covers your own, dominating your thoughts in writing as he does in voice.

You close your eyes as another wave of nausea hits.

At the start of a new school year in the Akademiya, you met Zandik in one of the off-campus libraries. He came crashing into your life like a bullet flying out of its barrel and straight into someone’s chest; aiming for his target and striking the bullseye without effort.

In this metaphor, you were his target and the arrow Zandik himself.

His actions have been destructive to many, but with you still alive at his side, you’re inclined to believe his intentions are physically harmless to you—which feels like a juxtaposition. Zandik’s weird infatuation with wanting to be accepted might be the sole reason for your current survival.

In your admiration for his ingenuity and endless knowledge, you became captivated and blind to everything that opposed the perfect ‘Zandik’ you had created in your mind. In this blind fever, you had made him feel as if he was. To be free from the title of ‘outcast’ had sparked something in him, and he would do everything to hold onto this new feeling of approval and pure endorsement.

For a while, life with him was profitable for both parties involved.

To have a friend like him is to feel like you are unstoppable. But, once he felt he was giving more than he could seize, he forcefully started claiming what he believed was rightfully his.

Ultimately, Zandik did not take your life—he reformed it.

All you had, is no more.

And he is to blame.

One day you are in a lecture at the Akademiya, and the next you wake up in an unfamiliar place. In any other situation, you would have recognised the surroundings earlier. However, with the fog in your mind, it takes a while to uncover your location; Snezhnaya.

Your hand rests against the window to steady yourself. Even with the thick glass separating you from the outside world, you feel the cold touching your palm. Snow continues to rain from above. A few solitary snowflakes land on the window. They melt and pool at the bottom, freezing the window shut and locking you in.

An agitated sigh escapes your lips as your mind continues to drift between awareness and stupor.

Through the hallway, a voice carries a conversation with only its echo in response. Mysteriously, the mutters come in and out of earshot—as if they were moving from room to room. The sound of footsteps follows. At first, they approach. Then, they leave.

Your fingers press into your scalp when you drag your fingers through your hair. When you place your hands into sight, you open and close them. For some reason, they seem distant, as if not your own.

Before you follow the sounds, you ensure that you’re grounded by steadying your breaths.

ㅤ

You leave your jacket and shoes at the end of the bed, leaving the room barefoot.

· · ────── Ω ────── · ·

The building that cages you resembles an old villa. Evident from the layers of dust, it has been unused for at least a decade. The majority—if not all of the furniture you see has been hidden by white fabrics.

To you, it’s easy to see. This home has been neglected. Whether the owner of the house wanted to forget its existence or not is up for speculation.

As you walk further into the hallway, you see a frame with an old Kamera picture of Zandik hung on the wall. Another white cloth hangs over it, but it must have gone loose since the left side reveals part of the picture.

You catch a glimpse of his younger, more humane, face.

For a moment, you wonder when and how he became a Harbinger. You wonder how this young man turned into this creature that brings destruction everywhere he goes.

Ultimately, you decide to ignore it, choosing to press forward instead of lingering in the past.

Then, over the noise of your thoughts, you hear an odd sound. Somewhere near you, an object is being rolled across the floor. It’s an unusual sound—something that throws you off. Yet, the noise isn’t rough.

The more you listen to it, the more you recognise it as wheels on a cart being pulled along. You decide to stand still for a moment, hoping the fog in your mind clears so you can pinpoint where the sounds come from.

Your hand brushes against the interior wall as you take another step forward.

A warm orange light invites you in at the end of the hallway. As you approach closer, so do the noises become louder.

You discern a deep voice, talking to what seems to be himself. The man sounds educated, arrogant—but also sophisticated, and carries himself with more pride than grace.

For a moment, you’re certain it’s not Zandik; who is more animated, dynamic—and compared to this voice, softer with tone, but then you walk into the room to be face-to-face with him.

“Good evening.” Dottore greets you. His voice is steady, never revealing any emotions to you.

If he hadn’t heard you walking up the room, he does a good job hiding it. His response to your arrival is instant; as if your entrance had been expected.

His attention on the previous task is disrupted, and now his sole focus lies on you. The silver glint of his mask shines in the evening glow as he tilts his head towards you.

Curiously, you take a set into the room.

A large wine-red carpet covers most of the wooden flooring of the space. In the centre of which, stands a large dinner table. Most of the lighting comes from the candles that have been lit, or the open windows that bring in the last of the golden hour.

On one end of the table sits a man in a wheelchair. When you see him you realise the sounds from earlier must’ve been him being pushed forward.

With a controlled smile, Dottore holds out one of his arms—gesturing to the room. “Do take a seat, guest.”

Your eyes follow his outstretched arm towards the only other chair in the room. Conveniently, it’s placed at the other end of the table, though, you doubt Dottore was occupying the seat before you.

Cautiously you approach. As you enter the room, your confused state worsens. In the atmosphere hangs a sweet scent that makes your mind dizzy and unable to focus.

A cold breeze comes through one of the open windows. The goosebumps on your arms only occur once you notice it. Have your senses been dulled?

Dottore smiles calmly.

“What did you do with me?” You try to ascertain the hazy feeling that suppresses your logical thoughts.

You’ve been drugged.

Dottore circles the man in the chair. You notice the return of the strange mask covering the upper part of his face. The sharp beak shape cuts through the air as he moves his head.

“For someone so passionate about other people’s physiological responses, you fail to acknowledge your own. You’re anticipating something that’s not going to happen. Anticipatory fear rarely benefits anyone.”

He moves his head away from you. You’re able to release the breath you’ve been holding.

In front of the man in the wheelchair is a medical tray. It’s empty, although various surgical equipment surrounds it. When you squint your eyes, you can recognise a scalpel among them.

You wonder if you could take it.

Dottore muses to himself, continuing to weave endless sentences that do not yet make sense. “Did you ever get to see the human brain? I find that preserved ones lack the sense of joy the living ones bring me. Unfortunately, something must be dead to be preserved… I find hardly any preserved being is worth more than a living one.”

Your eyes sneak up as you pass the tools and find Dottore inspecting you. A diplomatic smile is forced underneath his mask. You fail to obtain a weapon to defend yourself with.

As you approach the empty chair, Dottore walks up to the man in the wheelchair. By the time you sit down, he is playing with the scalpel you tried to take.

“It truly dulls the process. It lacks a sense of… efficiency. Why study a corpse when you can pick apart a living one?” A different light is cast upon him when he tilts his face down. In the shadow, his smile becomes sinister.

“What are you doing?”

Dottore holds the scalpel with his middle finger and thumb, letting his pointer finger rest upon the handle. He lifts it, admiring the glint that falls upon it. “You shouldn’t ask. I find that it spoils the surprise.”

Finally, your fight or flight instinct kicks in and you try to stand up.

Your legs bobble and your hand slams against the table trying to keep your balance. You fall back into the chair. The sweet scent has made you lightheaded with a tingling feeling in your limbs. It’s accompanied by a fast, irregular heartbeat—as well as the pounding in your ears.

A chuckle escapes Dottore’s lips. “Already standing up? A doctor would have recommended you to rest. If you’re tired, you may return to bed, although, you’d miss the grand performance.”

He mocks you with his sweetest voice. Your poor coordination and confusion must make you look like a newborn deer trying to stand up on its feet. Pitiful.

For the first time since entering the room, you take a closer look at the man in the wheelchair. The male appears average in height and weight. He has no noticeable features and seems only a few years older than you. He has been silent the entire time, only ever muttering to himself. otherwise looking around helplessly. His body is covered in sweat, drenching his pale blue shirt with wet stains.

A horizontal line paints his forehead.

“Segment 495, say hello to Y/n.”

Segment 495's smile is droopy as he parrots Dottore’s words.

Dottore places a hand on the shoulder of the man. “Did you know that the Akademiya has a grand collection of preservations in the name of science?”

He retreats his hands and puts them folded onto his back. After taking a sharp inhale, he circles the man; stopping when he stands behind him.

Dottore continues, “The Akademiya collects preservations received from donors. In most occurrences, the specimens are from average people, dulling the broad collection with nothing unique to study. Truthfully, it is unfortunate how such collection can collect nothing but dust.”

Your thoughts are uncontrolled. When you look over the set of tools, the scalpel is gone. Your stress increases due to the operation setting and the sweet scent in the air.

What will Dottore gain from this?

What’s today's lesson?

He inhales sharply through his nose, “A human can undergo a conscious brain surgery. You know how it works, I assume?”

You part your lips. Weakly, you shake your head.

“Excellent.”

Dottore reveals the knife from the hand on his back and he takes hold of the man in the wheelchair. With one arm, he snakes to the front and grabs his jaw. The other pushes the sharp edge of the scalpel along the line already there, easily sliding through and breaking the previously dried blood; reaching through the skull without complication.

Your sight blurs, and you helplessly watch the knife circle his head.

He’s going to exercise a conscious brain surgery.

With his precise and steady hand, Dottore can make a full circle before long. Then, he lays the scalpel down and grabs the hair on the man’s scalp, pulling until it parts, leaving the brain visible for you to witness.

You breathe out.

“Zandik—”

“You see, the brain itself feels no pain, Y/n, if that concerns you”

Dottore picks up his knife from the medical tray, pointing it towards the front of the brain.

“For example, Segment 495 won't miss this little piece here, which is part of the prefrontal lobe.”

“Wait.” You try to intervene, but you realise you have no leverage. “You don’t have to do this.”

Dottore makes a small cut, cutting through the meninges. Then, he grabs another tool, holding down the frontal lobe as the scalpel cuts through. “Sometimes, a subject can live without a part of their frontal lobe. However, there is a risk of losing one's expression of speech as well as a few means of movement and cognition.”

You watch the man’s expression fall when Dottore removes the part he had cut out. The mouth of the man falls open, and although he stays alive, something has undoubtedly died.

Dottore lays the removed part of the frontal lobe on the empty medical tray. Then, he goes back.

“Please, stop this.” You try to plead with him.

Using whatever strengths you have left, you try to stand up. Unfortunately, you hardly move out of your chair. Whatever drug lingers in the air, it is stronger than your adrenaline and will.

Again, Dottore’s precise hands cut into the brain. The man makes a strained sound and drool begins to fall out of his mouth.

Another piece is added to the medical tray, slowly forming a collection as Dottore empties the man’s head.

Under the influence of sedatives, you struggle to maintain your composure and senses—witnessing the horrifying spectacle that unfolds helplessly.

You black out before the man breathes his final breath.

ㅤ

Segment 495 started to lose organ functions a few days ago. It’d eventually lead him to die without ever completing the experiences Dottore put him under.

It is unfortunate but Dottore still grants the dying man one last reward.

On the medical tray, Segment 495’s brain lies fully exposed. Each cognitive function is separated for you to behold and admire. In death, the stranger became preserved in your memory.

· · ────── Ω ────── · ·

A gift.

From Dottore to you.

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