qierxing

[qierxing]

Always the Bride

You stood at your front door, keys jangling in your hand like wind chimes in a storm. The lock was already turned. The doorknob gave way without resistance, and that familiar cold crawled up your spine—the kind that comes not from temperature but from knowing exactly what waits inside.

The living room smelled like expensive cologne and something indefinably wrong. There he sat on your secondhand couch, the one with the suspicious stain you'd covered with a throw pillow. Beautiful as a magazine cover, terrible as a car crash you can't look away from. His smile stretched across his face like someone had carved it there with good intentions and bad technique.

Damn, you thought. This bastard found me again.

"Darling!" He launched himself from the couch with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. Before you could step back, before you could drop your groceries and run, his arms wrapped around you. The milk carton in your plastic bag pressed uncomfortably against your ribs. "I've been waiting for three hours! The lady next door kept peeking through her curtains. I waved, but she didn't wave back. Rude, don't you think?"

Fifth time. This was the fifth goddamn time.

You remembered the first time with painful clarity. A regular Tuesday afternoon, buying menstrual products at the drugstore. He'd appeared beside you in aisle three, gorgeous enough to make the fluorescent lights look flattering, and announced—not suggested, not mentioned, announced—that you were destined to marry him. Something about a vision from a shaman. Angels singing. Your auras intertwined like a red string of fate. You'd assumed he was high, maybe schizophrenic, definitely someone else's problem.

Turned out he was very specifically your problem.

"You're hurting my ribs," you said, which was true but not the main issue.

"I missed you so much, darling. You have no idea how worried I was when I couldn't find you for three whole days." His grip tightened instead, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped an octave. Sweet cream curdling into something else. "But you moved again."

The groceries cut off circulation to your fingers. You could feel the eggs shifting dangerously in their carton. "The landlord—"

"That's what you said last time." His breath tickled your ear, warm and somehow wrong, like opening an oven when you've forgotten what's inside. "And the time before that, it was a new job. And before that, noise complaints. And before that..." He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his beautiful features arranged in an expression of fond exasperation. The kind of look someone gives a puppy that keeps peeing on the carpet. "Maybe I should just tie you up. Keep you from wandering off."

Your heart did that thing where it forgets its job for a second. You'd seen what happened when he got upset. Waking up handcuffed to your own bed in your brand-new apartment, the one you'd paid cash for under a fake name, him sitting beside you explaining how hurt he'd been that you'd tried to leave without saying goodbye. How you'd broken his heart. How he'd almost done something regrettable.

The word "almost" had done a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence.

"I wasn't running away." The lie came out smoother than your morning coffee, practiced and perfected. "My landlord raised the rent. You know how it is—economy's rough. Had to find this place super last minute. Didn't even have time to call you."

The lie came easier now. Practice makes perfect, and you'd had plenty of practice since that first time. He trusted you in the weirdest ways, believed your lies as long as you sold them right, as long as you looked just frustrated enough but not scared. Never scared. Fear was like blood in the water to him.

His grip loosened slightly. You could feel him thinking, processing, deciding whether to believe you. "Your landlord really upped the rent?"

"Total jerk. You know landlords." You managed a weak laugh.

He studied your face for a long moment, those impossibly blue eyes searching for cracks in your story. You'd gotten better at lying, but he'd gotten better at reading you. A dangerous arms race. The groceries hit the floor. Something definitely broke—the eggs, probably, maybe your sanity, definitely not his delusion.

"Every place you stay in is terrible," he said finally, voice shifting back to that petulant tone you'd grown to dread. He moved to pick up your scattered groceries with the careful attention of someone handling religious artifacts. "The last one had roaches. The one before that, the heating didn't work. This one..." He looked around your current living room with theatrical disgust. "The carpet looks like someone died on it."

"Someone probably did. Rent's cheap for a reason."

"Move in with me."

You bent to help with the groceries, buying time. "We've talked about this—"

"We're getting married anyway." He held up a can of soup, examining it like it contained state secrets. "The vision was very specific. Spring wedding. Cherry blossoms. You'll wear white, though technically—"

"I can't marry someone who can't provide for me." It was a risky play—appealing to traditional gender roles, making yourself seem shallow and materialistic. But sometimes the most ridiculous lies were the ones people wanted to believe. Play the gold digger. Make him think you were shallow rather than scared. Greedy rather than trying to escape. "What kind of life is that? Love doesn't pay bills."

He went very, very quiet. His arms dropped from around you like dead weight, and he took a step back. For a moment, you thought you'd finally said something wrong, crossed some invisible line that would trigger whatever violence had been simmering beneath his surface all these months.

Then he smiled. Not the manic grin from before, but something softer, almost sad. "Okay."

That single word hung in the air between you like smoke. You waited for the catch, for the follow-up, for the *but*. It didn't come.

"Okay?" you repeated.

"Okay. You're right. I need to prove I can take care of you." He nodded, like he was convincing himself. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back."

"Don't come back without money," you called after him, trying to sound greedy instead of desperate.

He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "How much money?"

The question caught you off guard. Most people would have laughed, or argued, or gotten angry. He was asking for a number like he was shopping for groceries.

"A lot," you said weakly.

"How much is a lot?"

"I... I don't know. Enough."

He nodded again, that sad smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. You watched him set the last can on your counter, straighten his designer jacket—where did he get money for those clothes anyway?—and walk to the door.

"I love you, you know. More than anything in the world. I'd do anything for you," he said. "I'll be back. With money."

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

You stood in your kitchen for a full five minutes, waiting for the punchline. For him to burst back in laughing. For something that made sense in the twisted logic of your situation.

Nothing happened.

The eggs were indeed broken, leaking through the plastic bag onto your floor like yellow blood.

---

Three days passed. Then four. Then a week. January crawled toward its end.

You kept waiting for him to appear—in your shower, at your window, in the parking lot of the grocery store. But nothing. The silence felt wrong, like holding your breath underwater and realizing you're not sure which way is up anymore.

You started researching again. Different browsers this time, incognito mode, VPN running through three different countries. You spent hours hunched over your laptop, researching visa requirements and job opportunities in countries that didn't have extradition treaties.

Teaching jobs in South Korea. English positions in China. Anywhere that required an ocean between you and him. Moving to different cities hadn't worked. Moving to different states hadn't worked. Maybe different continents would do the trick.

Your old college roommate Sarah was teaching in Prague now. She'd been begging you to visit for two years. Visit, hell. You were ready to move into her spare bedroom and learn Czech if it meant getting away from your beautiful stalker and his cosmic wedding plans.

"Just for a few months," you told her over WhatsApp, using your neighbor's WiFi in case he was somehow monitoring yours. Paranoid? Yes. But paranoia had kept you relatively safe so far. "I need a change of scenery."

"Bad breakup?" she asked.

"Something like that."

The flight was booked for Thursday. You paid cash at a travel agency three towns over, gave a fake name for the booking, bought the ticket under your real one. You'd learned to layer your deceptions like winter clothes.

You packed light. Only essentials. Nothing that would make you look like you were fleeing the country, just in case he was watching. He was always watching, even when he wasn't there. You'd found cameras before—in the smoke detector, tucked behind picture frames, one memorably hidden inside a teddy bear he'd given you. (The bear went into a dumpster three states ago. You still felt bad about it sometimes. It had been a nice bear, if you ignored the surveillance equipment.)

Wednesday night, you went grocery shopping. Normal routine. Can't break the pattern. The elderly woman at checkout commented on your purchases.

"Lots of non-perishables," she said, scanning your fifth can of soup.

"Storm coming," you lied.

She looked outside at the clear night sky but said nothing else.

You got home to find your bedroom door open.

Not broken. Not forced. Just open, like it had never been closed at all.

He sat on your bed, your passport in one hand, your packed suitcase open beside him. The clothes you'd carefully folded were scattered across your comforter like evidence at a crime scene.

"Prague is beautiful this time of year," he said conversationally. "Though I hear it's gotten touristy."

Your body did that thing where it forgets whether to run or freeze, so you just stood there like a broken mannequin. That's when you noticed the scar on his cheek—fresh, maybe a week old, cutting through his perfect face like someone had taken exception to all that beauty.

"You're back early," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. "I told you not to come back without money."

He smiled, set your passport down with deliberate care. "Funny thing about money. It's mostly just about who inherits what."

"What?"

"My grandfather died." He said it like mentioning the weather. "Tuesday. Heart attack. Very sudden. And my father, well..." He examined his fingernails with studied casualness. "He had an accident. Same day, actually. Weird coincidence."

There was something under his nails. Dark. Rusty.

Blood, your brain supplied helpfully. That's blood.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Are you?" He tilted his head, studying your face. "They left me everything. The house, the business, the trust funds. All of it." He stood up from your bed, movements fluid and predatory. "So now I have money. Lots of it. More than enough for a family. A house. You won't even have to work. Isn't that wonderful?"

Your mouth felt full of cotton. "That's... that's great—"

"So why is your stuff packed?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. You looked down at your suitcase, at the neat piles of clothes and toiletries, at the plane ticket poking out of your passport folder.

"You just moved here," he continued, his voice still eerily calm. "What reason could you possibly have for leaving already?"

"The money, it's... it's still not enough." The words came out on autopilot. "Money isn't just about amount, it's about stability, investment portfolios—"

"Why are you shaking?"

You hadn't realized you were, but now that he'd pointed it out, you could feel it—your hands trembling like leaves in a storm, your legs barely holding you upright.

He stepped closer. You stepped back. Physics and fear in perfect synchronisation.

"Why do you look so nervous?" His beautiful face tilted to one side, studying you like a specimen under glass. "I have more money than we could spend in three lifetimes. Your bags are packed, though..." The smile that spread across his face wasn't happy. It was something else. Something that made you understand why animals chew off their own legs to escape traps.

"You're trying to leave again, aren't you?"

"No, I—"

The syringe appeared in his hand like a magic trick. You didn't even see him move. Just suddenly there it was, sliding into your arm with the casual efficiency of someone who'd practiced this before.

You had just enough time to register the sharp pinch, the sudden coldness spreading through your veins, before the world started to tilt sideways. The grocery bag slipped from your numb fingers. Soup cans rolled across the floor like scattered thoughts.

The world went soft around the edges. Your knees forgot how to be knees. He caught you before you hit the floor, his arms gentle now, cradling you against his chest like you were made of spun glass.

"Shh," he murmured, stroking your hair as the darkness crept in. His voice came from very far away and very close at once. "I always knew you were lying."

Your vision started to tunnel.

"You have a tell, you know. I've been watching you for so long—of course I'd learn to read you. Even before that day in the drugstore, I knew everything about you before I ever said hello." He stroked your hair as colors began bleeding together like watercolors in rain. "I won't tell you what the tell is, though. Can't have you trying to hide it next time."

There was a brief pause, his smile becoming almost rueful. "I hoped... I really hoped you'd love me back. Properly. Willingly. I tried so hard to be patient."

The room was spinning now, reality dissolving at the edges.

"But patience is overrated, don't you think?" His voice was getting distant, dreamlike. "I should have just taken what was mine from the beginning. We could have avoided all this unpleasantness."

The last thing you saw was his beautiful face above yours, sad and serene as a Renaissance painting, before the darkness swallowed you whole. Somewhere in the distance, you could swear you heard wedding bells.

Or maybe that was just your phone, ringing and ringing in your pocket—Sarah calling to confirm your flight.

You wouldn't be making it to Prague after all.

---

When you woke up, it was spring.

You knew this because you could see cherry blossoms through the window—soft pink petals falling like snow against a sky so blue it looked painted. Your hands were bound with silk scarves, not handcuffs. An upgrade, you supposed. Evolution of captivity.

You were wearing white.

He sat in a chair beside the bed, reading a wedding magazine with the focus of a scholar studying ancient texts. He'd let his hair grow longer. It made him look younger, more innocent, which was frankly offensive considering the circumstances.

"You're awake!" He set the magazine aside—Spring Weddings: Making Your Vision Come True. The irony was not lost on you. "I was starting to worry. The doctor said the sedatives might have been a bit much, but you're surprisingly resistant to standard doses."

"How long?"

"Two months. Don't worry, I've been taking care of everything. Your job thinks you had a family emergency. Your landlord thinks you moved back home to care for your sick mother. Sarah thinks you met someone and decided to stay." He smiled, proud of his thoroughness. "I'm very good at forgery. Your handwriting has such distinctive loops."

You tested the bonds. Firm but not painful. He noticed, of course.

"Just until you adjust," he said. "The vision was very specific about the timing. Spring wedding, cherry blossoms. But it didn't say anything about the year, so we have time. All the time in the world, really."

Outside, the cherry blossoms kept falling. Beautiful and terrible and absolutely indifferent to your situation.

"I ordered takeout," he said, standing and stretching like a cat. "Your favorite. See? I pay attention."

He left the room, humming what sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.

You lay there, watching petals drift past the window, and thought about how strange it was that the worst things in life could look so beautiful. How someone could smile so sweetly while holding you captive. How love and obsession wore the same face if you didn't look too close.

Or maybe if you looked too close.

Either way, you were learning the difference.

The hard way, as usual.

The cherry blossoms kept falling, pink and perfect and absolutely pitiless, and somewhere in the house that was now your prison, your captor was plating Chinese food on what were probably very nice dishes, humming about your future together.

You'd run again. Eventually. When he trusted you enough to loosen the bonds, when his guard dropped, when the vision or whatever the hell he thought he'd seen finally proved wrong.

But for now, you watched the petals fall and tried not to think about how they looked like blood diluted in water, spreading and spreading until you couldn't tell what was stain and what was flower.

Spring had come, after all. Just like he'd promised.

[qierxing]

They should do a banner where they like switch genders for like a day or something lol it would be very funny imo. Mc is suddenly a Hot Guy™️ and they’re pretty, pretty girls. Not only would it be hilarious to see them navigate life, I just really really really badly want to see them gender bent. Because I’m a slut. And a girl kisser. Pls infold some fanservice for the girl kissers pls. If we can’t have Jenna or Simone or Yvonne or Talia as love interests then this is the least you can do 🥺🥺🥺🥺👉👈👉👈👉👈👉👈

[qierxing]

i know its been a while and i know youre probably busy with other stuff but i wanted to say i am so facinated and excited about your persona 5 fic and was curious if you ever planned a part 2? no pressure either way!! I just really really enjoyed it and was curious. The moment I realized mc was having to work with akechi against the theieves its just MMMMMMMMMM

Oh god that fic is old old but I'm so glad people see my vision for corrupt phantom thieves and forced akechi role swap TM

I always did have a part 2 in mind, it just kinda.....faded in the BG bc it was not a popular fic in general, not a lot of people commented or reblogged which . Kinda half my fault for not really doing anything about it. That said I do want to return to it, it's just my motivation and time for it is like. dead in a ditch atm. TT Someone just needs to hold me accountable to write the next part but also I may just revamp the whole series.......

[qierxing]

Mahiru, who can see red threads, realizes that his sister's red thread is not connected to his, so he cuts each other's red threads and forcibly reties them.

[qierxing]

: ̗̀➛ NO BEDTIME TONIGHT ! yandere! heartslabyul / gn! reader

ramshackle's finally turned into a heap of rubble. you saw that one coming a long time ago. what you didn't see is the harem of unsavory magicians trying to keep you confined within their dorms. ( next -> )

TW ! yandere behaviors, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, mommy projection 💀, harassment, sadism, oral fixation (thanks trey), bullying (thanks ace), s3xualIinnuendos

Ramshackle was always kind of decrepit. Clearly abandoned generations ago when the last tenants moved out and the top brass decided they had no further use for it. Getting a good night’s sleep was always hard to come by in your dorm, not when you feared that the creaking roof might collapse on you and suffocate you and Grim in your sleep.

Tonight, it seems your fears have been realized. After a long day of classes, you’ve come back to your dorm house in a heap of hubris and dust. Grim is screeching your ear off next to you. You don’t even have it in yourself to be surprised, not when you always knew this would come. You’re just happy that it didn't collapse while you slept. But now you’re faced with the next new dilemma, which is where the hell should you sleep—?

Ace and Deuce loop their arms through yours, shooting you twinning grins that they wore whenever they had something (not-so) brilliant cooking in their minds. Ace flicks the stunned look on your face with a playful grin.

“Welp, that’s that, prefect. Off to Heartslabyul you go.”

The first order of business is getting you dressed for sleeping. After a long and arduous struggle (Ace and Deuce nearly killing each other), you have now donned ACE TRAPOLLA's bright red hoodie with only shorts to protect your dignity underneath. Ace swore up and down that he’d rather die than let Deuce dress you in that ugly pink getup he calls his pajamas (“My mom’s pajamas!” Deuce had screeched before tackling him once more). Now he’s taking pictures on his magicam, a smug cat who’s caught the canary.

“Hold that pose, yeah, like that.” You feel yourself blushing as Ace forces you into a pose too… suggestive for your liking. It shows a bit too much of your thigh and, well… cameras don’t exactly make you comfortable. “Whaddya hiding your face for? Stay still for a sec, wouldya?” The flash goes off, and he whistles when he sees the finished product. He holds it up to your face— you straddling a pillow with only his hoodie and a bright-red expression. “Pretty thing, aren’t you?”

Conscious of your getup, you tug down the hoodie. Ace’s grin seems to widen. “You’re a little bit into this, don’t you think?” You grumble. “It’s Cater’s thing to take so many pictures…” “I don’t think anyone can help themselves when they’ve got a sweet thing like you wearing their clothes, huh?” Ace has always been mischievous, buttering you up with nuanced flirts that you could just wave off as a form of playful banter. But this time, feeling trapped in his dorm room and clothes, you feel like his flirting is a bit too… real. “Yeah, you’re thinking too much.” He taps your nose. “Keep it up with that cute expression, and I might just be tempted to take that hoodie off you… Kidding~!”

He dodges the pillow you throw at him, laughing like a maniac. “Ahaha! Shoulda seen the look on your face!” “You’re a jerk!” You cry. You don’t know if this banter or genuine frustration is from you, but you get the feeling that he doesn’t care either way. He takes joy in your suffering, perhaps even pride when he’s the one to cause it. You’ve always known that, the little sadist. He’s propped himself on his elbow now, looking at you in anticipation. An eager cat always ready to play with prey. He laughs again when you glare at him tearfully.

“Relax~ How’re ya gonna get a good night’s sleep when you’re working yourself up this much?” He brings you to his side, gentle yet anticipatory, as if feeling like something good is gonna happen. “Doubt you ever had a decent wink in that rundown dorm of yours.”

Sleeping face-to-face with Ace is not something new for any of you. You’ve had plenty of sleepovers with him and Deuce, sometimes even the other first-years, but the comfort of Ramshackle and its ghosts kept you from overthinking things. You stifle your feelings and pout at him. “Like you didn’t sleep there whenever you and Riddle had a fight.”

He chuckles fondly, tracing your pouting lips with his finger. “Yeah, yeah. I’m grateful, so I’m paying back the favor, see? Got Riddle to say yes despite all his fuckin’ rules. Gave you a neat hoodie to sleep in since all your clothes are under that rubble now.”

The beating in your chest seems ever louder, even as his fingers pull away, the faintest warmth only lingering on your lips. “You just want to see me in your clothes, asshole.”

He grins. “Damn right I do, prefect. Might sell ‘em to Deuce, the poor pervert. Might keep them for myself. Who knows?”

DEUCE SPADE is on you the next day, Grim leaping out of his arms and grumbling about Deuce being too noisy to sleep with. He got the boot from Ace last night, and you’re a bit relieved to have a bit of familiarity back in your arms as he resumes his napping. “[Y. Name]! Oh Seven, are you okay? Did you get some sleep? What did that bastard do to you?” He whips his head to Ace, who’s ambling lazily behind you with a lazy stretch. “What the fuck did you do to them?”

Ace waves him off with a grin, walking off to the kitchen. “Nothing you wouldn’t do, hypocrite.”

The growl that Deuce lets out is outright guttural that you would have thought him a student of Savanaclaw, but he softens when he feels you flinch under him. “Sorry, [Y. Name], it’s just that… well, you know Ace.”

You laugh gently. Whereas Ace was a little sadist, Deuce was overprotective in ways that made you feel suffocated, but grateful nonetheless. It was nice to know that some friends were looking out for you rather than laughing at you. You ruffle his still-messy hair. “I know, I know. Nice to know the ADeuce combo is still chaotic even in the early mornings.” His face crumples a bit when you pull your hand away, but he guides you to the common dining hall for breakfast. 

Being the overeager gentleman that he is, Deuce prompts you to make yourself comfortable while he fetches your breakfast. Grim is still curled up on your lap, trying to catch a few missing Zs, and Ace is across the room fighting with the roommates he kicked out last night. You feel a bit of guilt, but not as much when Ace is in a verbal match with them. They’re probably using Riddle’s absence as an opportunity to scream their heads off at him— you hear them call him an opportunistic man who’s trying to get their crush in his pants. You cringe upon hearing that. He laughs and says ‘At least I’m getting some!’ and a fistfight ensues.

Your breakfast plate, an impressive feast of golden honey pancakes topped with maple syrup and strawberries, is set before you. But Deuce’s eyes are narrowed at the fistfight happening, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance. “What the hell is that idiot doing?” He grumbles, sitting before you. “Spreading these malicious rumors about you… I should knock some sense into all of them!”

“Don’t,” you softly admonish him. “It’s only a matter of time before either Trey or Riddle walks in and they all get beheaded. Might as well let them learn their lesson.” You flash him a grin. “But thanks. Always nice to see my lil delinquent ready to defend my honor.”

He flushes and nervously picks at his own platter. It’s more meat than dessert, and he’s playing with the peas. “It’s nothing. You just don’t deserve to be talked about like that. You’re too…” He trails off, blushing bright red at what he might say, and stops. You don’t push further and let yourself enjoy the comfortable silence between the two of you. In the corner of your eye, you watch Ace and the other roommates get dragged off by the collar by Trey and Cater’s clones.

“Peace and quiet at least,” Deuce sighs. He glances at you before chuckling into his palm. You knit your eyebrows at him. “You’re so… oh well, hold still.” His thumb brushes against the side of your lip (a rather odd recurring event at your stay here) and pulls back to reveal the syrup residue. He eyes it for a bit as if pondering his next course of action. Then, locking eyes with you, his tongue peeks out and licks it off his thumb. 

“Th– Deuce that’s…” Your voice catches in your throat. “That’s… dirty.”

“Dirty? You?” He hums softly, cocking his head to the side. Expression dazed and ditzy, he smiled like a boy partaking in something he's so long desired. “Never. But I… well, haha, sorry. Can’t really play normal around you for too long. But you knew that, right?”

stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): check this out you dumb fuck stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): [image attached] Deuce Spade took a screenshot. You (Deuce Spade): you!! what the fuck have you been doing with the prefect last night?! You (Deuce Spade): i’ll beat u to the fucking ground if i see even one fucking mark stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): haha stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): magichat tells y when you screenshot something u kno. stuupid. stupid hypoocriiite You (Deuce Spade): IT CAN?!?! stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): dun worry your lil brain bout it. stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): we besties rmember??? i aint doing squat without ya. hbu jack off to this as apologies stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): [image attached] Deuce Spade took a screenshot. stupid ginger (Ace Trappola): sooo fuckin easy ✌️✌️

As soon as you go back to Heartslabyul after another day of class, CATER DIAMOND whisks you away before Ace and Deuce can even say anything about it. He’s rambling about something or other, about how he’s so stoked to have you here and how much fun you’d have together. Sleepovers are the highlight of youth, after all! Cater might be in his third year, but he’s not so old as to relinquish all the fun to the freshies!

So he has you sitting still and pretty on his bed, your hair held back by a cloth headband and a nourishing face mask to prep you for the how-many-steps skincare routine that you’ll be doing for tonight. He has his own matching headband as well, and yes, he did take a selfie before posting it to the ‘net with the hashtags #twinning, #sleepover, and #cute. His dorm room is as loud and vibrant as he is, walls covered with posters of his favorite bands and shows, a table full of cosmetics, and the phone and ring light glaring at you.

You shift nervously. It’s like part two of Ace’s incessant photography from last night, but you know that with Cater it will always be twice as bad. Something to do with the desperation in his eyes every time he snaps a picture of only the two of you. Or maybe not. You can’t just assume.

Cater finally turns around, grinning lightheartedly as he brings over a pot of moisturizer. “Hey, hey~ Sorry for the wait. It was, like, reeeal hard to find this pot. I’ve been so messy these days.” He’s always been a bit messy, but taking a look at the desk, you have to agree that this is worse than most days. He sighs when he sees you glance at his table. “IDK… something weighing on my mind and… agh! Lookit me dragging the mood down! Cringe. Let’s take off your mask…”

He takes off the gel mask gingerly. Tonight, you see Cater in his rawest form. No makeup on, not even that little mandatory diamond he always wears, and just him in his pjs. He likes to play rough sometimes, especially if it means getting a reaction out of you, but right now he is gentle. Without the makeup, you can see the eyebags under his eyes that are usually hidden under concealer, and you can’t help but massage them away with your thumb. Green eyes stare back at you wide.

“Have you not been getting enough sleep?” You murmur. It’s glaringly obvious to you and to whoever bothers to look closely that he’s always been hiding underneath a mask, and your suspicions seem to be proven true. You feel him soften under your touch as you continue pressing gentle circles on his eyebags. “We’re in your room, Cater. You don’t have to pretend.”

He makes a face as he pulls away. Disgust, you assume when he laughs drily to himself. “Sometimes I can’t stand you,” he murmurs to himself, but the room is so silent that you can hear it as if he’s saying it into your ear. “You’re too stupidly perceptive, it's creepy. What’s up with that? You don’t even have magic.”

You huff out a laugh. “I don’t think anyone needs magic to have some basic empathy.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but twists the moisturizer cap open and starts to slather the cream on you. “Please. It’s Night Raven College. People don’t have empathy, aside from you and Kalim, anyway. But we know what the deal is with the two of you.” You don’t belong. “You act like some sorta therapist, then boom— you got yourself a horde of hormonal men at your doorstep who could kill you at a moment’s notice.” He pinches your cheek so hard that you yelp at the burn, and he pulls away smugly. “And it’s a~ll your fault.”

You rub your cheek and frown. It hurts. Like, no joking hurts, and Cater looks guiltless as he eyes the red mark. “You’re a doll, aren’t you?” He coos. “Nothing makes you special except for this adorable lil face. Why don’t you just stick with Cay-Cay and let him make you special? I’m sure my sisters would like a sweet thing like you.”

“You’re a dick,” you grumble. He laughs out loud, not even trying to deny the claim, and he throws a peace sign to the camera. “What’s that for? You’re not livestreaming, are you?”

“‘Course not!” Cater laughs, switching back to his usual preppy self. He reaches over and stops the recording, checking the video with small appreciative hums. “Can’t let my peeps know that their Cay-Cay is a sick, sick man who gets off hurting their cute junior! One more selfie, please?”

He tilts the camera towards both of you. Within the frame, Cater’s grinning face and your frowning, bruised one are obviously filtered to hell as he takes the shot.

“Looks like Cater got to you, huh?” TREY CLOVER laughs, handing you an ice pack. It’s later in the night, and Cater’s decided he isn't in the mood to have you in his bed for the night. Shame, Trey had said to him. I know men who’d kill for this. Cater had only stuck out his tongue and waved you off before retreating to his chambers. You hiss when you press the pack against your face. Moonlight silhouetting his figure like an ominous foretelling, Trey leans on the island as he inspects you.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing the messy strands away from your face. “You got your dorm ruined, forced to move into Heartslabyul of all places, and you get bullied by our members two days in a row. Must be tough for you, huh?”

You want to pout. Maybe complain. Cry a little bit. In the first few weeks that you’d known Trey, maybe you would have. You had always mistaken him for an exasperated elder brother type, exhausted by the dorm members’ antics but laid back enough to go along with it. But you know better than to vent to Trey of all people, not when he doesn’t bother to hide his smirk as he watches you shed tears. 

“Not gonna work on me, devil,” you mutter. He laughs again and holds two hands in surrender, caught red-handed trying to make you rely on him. You eye him warily. “I’m sleeping with you tonight?”

“Oh, don’t word it like that, pet. The walls have ears.” You flush at the innuendo. “But hey, if you’re okay with that, then by all means go ahead.” 

You sigh deeply. First Ace, then Trey. Where the hell was the housewarden when you needed him? Someone needed to keep these crazies in line. Trey, for the most part, was far more responsible than any of the other members. But he hasn’t bothered to be decent around you for a long time now. Always quipping subtle lewd jokes when you least expect it, hovering his hand on your hips as he guides you through a recipe… Riddle’s mentioned it once, calling it a display of indecency. Trey had brushed it off and teased that you liked it that way. You don’t know. Riddle hasn’t brought it up ever again.

Lost in thought, you barely register Trey’s fingers prying your mouth open until he’s peering into the recesses of your mouth. This guy and his mouth fetish. You try to squirm away from him, but his steady hand on your shoulder tightens, and you still. “Steady now,” he murmurs. “Ate chocolate, didn’t you?” You can’t nod like this, but something in your eyes probably gives the answer away. He chuckles. “Yeah, thought so. Cater bought those chocolates for your sleepover. To think he was so excited for this as well. Doesn’t really strike you as the moody type, huh?”

He cocks a grin at you. “C’mon, brush your teeth. I got some extra spare ones.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t want you staring.”

“Every man has his interests. You really think you can stop me?”

Being vice housewarden, Trey has the privilege of having his own dorm and bath, and now you’re alone with him in the latter. He’s the only thing blocking you from escaping out the door, leaning on it with arms crossed and the grin of a man who’s gotten what he wants. You make a face at him and turn to the sink. His reflection in the mirror continues to watch.

“Scrub more gently, why’re you rushing? Too eager to get out?” You heard it from Ace and Deuce, but you didn’t think that his being this naggy about brushing was real. “You’re neglecting the upper teeth.” Seriously. You didn’t think anyone was this naggy about brushing. “Scrape off the plaque from your tongue. Don’t wanna wake up with bad breath, do you?” You thought his family runs a patisserie? Not a dentist clinic?

You turn to him, features contorted in annoyance as you bare your mouth to him as proof, then clamp it shut again. “Here. Done. Now, can we sleep?”

“Mm, not yet. Open it again.”

You make a face at him, but sigh and relent. You know he’s gonna pry it open one way or another, magic or not. No use trying to argue against a man with magic and muscles bigger than yours. You open your mouth again— “Mpfh?!”

Trey’s two fingers invite themselves into your mouth, poking and prodding at your teeth as if they ought to be there. They’re gliding across molars, pulling against the inside of your cheek to get a proper see… It’s all uncomfortable. You shake your head and grab onto his wrist to try and pull him away, but his hold on you grows more painful as he levels you with a stern stare. “Always squirming, this dormouse. Stay still and excuse this senior’s… habits. Siblings back home, and all that.” He’s not even bothering to put any effort into his excuses. He presses down on your tongue.

“Mpphf mmh mpf!?”

“Just… a lil bit more. Can’t risk cavities.” He smirks at you, his handsome face taking on that sadistic expression that’s ever so common in this college’s students. “It’s okay if you’re scared. Really. More than okay.”

You’re beyond exhausted. You’ve always thought that Heartslabyul was the most normal of the dorms, but perhaps you’d hand that over to Pomefiore. One crazy (Rook) can’t possibly outcrazy four crazies. Especially not when you’ve had to suffer from them two days in a row.

But you’ve never been so happy to see that gorgeous shade of red hair until now.

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS sits at his room’s tea table, enjoying himself with some warm lemon tea. His strict expression softens when he sees you enter through the doors, possibly due to your distraught state. Ever since the overblot, he’s loosened up and allowed himself to be vulnerable, especially around you. Riddle’s fond of looking after your quartet of misfits, but even the others admit that he favors you more than them. You’ve always chalked it up to you not getting yourself into trouble like the others do.

“Riddle!” It’s a bit pathetic, how needy you sound. But with the few days of being tossed around like clothes in the dryer, you’re willing to take any sense of order, no matter how extreme it may be. You don’t notice how Riddle’s smile twitches into self-satisfaction before he smooths it down. He gestures to the seat across him, and you take it. He pours you tea, the scent of warm lemon warming your senses.

“Apologies for not being able to properly welcome you these past few days,” he starts, leaning back on his seat. “It’s been quite a busy week for us housewardens, with the new event just around the corner. But things have settled, and I was really hung up on the fact that I couldn’t greet you properly.” He scowls, setting down his teacup as he remembers something. “Or my house members, for that matter. I’ve heard of the upheaval your presence has brought on these past few days.”

You shrink into your seat, shame coloring your face. “I’m sorry… after asking you for shelter as well.”

Riddle waves off your worry. “Oh no, don’t trouble yourself. As far as I know, you haven’t done anything. Goodness, Cater and Ace are throwing out their roommates! And just when we have a spare room as well. Although I do understand their worries, that room hasn’t been cleaned out for a while…” He fails to mention that their opportunistic ways of gaining privacy with you. “Ah. Well. There is always mine and Trey’s room.” He watches you shift uncomfortably and smiles understandingly. “Apologies. Trey hasn’t exactly relayed what happened last night to me, but I can imagine. And well, it wouldn’t be proper for us to be sleeping together.” You breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, some damn common sense in this house. Now you know why Riddle is such an excellent housewarden. You tell yourself never to doubt—

“Not when we aren’t married yet.”

You catch the teacup before it can spill anything. Riddle continues sipping in front of you. He cocks his head when he catches you gaping and you shake yourself out of it. Misheard, misheard… joking?

“I brought you up to mother, of course, she was rather outraged that I harbor feelings for a magickless, but…” He laughs awkwardly, trying to hide the blush on his cheeks. “I convinced her that you very much mirrored her, just not in… magical prowess or… um, fierceness. Your softness and ability to care for others are captivating, and she still isn’t convinced, but— well, she does have some sort of intrigue. I was hoping to bring you to her at the next break, and… [Y. Name]? You look unwell.”

Softness? Ability to care for others? Your qualities as a doormat seem to have been exaggerated and worse of all, placed on a narcissistic mother who couldn't care less about anything other than her trophy son succeeding. And worst of all, marriage talks? You put down your teacup, fingers shaking from the tumultuous feelings stirring within you. Dread, maybe. Riddle looks at you from across the table, staring at you worriedly with those adorable grey eyes, as if he hasn’t said anything concerning.

“You… want to get married?” You choke out, laughing like you can’t believe it. You shakily point to yourself. “To me? The one who’s going to leave Twisted Wonderland?”

Riddle furrows his brows. “Who says you’re leaving Twisted Wonderland?”

You laugh again in disbelief. “Me! The headmaster! As soon as he finds a way—”

“I don’t think so, not really,” he hums. “It’s obvious he’s delaying, or that there really isn’t a way out. And even if there was, I doubt the numerous people attached to you would allow that.” He looks out the window, perhaps thinking of the number of mages who are so eager to prey on you and your affections. “I, for one, wouldn’t allow that. Ah, don’t look so down, my family is well-off and I will work; I will provide you with everything you desire.” His hands, smaller and softer than yours, squeeze yours gently. “I promise.”

You feel sick.

“You will be a great partner. I know my mother’s extremities far too well, but I’m sure once I find myself a solid position in the government, she will be far too content to say anything about our marriage. All you have to do is be who you are now.” Riddle shyly smiles to himself. “Sweet, caring, docile… motherly.”

Sevens, you feel so fucking sick.

[qierxing]

One of the lucky ones- Yandere Concubine x Fem reader

Contains- abuse, physical violence, obsessive and possessive behaviour,blood, disfigurement, power imbalance

“Hurry up, will you? Need I remind you how it looks if a member of my retinue falls behind everyone else?” He raises a manicured brow as he gestures for you to walk at his side.

“My apologies your imperial highness,” you scurry up next to your lord, carefully holding the parasol above him, it is heavy and your hands buckle slightly from carrying it above him the entire hour he's been outdoors wandering the imperial gardens. The most favoured and spoilt concubine to the emperor, he chose you, lifting you up from a nameless serving girl scrubbing floors in his pavilion, to his primary attendant and companion. The only servant privileged enough to stand beside him rather than behind him, you're lucky. You remind yourself of that as much as you can, you're lucky to have been only just sold to the palace as a servant instead of anywhere else they send plain faced village girls too. You're lucky that he spotted you and found your stammering provincial dialect entertaining, lucky that you get dressed in his offcuts and old fabrics, fobbing off his gifts from the emperor onto you to the point where minor servants speak to you with respect because everyone can see you hold the most treasured concubines ear. Even if you're too skittish to ever mumble in it.

“Leave that for one of the others to carry,” The parasol is immediately taken from you by one of the guards, with your arms suddenly free he wraps his arm around yours, resting it in the crook of your elbow. He is beautiful, unfairly so, and he guards it fiercely. You alone know of the countless tonics and potions he applies to himself, the time he spends every night focused on himself before the emperor arrives. He allows you to sit in with him as he conducts his rituals, smearing some mask over his face, noticing your stares he put some on your skin too. And you were too shy to even wonder if this was just him making fun of you. He lets you brush his hair, long and thick down to his thighs you spend extra time to care for it. Raking your hands through his locks as your mother once did for you. Your own hair is nothing special, stubborn to grow long when cut but he will let you keep the last dregs in the hair oil bottles for yourself. It's nice, these little tastes of luxury he shares without asking anything of you in return. His beauty is his currency and you've seen the bruises that can litter his body for night after the emperor has him, the slight limp as he walks. And you say nothing because you know what it's like to serve a master who's violence comes to him quickly. So you just help your lord into fresh clothes, rub balm into his marks. When he pulls you tight against his chest as though he would stop breathing if he let go of you, you just stay still and let it happen.

Some nights when he does not need to deal with the emperor's attention he will request that you sleep by his side. At first you prepared to sleep on the floor beside his bed until he rolled his eyes, flicked you on the forehead and simply pulled you beside him. But now it's become just another part of your routine, most of the night is spent helping him with his. You watch wide eyed as he uses ingredients that could cause years of your salary as though it is worthless. He dismisses everyone else until it's only you two in the warm lamplight and the sheer silk sleeping robes he's bestowed on you, with the excuse that as his personal attendant your presentation reflects him. You don't really know if that matters in private, when his head is resting on your lap and you scratch his scalp with a tenderness he's never been shown before.

The reverie is shattered with the entrance of the emperor. You have never seen your Lord's face move so quickly from panic to that stone mask of seduction he wears publicly. Nor had you ever been so close to the emperor before for him to even acknowledge your existence but it seems like tonight your luck must be about to run out. You scramble into a bow as the concubine lifts himself leisurely from the ground, heartbeat so loud you do not even realise you're being addressed until you're ordered to lift your head up. When you move too slow for his liking the emperor's hand reaches out and grabs you painfully by the chin to lift you. There are cracks in your lord's mask as he has no options but to watch, a flare in his nostrils, a set in his jaw. The emperor tilts your face any which way like buying a horse at a market as he makes comments about your appearance. Most of which you've heard before, plain faced and provincial, but he continues that you have that look of a fresh faced country innocence one that can so easily be shattered.

“Come, why would you bore yourself with her when I am the one you came for? Not my silly little maid.” the concubine practically throws himself at the emperor to distract his attentions from you. The moment you are released from his grip you scurry from the bedchambers, into the safety of the outside. There you wait until you can see the emperor leave, and you wait a bit longer just in case, before entering the chamber with warm damp cloths to silently clean his skin.

Afterwards your lord looks down on you, he is in a state of disarray, hair tousled, lips swollen, robe practically open. “I need to do something about you.” He mutters as though you aren't even in front of him. “I can't have that incident repeating, now that he has seen you, I don't have the luxury of waiting for him to forget you.” he sighs angrily, running a hand through his hair to get it out the way.

“My lord?” You ask softly trying to break him out from this state, but all it seems to do is remind him that you're here. He pounces on you like a tiger, pinning you underneath him. A hand fisting tight in your hair.

“I should ruin you,” he mutters darkly “it would be for your own good if I did so, to protect you from his advances you don't realise what he's about to do to you until his free hand is held aloft before you, a glint of silver in the low light in the room. He pulls your hair sharply when you begin to writhe and scream, the pain from your head being jerked about silences your sobs to whimpers as he leans over your ears. “I am doing what's best, don't you understand? I can handle his attentions,” he practically spits the word out as the dagger hovers precariously above you, “but you, you would collapse and crumble if he took you. This is the only way I can protect you, my sweet.” his eyes gone dark from mania as his hands shake “if I do this, not only will I mar your face but he will not know just how much love I have for you if I am willing to disfigure you. He will only think I'm jealous.”

“Please.” You whimper and tremble in his grip begging for mercy, but you don't realise that to him- this is a mercy. A shield from everyone who could think to harm you, he may not have the power yet to protect you but until then he will use what he has. You never realised that all the tenderness you offered to such a beautiful creature would make it turn its claws on you.

The pain is blinding for a moment as he drags the blade across your cheek. Holding your head tight and pinning you underneath his weight while you try to buck underneath him. It sears and burns brightly once the blade is removed and the dampness dripps across your face, staining the sheets and both yours and his robes. You try to open your mouth to scream or to howl but his mouth is on yours in a moment, to swallow up any sounds you make. Every slight moment only seems to open the wound more but he presses onto you as though he could devour you whole, pulling back with a flush on his bruised face and pure tenderness in his eyes he cups your bloody face, dabbing at your wound until the blood flow slows.“You're still so perfect,” he whispers softly “this was for the best please, you'll understand that in time.”

And perhaps he was right, in time you're left with an ugly scar torn across your left cheek, where you can't even smile without the skin puckering. With no one wanting to meet your face and the rumours spreading that he did this in jealousy that you could steal the emperor's affection from him. You're the only one who knows at night where he pours over secret plans to steal the throne out from underneath him, and he will kiss your puckered skin tenderly like you're the most perfect thing he's ever seen. Mumbling promises of how this was worth it now you're safe. You've long since stopped lying to yourself about how lucky you are to be here.

[qierxing]

Neighbor!Caleb meets you on your very first day just as you're dragging a box half your weight up the stairs, breathless and sweaty from the move. He’s just returning from the gym, all sun-warmed skin, and casual ease. Insists on helping with the boxes, brushing off your protests with a laugh, then stays to help you assemble your furniture following you inside like a shy, golden retriever with broad shoulders and gentle hands.

Neighbor!Caleb becomes your friend easily. Greeting you every morning jogging past as you lock your door for work. When a package of yours ends up in his hands, you exchange numbers. From there, it’s dinner invites when he’s “accidentally made too much,” movie nights every other Friday, long talks about the tiny aircraft models you notice scattered around his place, strange little tokens he claims calm him after work.

Neighbor!Caleb is observant. Almost too observant. He notices the scratches on your hands from a hunt before you mention it. Tracks your schedule without needing to ask. Prepares little meals for you when you’re too busy to cook. The kind of man who says it’s “just kindness,” but it feels more like precision. Like he's memorized you.

Neighbor!Caleb who for all his openness, you realize you know almost nothing about. Vague job titles, inconsistent work hours and frequent, unexplained travel. Any real questions are laughed off with charming deflections “Trust me, it’s so boring I might cry if I talk about it.” and you laugh too, because he makes it easy. His presence is so bright, it makes you forget to look for shadows.

Neighbor!Caleb calls you Pipsqueak now teasingly, affectionately. He’s overbearing in a way you’ve grown used to. Asking what you’re up to, if you had your meals, if you're feeling ok, offering to order you take-out, holding your phone a beat too long while he installs a tracker. And later, he’ll smile at your exact location from his with a fondness that borders on worship.

Neighbor!Caleb Your friends swoon over him during sleepovers. He’s the topic they never tire of. “How is your sexy neighbor not your boyfriend yet?” they tease, while Caleb smiles next door watching, listening, always near. He likes when they talk about him, likes it more when you blush, and he likes you the most when you're unaware of just how much he already knows.

Then, one night, everything shifts.

Neighbor!Caleb who you see at 3am while its storming when you both arrive home at the same time. Rain clings to you both, words drenched in silence. He's wearing a Colonel’s uniform, his posture is rigid. Eyes sharp on you. Everything about him looks... wrong. Unsettled, you stare at him, breath caught. He says nothing just unlocks his door and disappears inside.

Neighbor!Caleb who the next day, is back in joggers and a hoodie, cheerful as ever. Like it never happened. Like you imagined it. You never see the uniform again. And maybe you never were supposed to.

Neighbor!Caleb who when you casually mention a café you like, just a week later, he’s there before you. Smiling, waiting. “Total coincidence,” he laughs. But it happens again, and again. Your favorite bookstore, your gym. Even a remote trail you walk to clear your head in, he always has a reason. You stop believing it's just coincidences.

Neighbor!Caleb helps you when more than once you find your door slightly ajar, though you swear you locked it. Caleb is the first to show up when you mention it concerned, too concerned. He says, “This place really isn’t safe. You need someone watching out for you.” The next day, there's a new lock on your door. You didn’t install it. He gives you a key and smiles.

Neighbor!Caleb whose desire gnaws at him like a ravenous beast, blue light paints his features in his dark room as he stares at your face on his screen. The hunger inside twists tighter watching you pleasure yourself in your room. Unbeknownst to you how he imagines tracing the lines of your body, memorizing every curve, every shiver, every gasp. His hands ache to claim you to mark you as his. He wants to reach out, to touch, fuck into.

Neighbor!Caleb who monitors you at night, slow footsteps pacing outside your window. When you check, there’s nothing but the scent of his cologne that lingers in the cold air, thick and overwhelming, like he’s breathing right next to you.

◇

A/N i like to think he owns the building and already knew you were moving in and now pretends to be your neighbor lol, he also avoids renting that apartment besides yours that way. I have more stuff thought out already to make him crazier but yeah uh here's something a bit different. :)

[qierxing]

(sighs to myself) xing, do you only like baby saja bc he's got the exact same face shape as xavier

(sighs) yes.

[qierxing]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ You didn’t escape

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, gaslighting, confinement, stalking, emotional dependency, infantilisation, drugging in zaynes part, ill post some fluffy mama’s princess after this :D

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ He simply let you run

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’d been perfect.

Dressed in pretty pastels every day, lounging on the velvet daybeds he picked out just for you, reading those soft, dull housewife novels in the golden sun. You smiled when he kissed your forehead. You let him brush your hair after baths. You wore the tiaras he bought, the soft slippers embroidered with your initials. You even stopped flinching when he locked the estate doors behind you each night.

That’s why he let his guard down. Just a little.

Maybe it was the way he’d been skipping out on estate check-ins, coming home later, more distracted, fiddling with new pigment samples and murmuring about some ocean bloom only visible at dusk. Maybe it was because he hadn’t chained the gate from the inside this time. You weren’t sure. But you saw it. An opening. A sliver of chance.

And so, one stupid breathless night, you ran.

Through halls too familiar, past the pond where he collected shells with you, where he painted your name in pearl dust. You didn’t look back. You didn’t dare. Your heart slammed against your ribs, and you could feel the blood pounding in your ears louder than your slippered feet on the stone.

You made it.

Past the greenhouse.

Past the twisted trees.

Past the gate.

You were outside.

Free.

You collapsed on your knees in the dewy grass, lungs burning.

You did it.

You really—

Headlights.

Cool and calm. A car rolled up through the misty evening like it had all the time in the world.

The door clicked open.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Leaning lazily against the open door, sleeves rolled, white shirt glowing against the dark sky. His blue and pink eyes shimmered under the headlights. He tilted his head, smiling in that half-lidded, sweetly mocking way he always did when he was about to say something awful.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Did you get it out of your system?”

You took a step back, but he was already walking toward you, slowly. Casually. Like he had all night. Like this was a game you both had planned.

“I almost believed you, you know,” he mused, voice soft, dragging fingers through his violet hair.

“The soft little housewife act. The smiles. The bathtime kisses.”

“But then again…”

“You’ve always been a little liar, haven’t you?”

You tried to scream when he touched you, but it came out strangled, cut off by the sharp pressure of his hand closing around your wrist. His touch wasn’t angry. No, Rafayel never got angry. He got disappointed. He got creative.

⸻

Back in the estate.

The house looked the same. But it felt different.

Colder. Brighter.

You weren’t even allowed to walk anymore. He carried you from room to room like a doll, even when you kicked, even when you screamed. He smiled through all of it.

“You want freedom, pearlie? I’ll take away everything until you forget what that even means.”

Your slippers were gone. Replaced with anklets, ones that chime when you walk, so he always knows where you are. Your books? Gone. Your soft pastels? Replaced with white. Nothing but white. White nightgowns. White bedding. A sterile, silent domestic paradise.

The windows were painted over in thick swirling pigments, his own blend. You weren’t allowed to know what time it was anymore.

He fed you by hand. Bathed you himself. Re-did your hair six times a day just to keep you near him. And the worst part?

He was sweeter now.

Clingier.

Cooing against your cheek as he tucked you into the pink canopy bed like a child.

“No more pretending, okay? No more tricks. Gege forgives you this time. But next time?”

His voice was a whisper behind your ear.

“I’ll clip your little wings myself, my pearl.”

And that night, as he slept curled around you like a serpent in satin sheets, you realized,

You never escaped.

He let you run.

And now he’s going to make sure you never even dream of it again.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

He had taken everything from you, but in the kindest way possible.

No shouting. No fights. Just a long, quiet evening at the estate months ago, the tension thick with sterile calm as he folded your resignation letter and slid it into an envelope. You’d been crumbling for weeks under his cool gaze, under the weight of his soft-spoken logic. “You’re overworked.” “You’re exhausted.” “I know your symptoms better than you do.” “I’ll take care of you now.”

And he had.

You lived in silk now. You slept in late. You didn’t even look at your hunter gear anymore, Zayne had donated them himself. All you had to do was wake up, look pretty, and let your husband handle everything. He made it easy. So easy you nearly forgot how it started.

You played the role.

Perfect little housewife.

You even looked to him at restaurants to order for you. “He knows what I like,” you’d say sweetly.

He’d smile. Quiet. Touched.

But something had changed lately.

He had surgeries piling up. Reports. Committee meetings.

He still scheduled your spa appointments and laid out your gowns, of course. But he was tired. His guard was thinning.

You thought you could time it.

While he was in surgery. While the estate was quiet.

Just a jog to the outer perimeter. You used to be a hunter, damn it. You knew how to move quietly. You could taste the wind. Freedom.

And then—

The soft crunch of tires behind you.

You turned, heart dropping to your stomach.

A black luxury sedan pulled up with deliberate, elegant precision. Not even a screech.

The door opened.

And there he was.

Zayne.

Impeccably dressed despite the late hour, his three-piece suit still buttoned, tie still perfect. No coat today. Just his sleeves rolled up slightly. Surgical gloves off. Glasses perched low on his nose.

His hazel-green eyes fixed on you from behind those silver wire frames.

He didn’t speak. Not at first.

He just looked at you. Head tilted. Assessing.

Then he walked forward, each step echoing soft and clean across the stone. No rush. Not a hint of rage.

You tried to back away.

“That was irresponsible,” he said softly. “You’re not dressed for the cold. You didn’t bring your medication.”

He looked you up and down, gaze slow, clinical.

“Did you think I wouldn’t catch you?”

You whispered his name, panicked. He didn’t flinch.

“Get in the car.”

⸻

Back at the estate.

The silence was worse than shouting.

He sat you down at the edge of the medical wing he had built just for you. Not the bedroom. Not the bath. The medical wing.

Sterile. Cold. Bright.

He unbuttoned his sleeves slowly. Rolled them up. Sanitized his hands. Not a hair out of place. Not a single word.

You couldn’t stop shaking.

“You’ve been showing signs of agitation. Poor appetite. Elevated heart rate. Hallucinations of freedom.”

He leaned in closer, lifting your chin with two fingers.

“We’ll fix that.”

You cried when he put the medical cuffs around your wrists.

You begged when he filled the syringe.

He kissed your forehead.

“You’re not being punished,” he murmured, voice low and calm as your vision blurred.

“You’re being corrected.”

⸻

From that point forward, the estate changed.

The doors weren’t just locked, they were magnetically sealed.

You weren’t just supervised, you were monitored.

Vitals. Pulse. Emotional stability. Zayne printed out charts of your mood. He studied you.

He no longer let you dress yourself, he said it was for your safety. You wore medical silk now. Always white. Always soft.

And he doted on you with terrifying tenderness.

Feeding you himself.

Checking your vitals every few hours.

Administering “mood stabilizers” and “rest agents” when you cried too much.

He spoke to you in a voice so calm, so heartbreakingly gentle, it made your head spin.

“You don’t need to run, my darling.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m going to cure you of this hope once and for all.”

And when you finally stopped fighting, when you just lay there, blinking up at him, your lashes wet and heavy, he sighed with quiet pride. Brushed your hair back. Kissed your temple.

“See? You’re learning.”

You didn’t escape.

He just let you run.

So he could medically prove that you’re better off in his care.

And now?

Now he’ll make sure you never even dream of freedom again.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It started so quietly, you almost didn’t realize you were losing yourself.

Your days were gentle. Xavier didn’t force you into housewifedom, he simply blinked those soft blue eyes at you and asked:

“Would you rather go to work… or stay here with me today?”

You’d laugh. Then, of course, you’d stay.

That turned into every day.

You wore lace. He poured your tea. You sat beside him on the floor, building castles out of stray cat cards while he nodded off mid-game. You thought the estate was safe, soft, dreamlike. His voice barely ever raised. His touch was featherlight.

But something changed when you started wanting more.

More space. More control.

More freedom.

He noticed before you even said a word.

⸻

You thought he was asleep again when you left.

He always fell asleep randomly, on the couch, in the greenhouse, once in the closet while organizing plushies. So when you tiptoed past the east wing, saw him slumped on the armchair, breathing slow, you didn’t think twice.

You made it past the atrium.

Past the tall, yawning hedges.

The gate was open—ajar.

He hadn’t locked it.

You made it to the tree line.

Your chest ached with hope. With belief. You were going to make it.

Then—

The air shifted.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

And when you turned around, the road was empty.

But the shadows rippled.

And then, a voice behind you.

“You’re so bad at hiding, starlight.”

You spun.

Xavier was standing a few feet away. Still wearing his soft white sweater and gloves, but his blue eyes… were open now. Unblinking. Moonlit.

He didn’t even sound angry. He sounded, curious.

“Was it fun?” he asked, cocking his head. “Pretending you could leave?”

“I wanted to see how far you’d get this time.”

You took a step back, and his eyes narrowed, not unkindly, just like he was watching something flutter. A bird with clipped wings trying to take flight again.

⸻

Back in the penthouse.

The atmosphere was wrong.

The soft lamps? Gone.

The plush throw blankets? Gone.

The floor was cold now. The walls too quiet. Too hollow. Like the dream had been pulled out from under your feet.

He didn’t carry you. Didn’t speak at first.

He just followed you, eerily calm, gloved fingers brushing the walls like he was reacquainting himself with the space.

You curled up in the corner of the room he left you in.

He finally spoke hours later, sitting beside you on the bed, setting something down with a soft clink.

A delicate collar. White leather. Your name engraved in silver.

“I used to think I didn’t need to keep you.”

“I thought if I was gentle enough, you’d stay.”

“But I forgot—”

“You were a hunter. You don’t know how to rest.”

He leaned forward, tilting your face up with a single gloved finger.

“So now,” he whispered, eyes lidded, “I’m going to teach you how.”*

⸻

Your new “life” starts slowly.

He no longer leaves you unattended.

He no longer lets you make small choices, what you wear, what you eat, when you sleep.

Xavier is still calm. Still quiet. Still smiles gently as he brushes your hair or feeds you cake. But the soft boy you once knew has been replaced by something colder. Something… too still.

“Try to run again,” he says one night, lacing your fingers in his as you lie in bed, “and I’ll bring back Lumiere.”

“He’s not as nice as I am.”

And that’s the thing.

You know he’s not bluffing.

And you remember the silver-eyed boy who’d once curled up at your side and fallen asleep mid-sentence, now watching you sleep like you’re a fragile experiment.

⸻

You didn’t escape.

He let you run.

So you’d understand something crucial:

“Even outside this place… you’ll always belong to me.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

Sylus had warned you, playfully, smugly, over champagne one evening in the west wing of the estate:

“This life I’ve gifted you… isn’t a cage, sweetheart.”

“It’s a throne.”

“But a queen that forgets she’s mine… needs reminding.”

You had laughed then, thinking it was just another of his twisted metaphors. But Sylus never said anything without purpose. Every word dripped in double meaning. And every luxury he gave you, the palace, the gowns, the glittering crow brooch on your throat, was another link in a collar too pretty to notice until it was too tight to remove.

He wanted you dependent.

He wanted you pampered until you forgot how to think for yourself.

And for a time, you let him do it.

Your hunter days faded behind lipstick and silk. He spoiled you until you purred in his lap, let him choose your jewelry, your meals, your very thoughts. You wore red and black because he liked the way it echoed his aesthetic. You sat beside him during war room briefings, glazed over with boredom while he ruffled your hair.

But then, he got comfortable.

He stopped monitoring your comms.

He stopped checking the east wing cameras.

And you remembered the taste of adrenaline again.

⸻

You ran during a banquet.

The whole estate was full of diplomats, officials, his inner circle. Sylus had his arm draped lazily over your chair as you sipped from his wineglass. He was distracted. And just as the string quartet started playing his favorite overture,

—you slipped out.

Barefoot. No time for shoes. No time for hesitation.

You made it through the corridors he’d designed like a labyrinth. Past the obsidian sculptures. Past the garden where he once taught you how to tame that winged beast. You made it to the gates.

They were open.

He never leaves them open.

And that was your first mistake.

⸻

The car pulled up before you even stepped onto the road.

A sleek, all-black vehicle with no headlights. Silent. Elegant. It stopped just beside you, and you didn’t have to guess who stepped out.

Sylus.

Wearing that same smug half-buttoned dress shirt, the red feather-like streaks fluttering in the wind. His blazer hung over one shoulder. His red eyes glowed faintly in the dark, like a predator toying with prey.

“That was fast,” he said with an indulgent little laugh, as if you were a puppy who’d bolted from his heel.

“You didn’t even make it to the decoy perimeter.”

You froze. He stepped forward slowly, hands in his pockets, head tilted.

“You really thought I’d leave the gates open by accident?”

“No, no, love. I wanted to see if you’d bite.”

He grinned as your face crumbled.

“You did. Beautifully.”

⸻

Back in the estate.

He didn’t drag you. Didn’t yell.

He just looked at you with something close to pity.

“You were doing so well. All those soft little routines. So docile. So pretty.”

“And then you remembered who you used to be.”

He threw a switch.

Your entire room, once decked in chiffon and gold, was now replaced with harsh black steel. Velvet replaced with restraint-grade silk. Your vanity? Gone. Your gowns? Locked away.

He only let you wear white.

No more makeup.

No mirrors.

And every time you looked at him, he smiled.

“If I wanted a queen with fangs, I’d let you rule again.”

“But you look better curled up in my lap, darling. All docile. All mine.”

You tried to scream once.

He just laughed, slow and lazy.

“That’s the sound I’ve been missing. Makes me feel like I own the whole world again.”

⸻

The new training begins.

Sylus doesn’t punish you with pain, he punishes you with indulgence. Suffocation. Claustrophobic pampering.

He hand-feeds you every meal.

You’re not allowed to touch cutlery.

He recites your schedule for you each morning in a smug whisper while brushing your hair out.

“You’ll bathe at ten. Nap at noon. Wear red today. Red suits you when you cry.”

He still calls you “my empress.”

Still kisses your temple like a prince from a dark fairytale.

But now?

He makes you say please before every touch.

And thank you after every breath.

⸻

You didn’t escape.

He let you run.

So you’d remember exactly how much of your “freedom” was always his game.

And now?

“Next time you want to feel powerful, sweetheart…”

“Ask me for permission.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚��🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

No one knew you better than Caleb.

He raised you. Protected you. Fed you.

Even when you didn’t know what you needed, he did.

From the moment he took you into his arms in that lab all those years ago, barely older than a child himself, Caleb memorized every single signal.

The way your fingers twitch when you’re anxious.

The way your eyes avoid his when you’re scheming.

The way you go quiet when you’re planning to disobey.

So you really thought you could get away from him?

After all this time?

After everything he gave up just to keep you safe, no, to keep you his?

⸻

The estate in Skyhaven was beautiful, glassed walls, endless sky, and a room tailored for every comfort you once never had. Caleb made sure of that. You were given everything you could dream of. Luxuries, affection, him.

He kissed your forehead each morning. Helped you into your fluffy slippers, letting him tuck you into the silk cocoon he crafted just for you.

You had no job anymore. No title.

Just his pretty housewife now.

His darling, helpless girl.

But… some part of you still itched beneath the sweetness.

You remembered how capable you once were. How strong.

And slowly, the ache for freedom began to fester.

It was the middle of a transport window. Caleb was away at a command meeting in Skyhaven’s central tower, gone just long enough for your delusion to take root.

You crept out of the estate barefoot, your pulse hammering, your body guided by muscle memory. Through the polished corridors, past the floating docks, the restricted lifts,

And you made it outside.

The air was cold. The sky stretched forever.

You were almost at the outbound port.

Just a few more meters, and you’d be—

“Pips.”

Your body froze.

That voice.

Warm. Familiar.

But behind it, a thread of cold steel.

You turned.

Standing just beyond the shuttle gates, still in his full Farspace uniform, was Caleb.

Cap tilted back. Gloves still on. Purple eyes glowing faintly under the atmospheric lights. He had followed you without making a sound.

No boots echoing. No shouted threats.

Just him.

Caleb.

Your gege.

Smiling at you like you were a naughty child who broke curfew.

“I told them the meeting could wait.”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t know the moment you started packing your things?”

⸻

Back in the Skyhaven Penthouse.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t strike you.

He just took your hand. Held it tightly in his gloved one. Walked you back like it was nothing.

You sobbed the whole way, and he kissed your knuckles with every step.

“I’m not angry, baby.”

“Just disappointed. Do you know what could’ve happened to you out there?”

“You don’t even know how to navigate the lift panels without me anymore.”

He carried you the rest of the way up.

And when he laid you on the bed, your body trembling, he stroked your cheek with aching fondness.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“You’ve belonged to me since you were four years old.”

“I’m not just your husband.”

“I’m your world.”

⸻

The conditioning resets.

This time, he doubles down.

No comms.

No access to the outer levels.

Your biometric ID? Reset. The retinal scanner now only opens to his gaze.

You’re escorted room to room in his arms—“just in case you try anything.”

He starts feeding you again, like when you were small.

Bathing you himself.

Kissing your forehead after every meal.

And when you whimper and try to explain that you just wanted air, he presses your head into his chest and whispers:

“You don’t need air.”

“You need me.”

“Always have. Always will.”

⸻

You didn’t escape.

He let you run.

Because Caleb wanted you to try.

So you’d finally understand something he’s been trying to teach you since you were little:

“There’s nowhere in the universe you could go that I wouldn’t follow.”

“Even if you hate me for it… I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you mine.”

[qierxing]

GLASS BETWEEN US Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: ive been into love and deepspace recently, so here ya go hehe

wc: 4,870

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

You took the job because you needed a way out.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even particularly well-paid. But the offer came with minimal paperwork, restricted clearance, and one very clear instruction: ask no questions.

So you accepted.

The facility—remote, underground, heavily secured—was the kind of place not listed on maps. It didn’t exist according to the public record, and yet it buzzed with life: researchers, guards, engineers, medics. They all moved with the quiet, tense urgency of people doing work that couldn’t be acknowledged outside these walls.

Your first day was a blur of orientation. Non-disclosure clauses, retinal scans, and procedural briefings stacked with redacted pages. You caught glimpses of terms like “specimen,” “cognitive divergence,” “aquatic containment.”

No one told you what exactly was inside Lab C. Just that you’d be assisting with long-term observation. You assumed it would be another mutated marine species pulled up from some trench, something grotesque and territorial. Maybe even dangerous.

But the truth was stranger.

When they finally led you through the corridors and into the observation chamber, you expected cold steel and sharp smells.

Instead, the room was quiet. Dim. The tank was massive—more an aquarium than a cell—bathed in low light that shimmered across the walls like waves. The water inside was dark, cold, impossibly deep. You stepped forward, clutching your tablet, already preparing to log oxygen levels and salinity.

That was when you saw him.

Not a specimen.

Not a subject.

Something else.

Your breath caught before you even registered why.

And just like that, the job you took to escape your life became the one thing you couldn’t walk away from.

You didn’t know it then, but that first glance would mark the start of something irreversible. Something that would pull you under, inch by inch, breath by breath.

The moment you saw him, your surroundings blurred into static. The beeping monitors, murmuring technicians, even the weight of your data tablet—all of it fell away.

Inside the isolation tank, a living impossibility drifted in manufactured saltwater. Designed to emulate the hadal zone, the deepest part of the ocean, the containment system glowed softly under rows of harsh overhead lighting. The glass was nearly ten inches thick.

He floated at the bottom, not quite asleep but clearly subdued. His body was serpentine, a long and powerful tail coiled beneath him like an anchor. Its surface shimmered with deep cobalt and streaks of pearlescent silver, every movement creating subtle waves of reflected light. Even now, in apparent stillness, he seemed to shift with the current, his tail flicking faintly like a ribbon suspended in water.

The upper half of his body resembled a human form—broad shoulders, strong arms—but with a sleekness and symmetry that felt engineered rather than natural. It was hard not to stare. Harder still to assign him the term specimen, as though he were just another data point.

His face was unnerving in its beauty. Too elegant. Too calm. Silver-white hair floated around his head, surrounding him like a halo. Thin, branching scars ran near the gills along his neck—signs of struggle? Or surgery? You couldn’t tell. Around his wrists were red rings where restraints had dug in, proof that something here had gone very wrong before it got quiet.

You took one step closer to the glass.

His eyes opened.

Bright blue, slit-pupiled, and utterly alien, they fixed on yours with uncanny stillness. Not vague awareness—recognition. As if you were something known. Something expected.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Dr. Havers spoke behind you.

“Sedated but semi-lucid,” he muttered. “You’ll get used to it.”

You doubted that.

You didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Your formal role changed within forty-eight hours. A sudden shift, approved without ceremony. You were now responsible for the nocturnal observation cycle—Lab C, 2300 to 0400. Solo rotation. Minimal contact. Maximum discretion.

It wasn’t framed as special. If anything, it felt procedural. But there was an unspoken reason behind it. He responded to you—consistently, uniquely, and visibly. While other personnel were met with either silence or aggression, your presence generated stability. Lowered agitation. Reduced biomarker volatility.

“You’re not a risk variable,” Havers said, handing you a new clearance badge. “He recognizes that. Use it.”

That first night on shift, you sat alone behind the curved monitor console, tank lights dimmed to deep ocean blue. The lab echoed with the soft churn of water filters and the occasional mechanical click of the oxygen injectors. You opened a new file. Began a log.

SESSION 01 2303 HRS — Subject floats near lower quadrant. Motion minimal. Eyes open, tracking. 2317 HRS — Approaches glass at station-facing side. Remains within one meter. 0010 HRS — Mimics observer posture. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Intentional or coincidental?

The entries became more granular with each passing hour. You logged pupil dilation, fin twitching, shoulder alignment. The angle of his fingers against the glass. The way he followed the rhythm of your breathing when you leaned forward. Occasionally, he'd trace your silhouette on the other side of the glass, following your hand movements with uncanny precision.

He blinked less often when watching you, and more when others entered the lab—a strange, deliberate contrast. He began to tap his claws rhythmically against the tank wall when you wrote, a pattern that shifted in tempo depending on your pace. When you stood up, he rose. When you sat, he settled. A mirror, distorted by water and light, but growing clearer by the day.

By your third shift, the notes had started to blur.

SESSION 03 2248 HRS — Subject at station wall prior to entry. Appears to anticipate schedule. 2350 HRS — Subject mirrors tablet tapping. When observer writes, subject responds with claw motions against tank interior. 0104 HRS — Sustained eye contact. Three full minutes. Observer initiated break. Subject remained locked in gaze.

You began categorizing his behaviors under new terms. Not hostile. Not adaptive. Instead: intentional. Self-directed. Curious.

And eventually: fixated.

There was a pattern now, undeniable and precise. Every time you entered the room, he was already waiting. Every time you left, he followed your departure with slow, measured turns around the glass, as though mapping your absence.

Your notes became less technical. More observational. And then, more personal.

You started writing things you didn’t submit to the shared logs. Quiet questions scrawled in the margins of your private notebook.

Why only me? How much does he understand? Is this intelligence, or attention? Or is it something else?

You didn’t know the answers. Not yet.

But you couldn’t stop asking.

You hadn’t planned to speak to him. You weren’t even sure he could comprehend language.

But on the sixth night, everything was too quiet. The hum of the facility, the subdued flicker of the monitors—it all pressed in like static. You were tired. Frustrated. Your head rested on your folded arms, your mind drifting.

“I hate this place,” you muttered.

The water stirred.

Your eyes shot up. He was near the glass. Closer than before. His hands hovered just beneath the surface, claws relaxed. He tilted his head, as if listening.

Then he repeated it.

“I… hate… this… place.”

His voice was strange—raspy, resonant, shaped by a throat unused to speech. But he’d matched your cadence. Your tone. Even the way you’d slurred the words.

You stood.

“You understood that?”

He moved his mouth again. Slower. Testing the rhythm of speech.

“You… are… different.”

The room felt suddenly warmer. Or maybe colder.

Maybe both.

From that night on, your interactions became more complex.

Every time you entered, he was already waiting. You’d sit. He’d drift toward the glass, his body weaving gently behind him, as if pulled by invisible threads.

He began to mimic you in increasingly specific ways. When you tapped on your tablet, he tapped the tank wall. When you shifted in your seat, he mirrored the motion, down to the tilt of your head.

Researchers noticed. They logged it as proof of successful imprinting.

But you knew the difference between mimicry and obsession.

There was an intensity in his gaze that couldn't be dismissed. It was full of purpose. Of attention. He was learning you—not just your behaviors, but your moods. Your microexpressions. He watched your fingers when they trembled. He watched your lips when you breathed.

You tried to maintain boundaries.

But then the dreams started.

The dreams began as fragments.

At first, they were flashes—flashes of cold, of water creeping into your lungs, of sound that wasn’t quite voice but still carried meaning. Pressure without pain. Depth without fear.

Then they became immersive.

You were no longer watching from behind glass. You were inside the tank—or somewhere like it. A vast ocean with no surface and no floor. Everything shimmered in gradients of blue and black, lit by pulses of distant light. You were floating, suspended, and something was circling you.

You felt it before you saw him.

His presence. Electric. Intentional. Like gravity made flesh.

In the dream, Rafayel didn’t speak with words. He moved closer with the slowness of a creature that knew time was irrelevant. His fingers brushed your shoulder, your wrist, your waist—not with heat but with a chill so profound it burned.

You were never afraid.

Sometimes he held you. Other times, he watched you from below, his eyes glowing brighter than the deep. Always silent. Always there.

And always, just before waking, he would place his hand against your chest and say:

You belong here.

You’d wake gasping. Covered in sweat. The room dry, your lungs aching with the ghost of imagined water. And you’d feel it: a residual pulse. As if part of you hadn’t returned.

It was nearly 3:00 a.m. when the emergency alarms shattered the stillness.

You were off-shift. Sleeping. Or trying to. The facility-issued cot in your quarters was thin, the recycled air too dry. But exhaustion didn’t matter—because when the klaxon blared and the lights above your bed pulsed red, your heart dropped into your stomach.

Containment breach — Lab C.

You didn’t stop to think. You didn’t change. You threw on your coat over your sleep shirt and sprinted barefoot through the corridors, barely registering the startled faces of guards and technicians scrambling toward lockdown protocols.

When you reached the lab, the glass was already webbed with cracks.

Inside, the tank churned like a storm-tossed sea. Rafayel was in full fury—no longer the silent, observant being from your shifts. He was something else now. Magnificent and terrifying. His tail whipped with bone-cracking force, slamming the reinforced walls, again and again. The steel supports groaned. Water frothed with foam and light. Machinery sparked along the edges. A lab tech screamed as a panel exploded.

Two guards aimed stun-rods at the tank. “We have to subdue him—!”

“No—!” You pushed past them, breathless. “Let me try first!”

They hesitated—just long enough.

You stepped into the observation chamber, doors sealing behind you. A protective barrier of glass separated you from the tank, but it felt far too thin. Rafayel turned—spun mid-air like a coil of silk and muscle—and slammed his claws into the tank wall right in front of you.

You didn’t flinch.

You raised your hand. Slowly. Palms open.

“Rafayel,” you said softly, almost whispering, “Stop.”

His body stilled, suspended in violent motion.

The roar of the alarms, the hum of the oxygen pumps, even the buzz of the failed lighting—all of it faded into the background.

His breath came in sharp, rapid bursts. His eyes glowed like deep-sea lanterns. He hovered there, inches from the glass, claws still pressed hard enough to screech against it. But he wasn’t attacking now. He was… watching.

You stepped closer, until you were nearly touching the tank wall. Your hand hovered where his claws had struck just moments before.

“It’s me,” you said.

He blinked.

Then, without a sound, he floated backward. A slow, deliberate motion. One hand slid down the tank’s interior, leaving a trail of pale bioluminescence behind it. His tail coiled gently beneath him. The water settled. Foam dissipated. The light in his eyes dimmed—not dulled, just… quieter.

And then, unbelievably, he pressed his forehead to the glass.

Directly across from yours.

The room held its breath.

He closed his eyes.

You mirrored him.

The silence stretched.

Behind you, through the speaker system, you barely caught Dr. Havers’ voice: “Subject de-escalated. Immediate threat withdrawn.”

The guards didn’t speak. They didn’t move. No one did.

Because they saw what you saw.

He hadn’t calmed because of sedatives. Or fear.

He had calmed because of you.

And something in your chest cracked—splintered under the weight of a realization you weren’t ready for.

Whatever Rafayel was…

He wasn’t just watching you.

He needed you.

After the incident, you were called in for multiple evaluations. The staff expressed concern. His reactions were too focused. Too specific.

“Forming a fixation,” they said. “You’re a variable he’s centering around. It might become dangerous.”

But you didn’t feel afraid.

Each night, he was waiting. Sometimes he pressed his hand to the glass, palm to palm. Sometimes he mirrored your face until it felt like looking into a distorted reflection.

You broke protocol.

“Why me?” you asked him softly.

He moved close.

“You… are mine.”

Your heart thudded. You stood frozen.

“You don’t know me.”

He smiled, faint but assured.

“I remember you.”

You shook your head.

“That’s impossible.”

He only repeated, quietly:

“You were always coming here.”

You stopped sleeping.

Each night, your dreams blended into your shifts. You began bringing small things into the lab. A book. A ring. A scarf. He noticed all of them. Watched each object with careful interest.

One night, you left a pen on the console.

When you returned the next night, it was inside the tank—placed delicately in a shrine of coral, shells, and scavenged materials. A gift.

You didn’t say anything.

But your chest ached with something unnamed.

And he knew.

The lab was quiet when you arrived, as it always was during your late shifts. But tonight, something felt heavier in the air. As you keyed into the monitoring station, you sensed him waiting.

He was already pressed to the glass, body still, eyes glowing faintly in the dim blue light. His gaze locked on you the instant you stepped into the room. You hadn’t even set your tablet down before he moved—slowly, fluidly—closer, so close that his breath fogged the glass.

Your heart pounded.

You didn’t need to say anything. He already knew you were listening.

“Free me,” he said.

The words were clear. Measured. Spoken not as a plea, but as a promise.

You stared at him, your throat tightening. “I can’t.”

He didn’t move away. He simply watched you, eyes scanning your face like he could read what you didn’t say.

“You don’t belong here either,” he murmured, voice soft and steady. “Not with them.”

He pressed a hand to the glass, and instinctively, without thinking, you lifted yours. His fingers aligned with yours, claws brushing the barrier.

“They see a cage,” he whispered. “You see me.”

The words didn’t sound rehearsed. They sounded like something he’d been waiting to say for a long time.

You swallowed hard. “If I open that tank, they’ll—”

He tilted his head, interrupting gently. “They fear what they cannot hold.”

You felt the heat of your own breath fog the glass. Your hand stayed pressed to his.

“Take it away,” Rafayel whispered. “Let me show you what you already know.”

The glass vibrated faintly under your palm. Not from his strength. From something else. Something deeper. A resonance that pulsed in your bones.

Outside the tank, you were still an employee, a researcher, a name on a schedule.

Inside the tank, he was waiting.

And in that moment, the glass no longer felt like protection.

It felt like a wall you weren’t sure you wanted to keep.

[qierxing]

Since you liked him so much I brought a little more ✨

[qierxing]

Reincarnation by Itoko (Idoll_itk)

[qierxing]

P4: Thank You Very Much by Itoko (Idoll_itk)

[First]

[qierxing]

Happiness for many years to come by Itoko (Idoll_itk)

[qierxing]

This is a comic where you’re worrying about a tired Ifa!

Some of you might be thinking, “Wow, this is such a cliché,” or maybe, “Wait, isn’t this supposed to be yandere?”

Don’t worry — it totally is ✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️✌️

Actually, in the story, you lost your memories for… reasons.

And Ifa is pretending to be your boyfriend. Yep, that’s the backstory.

When your memories finally come back, you’ll realize everything was a lie and try to run — but it’ll already be too late, so yeah… you’ll probably get locked up ✨ჱ̒(ｰ̀֊ｰ́˶

If you read the comic again with that in mind, it might hit a little different from the start!

Also, there’s a version where I drew in Y/N’s face too!

Password is YES (in all caps, 3 letters)!

[qierxing]

tw: none. the dove is so alive its flying high

Thinking about a love serenade from Ifa. 

Tired and burnt out from the endless work and monotony of day to day life, you’re about to sink into your bed and close your eyes–but then comes the tap tap tap noise against your window. You ignore it, thinking your window latches are rattling in the hot wind, but it persists, and in a strangely consistent rhythm too. Finally fed up, you throw open the window doors to find Cacucu squawking your name in a merry tune. You’re shocked and mystified until the little qucusaurus glides down below, where your eyes meet Ifa’s own shimmering mischievous aquamarine under the moonlight. 

Before you can even open your mouth to question what he’s doing, he begins strumming a guitar you realized belatedly he carries. The chords string themselves into a slow, intimate tune that Ifa’s voice begins singing along to, and within seconds you’re in a trance. Ifa may have not been a professional musician, but he didn’t need to be, not when his warm low vocals cooed out lyrics that sent your heart soaring. The roughness of his drawl only added to the charm of the simple love song that is famous in Natlanese culture for its romantic endearment. By the time the song ends, you’re gripping the edge of your window pane just to keep yourself from falling out.

Ifa thinks he’s botched the whole thing when he sees you disappear from the window, but soon he’s proven completely wrong when your door slams open and you launch yourself at him in a hug that sends both of you tumbling to the ground. Cacucu raucously squawks his usual parroted words in cheerful amusement as the both of you press foreheads together and giggle. When Ifa kisses you, he thinks nothing could ever compare to the way the both of you fit just right together.

[qierxing]

Hi! Hoping you’re doing well I wanted to make a request. We’ll… I don’t know if this is a request or suggestion buuut can you write something with Ifa and his s/o. Like, maybe a jealous Ifa? When someone is flirting with his darling! Thanksss

💜: Wow, didn't think Jealous Ifa would be such a popular prompt!! Oh well I'll bite into the "Ifa's a jealouse type" agenda.

˚₊‧꒰ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ ꒱ ‧₊˚

"Are you sure? It's a big responsibility."

Ifa still remembers the day he spoke those exact words to you.

Voice stiff leaking with doubt, cadence demurral. It was Doctor Ifa speaking to you that day, trying to convince you not to go through with such a big commitment while also memorizing the adorable scintillate when the sun's rays reflected through your eyes just so.

"I'm sure" you reply, juvenile saurian tucked between your arms as you awkwardly shift from one foot to the other. There's commendation in such an act, Ifa would know, he's taken on a similar responsibility. But still, he couldn't help the uncertainty pricking at his bones.

The little runt was born sick. It likely wouldn't make it to teenhood let alone adulthood. Nevertheless, you seemed all so adamant about this. So determined that this broken little ill thing would be your companion.

Your responsibility.

"Alrighty then, let's take a look at 'em..."

That had been several years ago.

And yet Ifa still clings to the memory, replaying your words and savoring your resolve upon his tongue.

"Lucky lil guy"

he murmurs with all the acrimony of a curse.

Funny he can't quite remember when this disdain took root.

When the way you'd hug and cuddle your Saurian would send bullets through his heart.

There's a painful throbbing in Ifa's veins whenever you're around. A dull needle jabbed awkwardly into his heart. It's all so hard to see you walking around the tribe grounds, smiling and waving at everyone you see. It's custom he should know this, he's been raised amongst these people much like yourself, and yet...

He can't help wishing everyone was dead.

It's a bitter thought, one that shouldn't grant him as much ease as it does. But he can't help picturing you threading through the corpses, in desperate search of someone to quench your loneliness.

He wants to hold you close, cradle you in his arms, and feel your smooth skin squish against his cheek. Fingers entwined as you snake your legs around his. Together forever, only his forever.

But then you leave and the throbbing turns into a lacerations gouged bone deep. Too painful to abide. He can't see you, nor can he see who you talk to. The worries start to seep out, overflowing until he drowns. What if the smiles aren't so friendly anymore, flirtish, lustbound, loving even. What if you return such sentiments? What if you slip out from between his fingers?

Like sand in the wind.

Ifa still remembers the day you got a vision. Remembers how the blood in his veins felt hot and his heart beat in envy.

How dare an archon get to lay claim to you.

Be with you wherever you went.

How dare someone who wasn't him always remain by your side.

Ifa had never thought himself religious, never thought himself irreverent either. But in that moment, sacrilege claws at his throat as he watched your new powers bloom from your fingertips. Smiling at him with all the beauty in the world. He should feel happy for you, proud even. Crack a joke at how you and your saurian "match now" make you laugh, and reveal in the melodious chime.

But Ifa's voice cracks when he mutters a "congratulation" his body filled to the brim with emerald rage. Under his breath, he swears war upon Celestia.

"Ifa?"

You come to him in the dead of night. When he's doing his rounds in the infirmary making sure his inpatients are still asleep. Ifa can't help the dreamy sign that escapes his lips. It's as if the stars and the moon and the low muggy fog all pitched together to create this sort of fragile beauty. Something a little too hard to explain and a little too overwhelming to love.

"I was wondering if you'd like to come to Fontaine with me?" You step closer letting the door swing close behind you. The gentle thump making a little Tatankasaurus stir in its sleep. Ifa breathes in a sharp intake. Filling himself with your sweet perfume. His mouth is dry trying to find a way to differ. "Why Fontaine?" is all that comes out.

Why water? Why not Mondstadt, why not somewhere where the breeze runs free? Far away from everyone but him?

You shrug rigidly, kicking at the floorboards. "There's a film festival I've heard of and well...it's different you know? Something so unlike..." you wave your hands and Ifa can't help but wince at the message.

"All this?" he finishes. Are you trying to tell him something? Are you trying to say you're tired of home? Of the battles that never really seem to end? Of the victories that have grown practically hollow?

"Yeah," You chirp a hint of lassitude tainting your voice "Just a change of pace you know? It'll be good for you and Cacucu too."

The sentiment is there, Ifa's sure of it. But he can't shake the nervous tremors that sprout across his body. He's tried all so long to keep you to himself, to gently pry you away from everyone else. And now? Now you want to escape entirely, leave Natlan, and explore the world. But what choice does he have? He knows he has to go with you, maybe there'll be some merit to it, maybe you'll start to see things from his point of view...

Ifa doesn't like Fontaine.

There's something so mechanical about it all. Like the entire nation has been scrubbed of life and replaced with perfect porcelain. Like they've forgotten how to breathe. But maybe the worst of it all is the way you seem to be enjoying yourself. The radiant smile you give the curious natives who flock around you. The little tales you tell about Natlan as the journalists all scribble down notes.

But the most insufferable has got to be that man.

That man.

The tall duke-wardon that invites you for tea in the afternoons and walks you around the court, laughing at your mundane misadventures in Natlan. Ifa can't stand it, the way that man - No Wriothesley as he insists to be called- always has a hand on your body. The way he beams at you and rushes to your side. Heck, Ifa can't even stand when Wriothesley plays with your little saurian. The little runt that had plagued him up until now has suddenly become yet another point of envy. After all these years that saurian is practically an extension of you. So why should Ifa love it any less?

He imagines his ameno bullets piercing Wriothesley's skull. Imagine Cacucu pecking out his eyeballs. Anything to make him stay away from you.

His heart can't take it anymore. Ifa's blocking the door of your shared hotel room. Bags packed insisting you head back now. You're stubborn adamant about staying and he knows it won't be easy. His fingers wring the syringe hidden behind his back. Pads of his fingers scraping against the fine tip as he listens to your tantrum, screaming about how he's being so unreasonable.

Funny, Ifa thinks he's actually doing the logical thing for once.

He can't let anyone else have you. Can't let anyone keep you away from him any longer.

He waits until you're closer before pushing himself off the door and wrapping his arms around you in a sheathlike embrace. You calm in his touch hugging back. That's when he gently pushes the needle into your skin. Pushing the tranquilizing liquid into your bloodstream.

Drastic? Maybe.

But he's really had enough.

Ifa's lips peck at your temples, slowly trailing longer hungrier kisses down your neck and shoulders. There's a ship heading for Natlan soon, you'll be home safe once more. Your saurian walks over nuzzling between you and Ifa. And the doctor can't help but smile, his eyes dart up to Cacucu, lips breaking into a serene smile. He finally has everyone he loves in his embrace, tucked away safe from the cruel world.

Finally, he's happy after all so long.

And once you're home, Ifa has plans of keeping you locked away with him. Forever his, and only his.

Enjoy this rushed little thing that took me 1700 years to write😭😭