#Female Serial Killers

[thetudorslovers]

𝕱𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖑 𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 🍷🗡

1. Darya Saltykova was a Russian noblewoman accused of torturing and murdering at least 100 of her serfs. Most of the serfs she murdered were children and young girls. Complaints about Saltykova were ignored by officials for a very long time until relatives of her victims were able to bring an official petiton before Catherine the Great who sentenced her to be chained to a public platform for one hour wearing a sign stating 'This Woman tortured and Murdered', Saltykova was later imprisoned in the basement of a convent for the remainder of her life.

2. Alice Kyteler, a well known Serial Killer in Ireland during the 14th century, murdered 4 men and escaped to England where she was never heard from again.

3. Mary Ann Cotton, Britain's first serial killer, was suspected of the murders of 14 people, including her stepson, in her older life twenty one people close to her died. Her motive was gain, as she would marry, kill and collect the insurance money, then repeat it again. She was hanged in Durham prison on March 24, 1873.

4. Countess Elizabeth Báthory de Ecsed was a Hungarian noblewoman and reputed serial killer of hundreds of young women in the 16th and 17th centuries. Stories of her sadism and brutality quickly became part of national folklore, her infamy earning her the nickname “The Blood Countess” or “Countess Dracula”.

5. Giulia Tofana was an Italian professional purveyor of poisons, and the inventor of the deadly poison Aqua Tofana, which is named after her.

6. Locusta was a notorious maker of poisons in the 1st-century Roman Empire, active in the final two reigns of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. She supposedly took part in the assassinations of Claudius and Britannicus.

[inmybook]

There’s a certain high you get from fooling the world into thinking you’re the lamb instead of the rabid wolf.

-S T Abby (Mindf*ck series)

[in-the-stacks]

Presenting Bad Men by Julie Mae Cohen. Reviewed by Read Local for In the Stacks.

https://www.inthestacks.tv/2024/07/read-local-bad-men-by-julie-mae-cohen

[kingwolven]

Art & Story Created By @kingwolven

Lydia Cross was born into a seemingly normal family in a quiet suburban neighborhood. However, her childhood was overshadowed by a domineering father who demanded perfection and a mother who was emotionally unavailable. Feeling suffocated by their expectations, Lydia sought solace in the dark corners of her imagination, where she found herself captivated by tales of the macabre and the allure of the hunt.

As a teenager, Lydia began to rebel, adopting a darker aesthetic and distancing herself from her peers. A traumatic incident at a party,a betrayal by a close friend shattered her already fragile trust in others. This moment ignited a transformation, Lydia's rage and pain morphed into a twisted sense of justice. She began to view the world through a predatory lens, identifying those she deemed unworthy or harmful.

With a deep fascination for the night, Lydia chose the alias "The Midnight Huntress" as she embraced her dark persona. Under the cover of darkness, she meticulously planned her targets, men who had wronged others or escaped consequences for their actions. Each killing became a ritual, a way to reclaim power and release her pent-up anger.

Lydia’s methods were both artistic and chilling, she left behind cryptic messages and symbols, almost as if to taunt those who sought to catch her. The thrill of the hunt became an addiction, feeding her sense of superiority. As her infamy grew, so did her confidence, leading her to become more daring in her pursuits.

Now a ghost in the night, Lydia moves through the shadows, a figure both feared and mythologized. Driven by a relentless need to assert her control over a world that once oppressed her, she continues her deadly game, always searching for her next victim, leaving behind a legacy of fear and intrigue.

[facelesspassport]

“I have hate crawling through my system... I'm competent, sane, and I'm trying to tell the truth. I'm one who seriously hates human life and would kill again”

-aileen wuornos

[doctorslippery]

Acquaintance, whom I had "known" for a year or so, became a more intimate acquaintance. And I was driving her home. The drive between where I live and where she lives took us down this long country road along a railroad track and a creek. And she says to me, both of us still in the post-coital blush, and in that "wow, this could be the start of a really great thing" feel, she's looking out the car window just before we get to the interstate and she says, "it would suck if you were a serial killer."

"Yeah, that would suck." And we both laughed.

I was flabbergasted. And as I contemplated where we were, and that there wasn't another car in sight either way for miles on this long straight road in the middle of nowhere, more than a little freaked out. Cause my brain went to the "is she gaslighting me, because she's a serial killer" place, and "she could dump my body around here and it'd be months, if not years before they found me, ...or ever." We made inane small talk the rest of the way to her house. Also my brain, "only 8% of serial killers are female. ...what if that's just because they don't get caught as much as males do?"

We never saw each other that way again, and she moved to Florida a week or so later. And dropped out of our friends group. Not sure if any of the others have contact with her anymore.

She was sweet. She was cute. And that's the conversation that sticks in my head when she crosses my mind. Not any of the other conversations we had, not how she looked naked, not how great the sex was, that...that's what sticks in my mind.

Was she telling me something? Was my subconscious picking up on clues? Was I being paranoid? The problem with paranoia is that it has its roots in our fight-or-flight response. And that is what kept some of our ancestors alive while the others became lion dinner or whatever predator happened to be stalking them.

[haggishlyhagging]

The discovery of the chopped-up bodies in Belle Gunness's chicken yard changed everything. It caused a terrific stir. To see her burned-out lair, the open graves, the makeshift morgue in the carriage shed, thousands of people flocked to La Porte and paid enterprising livery men a dime for the wagon ride out to the place. (The return trip cost a quarter; Belle Gunness was not the last greedy entrepreneur in La Porte.) On the first Sunday after the victims were found in the chicken yard, ten thousand people came to La Porte, almost doubling the town's population; on the following Sunday, fifteen thousand people visited the farm. The Lake Erie and Western Railroad scheduled special Sunday excursion trains from Indianapolis. Interurban cars and automobiles came from Michigan City and Chicago. At the farm the crowds trampled the fields, stripped the leaves from the trees, picked bricks from the ruins. The Gunness place became "a Mecca for curiosity seekers," according to the Chicago Tribune, and not a bad place for a picnic. Vendors hawked their wares: candy, ice cream, and picture postcards of Andrew Helgelein's dismembered body. The crowd included "women in smartly tailored gowns who came all the way from Chicago with their husbands in costly automobiles, old men and old women ... and hired men galore from all the farms in northern Indiana. ... Members of churches mingled with the demimonde in struggling for views of the pits from which the bodies were taken." In the crush, babies were neglected and people on crutches were pushed aside. "Women clawed at the little red carriage house" where the bodies were laid out. "They stuck their fingers in the cracks and wrenched in an attempt to pry them apart far enough to see inside.... Men boosted each other to the window in the end of the structure and gazed at the bodies until others behind pushed them from their places to make room for other gazers." At last Sheriff Smutzer gave in; he opened the carriage-house doors and let the spectators file by to gape at the reeking skeletons.

The town made a business of it. For reporters and other overnight visitors, cots lined the halls of La Porte's hotels, and spare rooms were let in private houses. An enterprising writer hurried into print with a pamphlet detailing forty-two grisly murders Gunness supposedly had committed. Reporters joked in print about "The Port of Missing Men." Crammed La Porte restaurants peddled tubs of chili con carne as "Gunness Stew." To the Trib reporter, booming La Porte presented "the appearance of a fair or big convention" marred only by fear of an invasion of pickpockets. All in all, the gathering was "an organized feast of the morbid and curious, believed to be without parallel in the United States." On that first rollicking Sunday, Sheriff Smutzer, who had stationed two men to guard the ashes in the cellar, was appalled. He had spent the week painstakingly unearthing rotten bones of murdered men with his own shovel. On Sunday he looked around at the crowd and told a reporter, "I never saw folks having a better time."

And so the folks domesticated the fiend and turned her truly psychopathic butchery into a titillating joke. Faced with an apparently genuine monster, the public turned her grisly farm into a tourist attraction, a sort of circus ground, and Gunness herself into a sideshow draw, last appearing as the headless woman—not a monster but a freak.

No one joked about Lucretia Chapman, Ann Simpson, or Hannah Kinney. No one joked even about Sarah Jane Robinson or Lydia Sherman. But Belle Gunness was something more and worse and different. The family poisoner was thought to be a woman askew. Something out of whack at the very center of her nature caused her to kill by stealth those whom she most should honor. She was by popular definition, then, unnatural and a monster. But aside from her poisoning of long-time husband Sorenson, Belle Gunness was nothing of the sort. She was, above all, an entrepreneur. As such, she was intelligent, original, energetic, persistent, ambitious, thoroughly American, and distinctly "masculine." And Belle's particular sort of murder was decidedly "male." She was a sort of female Landru and flimflam man rolled into one: Bluebeard with a profit motive. In part she used her sex to attract and kill. She knew woman's assigned role by heart; to Andrew Helgelein she wrote, "My dear Andrew: I am lonesome; I need help. I need a good strong man to help me. ... I put my confidence in you. I would depend on you more than any king in the world. How happy we will be when I see you. Come as soon as you can... " Helgelein, Budsberg, and Moo disregarded her instructions to bring cash, but after a day or two with Belle, each man went to the La Porte bank to convert his savings into ready money.

But the main part of Belle's attraction was not some sirenlike sensuality; it was good acreage, a big chicken yard, and a thirteen-room brick house. Like any good confidence man, Belle appealed to the greediness of others. She matched her suitors' desire to exploit her with plans of her own, and most often, she won. To men her story may have been frightening, but it was intelligible, for Belle Gunness merely applied to the domestic sphere the "cutthroat" tactics of the business world. It is not surprising then that Belle Gunness, with her axes and knives and her chicken yard full of skeletons, resembled those fictitious villains of earlier nineteenth-century cautionary tales—Mary Jane Gordon, Ellen Irving, Pamela Lee, Mary Thorn, Ann Walters—much more closely than she resembled any real woman; for those female arch-villains were simply the creations of male imagination limited to its own terms. Paradoxically, Belle Gunness was precisely what men imagined a vicious female criminal would be, and because that model was so outrageous, Gunness seemed to be—at the same time—not an unnatural and monstrous woman, but an absolute freak of nature.

Women might see Belle's crimes differently. Using sex and property to attract her victims, Belle reversed at one stroke the familiar tales of young ladies despoiled by the vile seducer and powerless women manipulated by the man of property. Her crimes speak powerfully to the vengeful, man-hating part of every woman. Later generations of men—always trying to distinguish the dangerous woman from the harmless—have emphasized Belle's sexual "hold" on her victims and have pictured her as a sex kitten. The cover painting for a 1955 paperback book about Belle, for example, depicted a young, buxom blonde wearing a black lace negligee and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jane Russell. But Belle Gunness was not what men would make of her. She was almost fifty years old. She weighed almost 250 pounds. She was a housewife turned psychopath.

-Ann Jones, Women Who Kill

[captainpirateface]

Sheila LaBarre/Killer/Murderer

[simplyforensic]

Belle Gunness: Exploring the Horrific Crimes of La Porte's Ghoul

In the annals of American criminal history, few names evoke as much terror and fascination as Belle Gunness. Known as the “Lady Bluebeard” and “Hell’s Belle,” this Norwegian-American serial killer left a trail of death and destruction across the Midwest in the early 20th century. Her gruesome exploits on her farm in La Porte, Indiana, earned her a place among the most notorious murderers in U.S.…

[thebloodydamnraven]

Rayia and Sekina

One thing that bothers me is how the True Crime community is sleeping on two of the most notorious female serial killers: Rayia and Sekina. With a body count of +17, and a gang of men run by Rayia, these two were some of the worst serial killer cases to ever encounter the Egyptian court. As a matter of fact, they were the first women to recieve a death sentence by hanging.

Motive? Money. It was one of the worst periods in Egyptian history, characterized by an occuptaion that bled our resources dry, illiteracy, and hunger, all in the shadow of an ongoing World War. Their victims were all women who had enough money at the time to adorn themselves with golden jewelry. They'd suffocate said women with a wet cloth, or strangulation, strip them of the gold that they would sell later for considerable sums, and bury them beneath the floors of their own (Rayia and Sekina's) house. By the time the police had found their bodies, all that was left was bones.

I could go on about these two for long, honestly.

[blythe-dollz]

baby I’m a sociopath

sweet serial killer

[authorjacobfloyd]

ABOUT RAGE by Erin Banks

The concept alone hooked me, and when I started reading, I was captivated right away. This book is written from the perspective of “Emily Sands,” the serial killer. The entire time, we are in her mind, and that’s part of what makes this so great. But, the power of this gripping read isn’t in the concept alone, but a masterful execution. In the beginning, we get what one would expect from such a…

[facelesspassport]

This is the 5th wave

"You think that because we are women we are weak, and that may be true but only up to a point, because even though we have nobody to defend us and we have to work long hours until late into the night to earn a living for our families we can no longer be silent in the face of these acts that enrage us. We were victims of sexual violence from bus drivers working the maquila night shifts here in Juárez, and although a lot of people know about the things we've suffered, nobody defends us nor does anything to protect us. That's why I am an instrument that will take revenge for many women. For we are seen as weak, but in reality we are not. We are brave. And if we don't get respect, we will earn that respect with our own hands. We the women of Juárez are strong."

[facelesspassport]

I am an Aileen Wuornos fan and I have read from a few sources that she volunteered for the death penalty, knowing that her life was ruined and claiming that she would offend again. One of my favorite Aileen quotes: "I'm competent, sane, and trying to tell the truth... I'm one who seriously hates human life and would kill again." The fact that they allowed her to volunteer for the death penalty is questionable, however. I do not believe they would have let her do this if they saw her as a valuable human being- which she was. As you have already pointed out, she had a horrible life since early childhood and deserved to be rehabilitated. It's not like she was uncontrollable or killing innocents- one of the men she killed was even a convicted rapist.

they didnt give a fuck when men raped and murdered prostitutes but the moment that very same group of men started to get murdered by a prostitute they executed her and branded her as one of the most evil and deranged killers in american history.. i see. very interesting.

[darknights-beloved]

you shall not cause yourself to wither, not in my embrace, not while i still hold you

(and not forever, not even after death)

"It is I who cherishes those hands and holds them with my own. Happy birthday, my darling. I am immensely proud of you." i dont know how this ended up as my birthday fic, but here we are <3 maybe its all the years of growth im grateful for, and here i am.

diluc x reader

wc ⸺ 8.4k

cw; hurt/comfort ◞ implied abusive ( ? ) family ◞ afab! reader ◞ self indulgent (appearance mentioned - dark hair, dark pupils) (personality - heavily implied introvert mainly, adhd and traumatized if you squint) ◞ implied trauma (nothing too explicit. just vague details.) ◞ depression/anxiety ◞ tw self harm (/other mildly suicidal themes) ◞ established relationship (husband and wife. uses of 'husband' 'wife') ◞ once again self indulgent ◞ reader with questionable parents (abusive, overbearing, narcisisstic...etc) ◞ reader is mainly feeling numb due to emotinal trauma catching up w/ them ◞ somewhat melodramatic (in my eyes at least) ◞ mention of pills/medicine ◞ terms of endearment ◞ kissing and holding as always ◞ any and all backstory is mostly vague this is for my broken souls who suffer because of others and are not kind to themselves. pure comfort from here on out. needless to say that it is strictly sfw! hopefully, im not forgetting any other warnings or missing something, if so please reach out! <<<<

synopsis; to cherish someone is to ache for them, more so as they ache. you've hurt yourself and diluc's heart aches deeply. you dont deserve it you both know it - and yet there it is, the stubborn ache that your husband will conquer (even more so stubbornly) and replace with a loving, gentle ache of tenderness instead. - in other words, diluc ragnvindr, comes back home to the manor to see his wife anguished by the troubles of her mind and other factors playing a part in doing so. he takes care of you with nothing but devotion and protectiveness and worry for the night as he will tenaciously every single day of his life no matter how much you think you dont deserve it.he'll show you how beautiful you are.

 Diluc drew in a shaky breath of air as soundlessly he stepped into the stillness of your shared chambers.

His eyes rove over your figure, laid upon lavish crimson sheets with your head burrowed into the soft pillows and fast asleep. Dark, black locks of hair tousled, splayed in contrast stark against the gentle white of the pillow. You were huddled by the comfort of the bed he had always lovingly arranged for your every night’s rest, sleeping soundly. You were safe.

His shoulders relaxed as he made his way forward to your sleeping figure, taking a closer look at your tired form. For now, he wanted to push any worries present aside and focus himself on you. He tugged at the tips of his glove, each finger until it was made easy to pull out. Then wearily making move to cast the leather fabric aside to the dresser, bare and calloused hands reaching out to you and gentle fingers coming down to weave through your soft hair. Another breath leaves his lips.

You were safe.

⸺⸺⸺

Just this morning, you were with him ── happily chatting away by the coffee and snacks table as the two of you shared a pleasant breakfast prepared by no other than Adelinde. You had a small cold too due to the yearly season so the head maid made sure to whisk up a warmer, nutritious meal than usual, suited to ease the strain and drain of your sickness.

Unexpectedly, later, the moment was interrupted by a particularly probing businessman who unabashedly demanded the master’s attention from the distillery’s staff. To say Diluc was vexed with the sudden incident – no less while the two of you were peacefully enjoying yourselves – was to put it mildly. It took about an hour just to deal with the man and another to shut him up completely and shoo him away until he disappeared from the Windwail Highlands itself.

the moment he returned, however, he failed to catch sight of you anywhere in or near the Winery. He questioned his staff and most of them only had short, uncertain answer. But you were gone, this for sure.

You didn’t tell him, or anything. The maids were already done cleaning up along with your much hardly eaten breakfast, discarding away the leftover food as they washed the plate in the sink, simply going about their usual duties. It was nothing all too surprising; you usually tended to skip this meal of the day and in consequence he’d chide you for the lack of care you hate for your wellbeing sometimes. But today, he had gotten you to sit down and eat with him. Despite all the food he set onto your plate, perhaps all you had eaten was a small bun or so. Did the incident with that snob put you off? If so, he had barely constrained himself on throwing his fists at the bigot before lest you’d disapprove of his actions, but he’d most certainly like to punch him now. You were often wary of social attention and the attention he got as Duke of Mond certainly didn’t help.

He looked around the walls of the manor, searching for you with soft yet urgent calls of your name only to hear no reply. No reassurance. You must be in your shared room, yes? No. By his desk, sitting in a position that was very likely to strain your neck later as you draw fond sketches of him? No. Outside. You must be outside. He didn’t check outside yet.

“Master Diluc.” The head maid cleared her throat gently, a trace of concern etched onto her features.

Diluc halted his aimless pacing around the Winery by the doorway of his office, with a solemn expression. “Where is my she, my wife? I’m looking for her.” He stated forthright, eyes searching hers for an answer.

“Where is she?”

But the way the older maid averts her gaze slightly, an ounce of hesitation weighing her silence makes his chest tighten.

“She hastily left just half an hour ago, saying something about taking care of or accompanying her parents somewhere. To…lunch, I think.” Diluc’s eyebrows furrowed but Adelinde’s expression remained flat. “She did not inform us where as she scrambled to the door last-minute.”

“Parents…?” Diluc echoed quietly with a tone that could only be identified as a mix of caution. Anyone with eyes good enough could tell that he didn’t like what he was hearing. “Did she take her coat?” Mondstadt would only get windier by nightfall. Your cold would worsen.

“No, I don’t believe so.”

A pause.

“And you did not attempt to make me aware of this?” His jaw ticks.

“She had advised us not to bother you.”

An exasperated sigh left his lips gruffly the moment her words reached his ears. He simply turned, marching towards the hanger by his office, snatching the coat off it roughly by the collar as he sloppily slipped his arms into the leather sleeves.

“You shouldn’t have listened.”

That was all, he abandoned the conflicted maid and strode urgently and purposefully away from the winery, off to Archons knows where and hopefully catch sight of you.

⸺

Diluc’s thoughts were scattered. Partly because of his concern and frustration, for good reason too. He was sure his jaw would tense up painfully later from how much he was clenching it. Your faring with your parents was…strained, to put it mildly. Generously, too. He could not bring himself to trust them around you. He knew he was being stubborn, to not take your reassurance when you tell him you are able to handle things on your own. But how could you not even inform him of your departure? He’s more than just concerned; he feels mad and a little hurt. You always, always if called outdoors on any occasion, leave him with a sweet kiss of goodbye and a “I’ll return safely, dear” that the man was always accustomed to.

And today, you had not just disappeared onto any happy occasion, but you were with your parents. Your parents. People who never failed to repulse him by endangering you emotionally or physically by their selfishness, unresolved conflicts and troubles and own lack of understanding.

Then there’s you, with a benevolent heart with unfathomable empathy that hidden away in its core. And the Ragnvindr could never quite bring himself to understand how on Teyvat you could still care for them at times. He’s had his own fair share of family drama; or mayhap more than just what can be considered a ‘fair’ share but he knew for sure and in clear, unforgiving black and whites that anyone who do not even had a shred of decency and respect towards you simply doesn’t deserve to be in your presence.

He could never ensure your safety around them. He trusts you, truly he does, but he’s not a fool. He doesn’t trust them. Ultimately, Diluc only seeks definitive reassurance from you, the fact that you are indeed safe.

⸺

Hours later, and he’s restless. He’s scoured half of Mond and not even a knight dare question him, not wanting to be met by the scorching glare in the Ragnvindr’s red eyes. Caught up by a few pig-headed noblemen on the way or a few drunkards by the tavern who seemed to be causing their daily trouble who delayed him. He knows he shouldn’t prod like this in your affairs but your affairs with them were nothing but trouble.

Your husband remembers the many times you’ve been alone with your parents and then when you finally return to his arms, you don’t tell him about your stay with them. It’s always a vague answer. If he asks you what happened, it’s always “we’re doing good” “it’s fine” and he could never shake off the unease that crawled up his back at those words.

Only when he was met the outrider’s words of reassurance that she had seen you heading back to the Winery much later did he give up on his search. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, more than eager to get back home to you–

“Master Diluc, a fight has broken out in the bar between two knights! No. Wait. Three.” Charles panted, running towards Diluc the moment the barkeep spotted the Master in view. “- drunk knights.”

The Ragnvindr gritted his teeth, silently seething. “Those…imbeciles…” Charles panicked slightly, with a slightly confused expression on his face.

Diluc just sighed deeply, reigning in all his frustration as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s no use talking about it. I will tend to them shortly.” This was taking much, much longer than he could ever be pleased with.

⸺⸺

Dusk had fallen. He hadn’t expected you to sleep so early, not when you always wanted to hang by his side all night alongside him as he did his paperwork. And were it not for the mishaps of his day he would’ve arrived home to you earlier so.

However, his frustration melted away seeing you safely tucked into the sheets as his heart beats calm down significantly in relief. He had scarcely been able to focus on anything but you. It really, really wasn’t like you to sleep early. You must be tired if you’re not going to stubbornly push yourself to stay awake. Shrugging off his coat, he slowly sat at the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. Any questions he had can wait for until after you’ve had your rest.

The truth is you’ve been uncomfortable for days now. Weeks. Only recently had you been progressing well. There's a hollow look in your eyes. No matter how hard you try to feel okay and how much ever his heart aches at the sight, it's as though a fragment - a delicate, precious fragment - of you is missing. His darling.

And the thought of you ever being sad or disoriented destroys him.

Diluc tries not to let the weight of his sinking heart be the focus of his mind now. As soon as he refreshed himself, changing himself into a loose set of nightclothes – a flame flickers and dances at the tip of his finger as it lights a candelabra that stood gracefully on the nightstand, the small flame soon burning down from the top of the wick. He set aside the ornate on the nightstand, along with his vision. His movement were deft as a hunter’s as he carefully reaches out a hand to check your temperature. Your forehead…feels warm. Not too warm. A soft sigh escapes him. He hopes you’ve at the very least eaten when you got back and taken your nightly medicine. Though, noting the stiff outdoor apparel that still clung to your skin as you slept, he knew you would have likely done neither.

At one glance itself, it was easily to tell you had mostly collapsed into bed the second you had returned home.

“You must be tired...” he murmurs quietly, voice barely above a whisper. His gaze is still stuck to you, red eyes swimming with concern as they drift over your figure while he carefully sat against the headboard, mattress sinking slightly under his weight. “you’ve worried me, dear.”

Worried is an understatement.

His arm comes to wrap around the side of your waist and pulling you closer to his side to which you unconsciously lean into his warmth, seeking his presence even in your sleep. Roughened fingers come down to caress the softness on your cheeks, only to feel almost something wet brush against his skin. His brows knit together as he felt damp tears against your cheek – a clear sign you had been crying.

You avoid crying. Resent crying. You didn’t like crying in front of anyone. Even in front of him, sometimes. Just as he was physically strong for you, you’ve always wanted to be his emotional rock in turn and perhaps to a fault. His protective instincts kicked in, alarm bells sounding loudly in his brain as he wipes away the dampness with a warm finger and strokes your hair, trying to soothe you in your sleep. He whispered your name softly, with a mixture of tenderness and worry. He wanted to wake you, ask you what was wrong, hold you but he didn’t want to disturb you.

His mind raced with possibilities at what could’ve caused such an emotional reaction from you at this. He was sure, without a second thought, that it had something to do with your family. He was sure of it. You disappear in the late morning, don’t inform him about a word of your departure, when he’s back you’re in bed early and there’s tears staining your cheeks. The very thought of you crying alone in bed only makes him bristle in more than just one protective instinct. Such nightmares you of all people should not have to endure. And yet…

He struggles to shake out of the darkening thoughts that start to cloud his head and tries to focus on your breathing. He couldn’t help but wonder just what had caused you to cry. Was it something that happened while you were out? Yes, he could be wrong, but his intuition was nagging at him badly. Mind racing with a million possibilities, he forced himself to push the same thoughts that haunted him and lurked at the back of his mind earlier this same day.

You still had your cold. He knew the best thing he could do right now was let you rest and recover as much as you can. He hesitated for a moment and decided to watch over you until you were awake again, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead as his heart aches with a mixture of concern and affection.

Feeling his warmth, you shudder slightly. A welcome contrast to the cold your body feels right now. Despite his best efforts of keeping, you undisturbed, you couldn’t help but stir awake as your body recognizes his presence and awakes your senses. Though he wasn’t too surprised when he felt you awake.

His heart stills as your eyes flutter open, momentarily frozen in his movements.

“oh, you’re back..” his heart clenches when he sees your hand discreetly try to wipe any tears you thought was there, only to feel your cheeks warm and dry. A flicker of realization passes through your expression. You don’t look at him directly.

“why didn’t you wake me? I was wondering if you’d be concerned about my sudden disappearance.” You murmured quietly, watching his brows furrow slightly. There’s a pang of guilt in your heart. Of course he was worried.

“You’re exhausted.” He frowns slightly, his tone firm but caring “Needless to say, your cold. Why would I wake you up?” “And I was half mad all the day, not knowing where you were or if you were okay.” He withheld a sigh, feeling you snuggle up against him. But when you coughed into your fist, he felt his fists clench involuntarily. You should’ve rested. You should’ve informed him, or something... He normally would’ve rolled up his sleeves and give you a stern talking to but you didn’t even seem all that fully awake.

However, you felt his frustration melting away as you gingerly laid your head on his shoulder, only making him hold you tighter in a protective embrace. “Where have you been, my love?” he continues, his tone softening as worry whelms any other emotion he feels right now. “What’s happened, hm? You did not even care to inform me? You should know you’re not inconveniencingme by something as plain as that, darling.”

“besides, you’re still sick” he stresses, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

You stiffened at his gentle scolding, though you knew it came from a good place. A protective place that wants to keep you safe. Though, it was not out of fear nor anything alike, but more of guilt. You could be reckless sometimes, you knew that. But this time, it was more than just recklessness. You knew that and that made you feel guiltier.

“My parents had called for me-“ you reasoned weakly, as though an important excuse. A proper justification. “They don’t like it when I turn them down. You know how they are…” averting your gaze, your own tone softened much more “with me, with us…”

Your eyes drifted to the wall across, a sort of dull white. A thoughtful on your face as you recounted the incident with them.

What was supposed to be a pleasant lunch with them quickly turned sour. The food sat in your stomach uncomfortably the whole walk back home, your guts churning with the need to just shrink away. It was pathetic, really. You were supposed to be strong. And yet,

“They get suspicious quickly.”

You felt another cough coming on, stifling it to no avail as you bring your knee to your chest and your husband’s worried gaze doesn’t relieve at all. The way you said it, it makes him stomach churn. He knows how they are. But he knows you too. You’re being vague. A little too vague than usual.

Though hearing you excuse their overbearing behavior simply because they’re your parents makes his jaw tighten. “They do not own you like that, my flower. You shouldn’t have to drop everything and run to them whenever they call. Especially when you’re unwell..”

He pauses, his gaze studies you as he tries to get a read on your expression. Your eyes are still, not so subtly, avoidant of him. He could see the weariness in them, the obvious pallor in your cheeks. It didn’t help that you were trying to hide the effects of the cold from him either.

“You have to take better care of yourself, my love.. And you need to set boundaries with your family…you can’t let them keep guilt you into things like this. I won’t.”

He reaches out and pulls the blanket over the lower half of your body, feeling your faint shudders and shivers.

“I know…I do, I just...” your voice falters and you feel your words failing you. It wasn’t just this situation and you know it. How to describe the tumultuous rage of emotions in your heart when your mind violently blocks all your feelings? It’s stuck in your throat; it’s almost choking you and you hate it. You also hate that he can see it, that it’s worrying him, deeply.

(oh if only you knew where his worry was coming from…) albeityour doubts and fears were the most stubbornest things about you and you loathe it.

And how can you reassure him when it’s so clear that in your eyes a spark is missing, a spark he’d do anything to reignite until they smile and shine so brightly yet softly as though a sea of stars were poured into the darkness of your pretty pupils.

His heart hurts. Gods, you’re usually so talkative. He loves listening to every word that falls from your lips, music strung by your pretty voice. But now you’re awfully silent and he doesn’t miss the way your lips tremble every time there’s but a syllable on the tip of your tongue. Albeit the silence is unnatural in every aspect, he doesn’t push it.

It hasn’t just been weeks and both of you know it, pretending will only get someone so far. It’s been months and it hurts. It hurts him as much as it hurts you. The past few weeks were only more prominent, the numbness stronger and more palpable compared to the days before that. You’re falling apart and he keeps picking you back up, with gentle and nonetheless steady hands. For Archon’s sake, you’ve even demanded him why. Why didn’t – couldn’t – he just give up on you already? What makes him so patient, so kind, so caring? To stay by your side with the softest of smiles and go to the point of exhausting himself to keep you safe and cared of. Loved. Was he even tired at all?

Instead, you snuggle up just a little closer to his side and Diluc’s expression softens a tad bit more. Both arms now come to wrap around your smaller figure, as if protecting you from the world, from your fears. He turns to face his body to you somewhat, his chin propping itself right above the top of your head as he takes in your scent to ground both you and himself.

“I missed you..” you breathe and his heart clenches at how timid it sounds. No matter how much you may try to conceal your emotions or hide your thoughts from him, sometimes its as thought he knows more about you than you do about yourself. And in times you forget who you really are, he is more than happy to remind you.

“I’ve missed you more, mein liebe.” whispers he in return, his voice a little more quieter.

“we will take care of this later” he promised, pressing his lips to your right hand with absolute reverence. “for now, let me take care of you..”

He felt you shuffle nervously in your place, your left-hand stiffening under the blanket. His brows furrow, alarm bells sounding in his head as he sensed you were conscious of your movement, intentionally keeping it away from him. He knows sometimes you avoid his kisses out of your own insecurity but never quite deliberately and without being aware of what you were doing.

He felt his stomach sink as his hand searched yours underneath the soft blanket.

“Darling-?” he caught your hand in his fairly quickly, concern immediately etching onto his face as he feels you tug away from him.

“What are- “ you tugged your hand again as you hid the upper half away underneath, and he saw the panic rise in your eyes like urgent flames with only one instinct in mind.

“it’s nothing.” There it is. Your tone, it was uncomfortable and you cursed yourself for it. “Can you not do that- “

Your efforts were to no avail. You watched in helplessness and panic as his fingers brushed against a rough scrape with your broken and abrased skin around it, his blood going cold as he felt his heart lurch with ripples of shock electrocuting it so - on your ring hand no less where a red rose carved diamond rests on your ring finger. His heart dropped to a million pieces as he felt you quick, desperate protests, flying out of your mouth instinctively.

“W-wait…Diluc! D-don’t…. I didn’t-“ To hide this from him. His eyes darkened.

“What have you done?”

The words sound strangled in his throat; each syllable being forced out as though it were he was forcing out pointy daggers out of his esophagus instead. His held your hand firmly but gently – the last thing he ever wanted to do was cause you more pain.

“I-“ but the words were strangling you, too. Each cutting through your throat as you tried to force out your own set of daggers. You weren’t as strong as him. Not that you could find a coherent word in your head to word anyway. You had caused yourself harm, again.

His thumb silently traced across the scratches, cut deep but not too deep. Perhaps just deep enough for it to sting in the cold air, for you to wince at the touch and gentle tracing of his finger – for it to leave a small scar behind and to swell around the edges. The sight were knives twisting at the guts of his heart, hurting him more than it could hurt you. He slowly rubs against the slight swell, feeling your hand tense under his touch. One cut just below your pinky, another on the opposite side of your wrist and one in the middle, below them.

Those were three cuts.

He felt a wave of despair and anger wash over him, a roaring fire that burned furiously in his eyes, with emotions too loud to identify and some he could’ve even name. Hopelessness and sadness mixing alongside it. His grip on your wrist tightens slightly and you know you can’t escape even if you wanted to. His eyes trail over the self-inflicted wounds, swimming with anguish and then slowly but inevitably - unshed tears. He grits his teeth.

“I don’t understand.” His eyes search yours, and it almost seemed as though you didn’t understand either. “I thought you were doing…better.”

You’ve hurt yourself. Did you see that? Feel that? And yet, the only thing that seemed to be your main concern now was the fact that you were caught. Not the fact that you slit open your delicate, petal-like skin. Skin that’s soft, so perfectly in contrast to his callous ones. He has scars and he hates it. And If anyone ever dared to scar you or do so much as lay a fingertip on your body in the wrong way, he’ll do away with them. Severely. Anything the poses as a threat to you or any danger that stalks you, he’ll have absolute zilch hesitation in obliterating them completely. He’s all too familiar with the dangers of this world and what’s to come. But the thought of you being the one to hurt yourself, to wound your undamaged skin and treat yourself in ways he would kill were it anyone else’s hand scarring yours was torment to say the least.

“What have you done...” he pleaded, pulling you impossibly close and eliminating any space between you as though even a gap would be enough to stop his breath. “…to yourself...?” Your breath hitched and you were at a brilliantly pathetic loss for words.

"I was sure you were long past..." he paused, the words choking on his throat. It felt like poison in his tongue and he could neither spit it or swallow it down. "self-inflicted injuries..." "I'm sorry" you shivered against his chest "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I just.."

Sorry doesn't cut it and you know that, you should. You don't miss the way he seems to tremble too, as if he was also scared just as you are. Red eyes that can't tear its burning gaze away from the various self-inflicted cuts on your wrist and forearm. Red eyes that swim with frustration, worry, concern, sadness, and fear all at once. Red eyes that seem to be fully set ablaze now.

“I didn’t mean to repulse you…. or anger you.” No, of course not. If anything, you meant to demean yourself. The thought made him feel all the more helpless, yet more protective.

“No, angel. What you’ve done has done more than just repulse me. It’s hurt me.” He lets go for a second, scrutinizing each cut as his heart swelled in muddled and screeching emotions. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

Your tears finally fall, the weight of his words pushing the droplets down your cheeks. Now you see. You have given into those urges again. Something you have both fought tooth and nail to shake yourself away from. Something he thought he’d succeeded in doing but as your stomach churns do you slowly realize whatever pain you endure hurts more than what’s just. Because he cares, cares beyond what would be fathomable.

“You don’t deserve this.” His thumb gingerly hovers over the wound, his heart heavy and mind unable to focus on anything but the weight of his suspicions made reality. More so than what his initial anxiousness was for. He doesn’t understand. He simply doesn’t. You don’t deserve even a fraction of this. “Come here.”

Your shoulders slumped slightly. You’ve sliced open your skin because no one would care and you could feel the thrill of pain and numb all emotions. Where’d you get this from? When had that ever become reality? Was it the moment you had fought with your parents again, when they overlooked you and your efforts and you felt all that hurt all over again?

"Sshh..." he coos, despite yourself. Despite himself. He encircles his arms around your waist, and you can really feel it. His heartbeat was stuttering. He really is trembling.  "...my darling..."

Your eyes sting with more fresh hot tears at the hardly stifled crack in his voice, the way he tries to stay strong for you. But just as your cuts bleed, his heart bleeds more at the sight of it all.

A hand makes its way to the back of your head, holding you tightly and keeping you leave locked in his desperate embrace. Weary red eyes flutter close. Fingers thread through your hair again and Diluc holds you a little tighter - just to ground himself. Just to remind you and himself that the both of you are here, together.

He tries to let it sink in, that you had gone and does this to yourself again. You didn't in the past year. And he wasn't there beside you. He's frustrated, mad at himself. He wasn't there to shield you, to protect you and he could've. If only you told him, if only he....

Your spouse lets out a slow, unsteady exhale. He pulls back to look at you more clearly. Dark circles under your mildly bleary eyes and your nose flushed red from crying. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he feels your shoulders loosen slightly. His hand comes down, tracing the back of your wrist, along your pinky to your forearm. His frown deepened slightly, heart squeezing when you winced. The bruised skin have swelled up around the marks. His chest tightens as he inspects it closely.

"My darling..." He breathes, bringing the mistreated hand up to his lips as he peppered the most featherlight kisses. Right below every cut, above and all around as if to make them disappear with his lips alone. "Who made you do such a thing?” and did I fail you? But he dares not speak the questions that plague him, it’s on the tip of his tongue though – not so steadily balancing itself if it weren’t for him biting his own emotions back.

Because more than anything, Diluc is scared. He is really a scared, worrying lover of all things, trying to take care of you with all he is capable of (and oh so much more) and protect you with all he is. All he wishes is for you to let him.

Feeling the way you tensed up at his questions, as if your senses were on high sensitivity, he backtracked. His hand moved to your soft, silky hair that cascaded down the front of your shoulders messily as he stroked the stray locks tenderly. “Why? You don’t have to pretend with me, I love you more than words can articulate.”

You looked up to his eyes again, taking in how soft such a hardened gaze can become for you. This time from a slightly different emotion. You know what he's asking, pleading for.

“Let me in. Talk to me. Please.”

"I'll try.." You can't promise him. Not this time.

"No." But he won't let you.

“I think you need to understand this clearly. Everything will be okay sooner than you’ll know it, I will make sure of it. No matter what happens, I’ll always be beside you.” he sucks in a breath through his teeth and his eyes flicker to your hands once more. The right one, unscathed while the left…was the opposite. His heart contracted.

“Wherever I am, whenever. You have me. I’m yours, my love. And I want nothing more than to keep you happy and safe. To see that precious smile of yours.”

A shaky breath leaves his lips as his sternness cracks and overflows with emotion. "Because I can't bear to see you like this, my sweet..." Diluc brokenly whispers. He tries to swallow down his sadness, but it's painfully prominent in his eyes. He doesn't mean to make you feel guilty, it's not his intention at all. But he needs you to understand just how much he cares about you; he cares more than what he can handle sometimes and it hurts.

It hurt to see his dearest hurt herself.

"Whatever did you do to deserve such pain, such...hurt?" he demands in a broken whisper, gently cupping your cheeks up to him. "hm? Was it ever your fault? Your wrongdoing?"

No. No, no it wasn't. It wasn't. Your heart breaks along with his and all you can manage this moment is a strained sorry - a word he shakes his head at.

"Don't apologize." His jaw clenches slightly. "Don't apologize to me."

Your hand gingerly reaches his at his distress, you squeeze it as it rested atop your cheek. "For all the pain I've caused you." You murmured, watching his eyebrows knit together.

"It's only my pain because you've caused yourself pain." He interjects roughly, his hand quickly interlacing with yours as he kisses your knuckles gently. You sigh deeply.

“Don’t you understand?” you breath hitches as he pulls you impossibly closer to him with his eyes full of ache. “Everything I do, I do for you. You deserve so, so much more sweetheart. I’m…scared.”

Your hand comes to instinctively wrap around his and you hold onto it firmly. “What, why?”

“I can’t lose you…” His fingers dig into your hips lightly and your press your lips against his chest, right atop where his heart is. “Not to pain. Not to grief. Not to sadness. Not to doubt, not to paranoia. Not to death.”

“You won’t. I promise you won’t.” you assured with the same desperation as him, looking up at him with apology “I don’t even know what I was feeling, it just….it just happened.”

“I know. I know you don’t.” His heart swelled from the kiss and he felt ache tighten his chest again. “I know its hard but you can tell me, come to me if there’s if there’s anything even remotely bothering you. I’m here, sweet darling, and I’m solely here for you. You know this, don’t you…?”

You let out a heavy sigh, averting your gaze. “…not always.”

“Then I would remind you.” A finger delicately tilted your chin up, bringing your eyes back to your husband’s burning gaze. “I know not always. But it’s alright. I’m your husband – not just anyone. Your lover, yours. I want to be there for you. It’s my duty, my honor and privilege.” Burning with conviction and firm love. “You have to let me.”

Your throat constricted with unvoiced words, too many of them. All jumbled up. But he didn’t force a reply out of you, didn’t force a promise out of you no matter how much he wanted a conclusive reassurance from you.

“You don’t have to promise me that you won’t do this again. Just tell me you’ll let me take care of you.” his voice dropped to a delicate whisper; the next words fragile as they were precious. “…my love?”

So were yours. “I’ll…let you take care of me.” You reluctantly muttered and that was all he needed. His lips found your own, and no matter how many times he’s kissed you, he could never be prepared for how his heart sings, soars and swells all over again.

Whatever happened will be discussed once you’re in a better state of mind and ready to talk. For now, all you need is rest while your husband dearly takes care of you.

⸺⸺

The fireplace lit the dark manor, its halls illuminated in the warmth of its light and heating up the distillery to a comfortable temperature. It was silent, not too silent, just perfectly silent. Maybe it was the rare quietness in your mind that made you feel this way. Calm, oddly enough. Your thoughts not screaming at your emotions for once, your head not heavy on your shoulders.

The only sound was the crackle of the firewood or the broth boiling small bubbles in a pot over in the kitchen. Or Diluc’s disapproving hums and soft take of breaths as he carefully unfolded the dressing pad of the square bandage and gently pressed it atop the streak of your swollen wound. And never mind your barely stifled coughs from time to time…

The smell of classic chicken soup wafted in the air; broth filled with luscious ingredients that Diluc lovingly prepared for you. Your cold was still mild and you couldn’t even feel it in the tranquil of the moment. When everything else faded out and it was just you and your husband, while your head rested on the cool mahogany table and left arm stretched out for him to examine, to take care of. To put to rest what pain you’ve inflicted because of those who hurt you. Were you to allow it, he’ll find them later, strip them of everything they hold dear were it not for your patience.

“Does it hurt?”

You felt his fingertips caress the top of the bandage; eyebrows knit together with a hint of lingering frustration you knew he wouldn’t be able to shake off that easily. “No, it doesn’t.”

He hummed, somewhat distracted. Your eyes wandered around for a bit, before you finally lifted your head up to properly get a light read on his expression. He’s been quiet for some time.

“So…. aren’t you going to say anything?”

He sighed deeply, squeezing your wrist gently as he looked you firm in the eyes. “Please don’t take this lightly.”

His eyes trailed over your wounds once more, his eyes stuck on the same spots. The ointment he had applied was cooling to your skin, the burning tinge of the scrapes fading away from your skin. He holds it, tenderly, holds it. In his own scarred hands, more scarred than yours, bloodstained even but he holds it with a reverence that shines in his gentleness, his care.

Carefully, he lifts your petal soft skin to his lips and lets his faintly chapped lips brush against your knuckles just delicately enough. You still, heart pounding in your chest as he peppers them along your wrist to the very last mark below. It’s times like these, your heart to scream “He loves you.” And he does.

“Thank you.” at your whispered words, he looks at you and brushes your cheek with the softest smile. “for what, my sweet?”

“For taking care of me!” You exclaimed with a hint of defensiveness for his playful innocence, knowing he only wanted to lighten your head up a little. “You know that…”

“I know.” He confirms as you clasp your hand, a more serious expression on his face. “But that’s no such thing to thank me for.”

His feels your hand squeeze his and his eyes soften again with a soft grumble following afterwards. “…but you can thank me by letting me in more, hm, baby?”

“…right.” Your face flushed a soft red immediately, a shy smile twitching at the corners of your lips immediately and his gaze only softens more at the sight. His fingers brush against yours as he slowly pulls away – turning to the kitchen. The air smelled good. The soup must be ready.

“You need to eat now.” He grabbed a black catlike-shaped bowl (one he specifically bought for you at the market, telling you how it reminded him of you). Catching your pout however, he shakes his head lightly with a fond smile. “Darling, you had barely touched your food at breakfast today. As for lunch…well, I want you to forget about lunch. And then; your cold.” He said with a pointed look. Your cold wasn’t even that of a big deal. “Just sit there and look pretty, I’ll be done here soon.”

Your pout soon turned into a soft, somewhat bashful smile and his heart skipped a beat. He really knows how to worm his way into your own heart, and you’ve come to trust it with fondness. “Alright, fine.”

Soon, he placed the bowl of steaming chicken soup along with a silver rose engraved spoon. It was that pleasant, comforting warm color that the broth held – along with the perfectly diced vegetables and meat in it. Looking at the food only did you rather surprisingly realize how hungry you were. Skipping meals were a norm for you, something both your and the head maid would highly disapprove of. But something was different. He wanted you to eat. He wanted you to enjoy the taste of the food, thus the carefully homemade meal. It wasn’t cooking for another for the sake of it. He wanted you to love even the first bite and thus the effort. That felt different from the begrudgingly cooked meals you were given from your mother in the past. It was her responsibility. This was different. This was Diluc and he wanted you to eat.

“What going on in that head of yours, my love?” He inched it a little closer to you before his hand came up to gently pat your head, pulling you away from your thoughts. He lifted your chin, eyes carefully scanning if you were hesitant. When he found none, he let go. “don’t keep yourself waiting.”

“I was just…thinking.” You dismissed, shaking your head lightly in reassurance, taking the spoon in your hand while he dragged a chair closer to you and sat beside you; offering silent company.

Every spoonful made your heart and stomach feel full and warm. It tasted so good. So good. The flavor invaded your tongue, the spice a small comfort to your now weakening cold. He rubbed your back the whole time, just silently staring at you with concerned care swimming in vermillion eyes, making sure you were okay. Additionally, also making sure that you’d finish the bowl completely…maybe have seconds. No, definitely– he silently added to himself as he stood up from his seat, abruptly deciding to brew you some warm ginger tea as well. Now that he thinks about it, there were some fine assorted dark chocolates in a cabinet, too.

⸺⸺

“Let’s get you into something comfy, yeah?”

You hummed softly in response to your husband’s words, your eyelids already drooping with the weight of sleepiness and tire. The warmth of the food seeped in too close to your heart like a comforting flicker of flame, spurring sleep. Everything was slowly but surely catching up to you – most prominently – exhaustion.

Your eyes flickered across his figure, moving diligently as he rummaged through your closet for your night clothes. The warmth of the food felt oddly lingering, lulling in a way. The pillow that helped your back rest was fluffed to your satisfaction, only more soothing to your weariness.

Once you saw him reaching for your clothes, an idea came to mind. “Can- can I wear your shirt?”

Your voice came out unsure, your heart jumping, albeit he had sternly taught you to be nothing but open with what you wanted with him.

Diluc froze, short-circuiting for a second at the unexpected request. He paused in his rummaging; he was surprised but pleasantly surprised nonetheless. He turns to look at you with a soft smile.

“You want to sleep in my shirt, my love?”

Your eyes flicker elsewhere hesitantly before returning to his again, then to his smile. It was almost as though he was proud of you of voicing that aloud, despite the shyness that seeped into your tone. Well, if anything, it only made him further smitten with you.

“Uhm, yes?” You confirmed with a nod, waiting for his reaction. His shirt alone and the soft fabric wrapped around her body along with his arms would be enough healing needed right now.

A warm, tender smile stretched out on his lips instantly as you confirmed your words, his heart aching with happiness at the simple request.

“Of course, dearest. My shirt is yours to wear.”

Instantly, he moved to his side of the dresser, rifling through his clothes and uncaring about the mess he’s making through the neatly folded clothes. He pulls out a soft, well worn-shirt. He makes his way back to you, the clothing clutched in his palm as he hands it to you.

“Let me help you.” before any protests could come flying out of your mouth, he gently helped you remove your top. Your heart calmed at the sight of his beam, relieved by his eagerness and enthusiasm.

“there now, careful...” he focused softly, making it certain that the bandages do not disarray as he pull the top over your head carefully. You let him take your top off tiredly while he set it aside to the laundry and you trying not to disarray the bandages too much over your injuries as you slowly donned the shirt.

With that he gently laid you down into bed, grabbing the covers to pull over your legs. His eyes raked over your figure, hugged loosely by his much larger shirt. He was suddenly made aware of how small you were compared to him. With a gentle kiss to your nose, he whispered ‘beautiful’ – reveling in your soft giggles afterwards.

Then he grabbed both of your hands in his gentle hold, pressing his lips onto every inch of the skin from your wrist to each of our fingertips. Just to feel your hands in his, hear your laughter for a little longer before sleep. It took his breath away every time he absorbed the fact that your hands – smaller, softer than his could ever be, chose to held his. It was definitive he’d protect them without question just as he’d protect your heart and soul. He just wanted you to be happy, he simply wanted you to be…

“Comfortable, sweetheart?”

You smiled contentedly, tucked back in into the comforts of the soft sheets. “yeah. Comfortable!”

“Now lay down, my love.” But despite your sleepiness, you really didn’t want to. You wanted to stay awake beside him, even for a few minutes. But knowing Diluc, he would use his vision to warm his hands to an impossibly unavoidable sensation of comfort, rubbing your back soothingly until sleep lures you into unconsciousness.

Your husband couldn’t stifle the smile that stubbornly clung to his lips as he gently pushed you into the mattress again when you tried to sit up once more, lifting your hair back and pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’ll sleep with you.” leaving each other was the last thing on the both of your minds.

“Yes, you will.” You happily smiled as he climbed into bed beside you, wrapping a protective arm firmly by your waist as he brought you close to his chest. “but not yet...” you cheekily added, making his smile widen reluctantly.

He cocked a brow at your words but before he can even part his lips to speak, he’s suddenly met with a plethora of kisses to the lower half of his face and you trying to squirm out of his hold

“You’re tired. Stop that.” He chastised gently when you tried pushing his hands away with a small frown on your rosy lips. Diluc adores your kisses and he, the uncrowned king of Mondstadt himself, was nothing more than your darling lover and more with every kiss you pressed unto his lips and body. But you needed your rest now and Diluc was also a stubborn man in that fact.

“But I didn’t kiss you all that much today.” You sighed, slightly muffled as you pressed more kisses to his cheeks and jaw. He blushes so very easily and his pale skin doesn’t do the man any favors either.

“You can kiss me plenty, tomorrow.” He cupped your face in place, squishing your cheeks together gently as he chuckled at the adorable sight of you, followed by a reluctant sigh. “After you’ve had your rest, my love. Go to sleep.”

“Fine-“ you grumbled slightly but he booped your nose, making you laugh softly again. “Hey!!” you clasped his hand in protest, holding it in your smaller one.

“don’t be mad at me, mein liebling. I just want you to have a good night’s rest after everything.” Lifting your hand up to his lips, he brushed a kiss against your knuckles. He swears it’ll be the last kiss but he can’t seem to get his hands or lips off you all too much. Despite his playfulness, the sternness in his eyes are clear and no doubt he’s still worried about you. He would be worried about you for days until he truly felt you better yourself both mentally and physically. But a few laughs spilling from your lips every now and then was the only thing that felt like it could ease the heaviness in his heart.

For now, he wanted you to have a good night’s sleep. To simply close your eyes and rest.

“I know, I’ll sleep..” you sunk deeper into his embrace he held you, no more fighting the pull of slumber. With a tired smile, Diluc tightens his arms around you gently, feeling your breathing and heartbeat steady against the rise and fall of his own chest.

“good girl. I love you. I love you so much.” His lips met yours once again and tonight, you couldn’t doubt him or that he was yours to love as you were his to be held. Your eyes flutter close. “I love you too, Luc. I love you very much too.”

Hands that were once soaked in unfathomable volumes of blood, hands that are calloused and far too roughened to lay skin to skin upon soft, silken ones such as yours, hands marred with scars big and small, some faded, some deep. Hands that run over yours gently feeling the ring that sits on your finger before reaching up and raking gingerly through your hair, lulling you to slumber. The only next thing that falls from his lips is a soft “goodnight” as you teeter on the edge of unconsciousness, failing (and successfully so, in your lover’s eyes) to the bear the brunt of catching sight to see the tears that quietly forms in your lover’s eyes as his thumb brushes once more against your wounds. Only as you slip into the deep slumber your body and mind longs for does the tears slip from the desperate grip and grasps of his restraint.

Your skin does not deserve to be marred. Not like his, at least not like his. Not like this. He’ll show you how beautiful you are all over again, no matter what. How utterly darling you are. He’ll remind you so.

a/n: im not sure if i wouldve finished it without you, aurora. i know you're dyslexic but the emotion in this fic could not exist without being dedicated to you first.