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fangdokja · 1 month ago

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They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,326

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

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madaqueue · 1 month ago

Text

FALL FROM GRACE

do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes. put to death that which is earthly inside you.

pairing: priest!sunday x succubus!f!reader

themes/content: dubcon (char!receiving - he says "stop" and it's basically ignored, and there's some heavy coercion/corruption stuff going on here), somno depending on how you look at it (succubi technically visit people in their dreams, so he's asleep ? sorta?), lots of religious guilt around sex, heavy catholic religious imagery (literally straight up bible verses). smut. handjobs, fingering/masturbation, p in v. i wanted to explore the rigidity and internalized shame sunday feels so uh . here's this ! (wk: 3.6k)

a/n: me when he's burdened and tormented (also i had to put my religious trauma somewhere ! hope it's yummy) :3333

The first night is always the most fun.

They never wake, not on this visit; the mind is a simple thing to trick, eager to make excuses for the gentle touches trailing over one’s torso, down their chest. A dream, they call it, a ready and waiting path to forgiveness.

The second night is usually the same - feather-light hands, breathy kisses - but you find Sunday to be a near-impossibly light sleeper when he begins to stir beneath you. Pinned under thighs that straddle his waist, his eyelashes flutter, nearly roused; his lips part, almost a sigh. It’s an uncanny thing to be so beautiful and so unaware; you wonder if he’s grateful for this gift. With a quick peck, you send him back into the waiting arms of slumber.

The third night you visit him, his eyes open slowly, still clouded by dreams. It’s rather obviously unexpected to be found in this position, with a stranger resting over him, smiling, trapped beneath their weight.

“Who are you?” he breathes, barely above a whisper. There’s no fear behind his gaze, only shimmering curiosity.

“Who do you think I am?”

Your fingers trail lower, tracing circles into his abdomen. It’s a fitting pattern for what you’ve seen of him: controlled, precise, predictable. No hard edges or uncertainty, just smooth and calm. Something about a vow, you think, has made him like this. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. A promise to a power too self-righteous for your taste.

His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to focus upon you, vision still blurry. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, curves casting shadows under the fading starlight, black lace and soft skin. Then, there’s a flash of horns, a flicker of your tail, the markings below your abdomen pulsing through the dark. He swallows. “What are you?”

Ruby lips spread into a grin, one that veers sinister - he’s such a cute little thing, a chocolate covered strawberry, all sweet and flesh and blood. “An angel.”

The silk pillowcase rustles as he shakes his head, too innocent, too naive to do anything but be truthful. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” you lean forward, feeling his pulse thrum below your palm. “I’m not.” You kiss his cheek, and whisper a goodnight.

The fourth night, he’s more awake, but less verbal. Instead, sun-bright eyes follow your movements, the crackling fingerprints that travel his skin. He lets you touch him, lets you trace out the muscles lying below the surface, feel the nerves and arteries that quicken under your touch. Drowsy little whines leave his throat, barely a sound, as you work. Up wrists, over shoulders, to collarbones, counting ribs and diving into his hips, along his thighs, and back again. It’s a beautiful routine, just light enough to keep him half-slumbering.

From there, it’s mostly the same - you touch and trace and tease him, and he watches, silent and mostly unconscious. A week passes, maybe two. The time doesn’t matter, not to you, not really. What matters is the way his skin sparks beneath your fingertips, the way his eyelashes flutter under the moon’s silken glow.

You aren’t granted the privilege of visiting him awake, not yet, at least. There’s no way for you to see the way he pours over text, books with cracked spines and dusty pages, to find the source of these…dreams, of the being that visits him and steals him from the respite of sleep. The word succubus is heavy in his mouth, more bitter than communion wine, with no unleavened sanctity coming after to dull the taste.

On the seventeenth night (you think, if your count is right), he wakes in a notably different position, no longer cradled by the mattress upon which he put himself to bed. Under the mottled moonlight, he finds himself sitting upright, the bare skin of his back resting against something much warmer than the wooden headboard.

“Good morning, Sunday,” you purr into his ear from behind.

He murmurs something, slowly turning over his shoulder to face you. For the briefest moment, you think you catch the flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, demon.”

“Oh?” you let out an airy chuckle. “So you’ve figured it out then. Good, I was worried all you priests were nothing more than fools.”

The lightest laugh brushes past his lips, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment. “I’m no fool. Now tell me, why are you here, demon?”

Through a feigned pout, your hands make their way back to his chest. “What, are you sick of me already? You don’t like me, is that it?”

“I have no particular feelings towards you.” He’s quick to respond, quicker even to remind himself of his place, of his duties, as your palms threaten to burn through his skin. Poverty. Celibacy. Obedience. Important ideals. Good ideals. Holy ones, at that.

Through a hum, you travel lower over his body. It’s a test, really, to see if he’ll stop you, grab your wrists and yank you from behind him and banish you from this place forever. It would take so little: a splash of holy water, or even a simple curse, and he’d be rid of you. Surely he found that little fact in his readings.

And yet, he simply follows your path downward with his gaze (you can’t say you’re truly that surprised - it has become your routine, after all. And Sunday cherishes his routines).

“No feelings for me, you say,” you say, pensively. Lower, and lower, and lower.

Just as his lips open to speak, to throw some calculated retort, your fingertips brush between his legs and the sound twists into something else, something needier, a noise he couldn’t have controlled with all the constitution in heaven.

You gasp at the response, too, awe bubbling inside your cheeks.

“Oh, Sunday,” you breathe. “You poor thing, you must be so pent up.”

“I- mmm.” With a second run of your palm over his hardening length, his eyes dance shut, his entire body shuddering.

“Don’t they allow you to touch yourselves here?”

It’s evil, this touch, coursing with sin and dark, dirty blasphemy. He ought to shut his mouth, rip out his vocal cords if that’s what it takes, and wait. Perhaps a blood smear above his lips would protect him, make you pass him over tonight and all nights thereafter.

“N-not in the monastery,” he chokes out. “It’s against the rules.”

He grants you the privilege of grazing his warming skin, before letting out a shaky breath. Thou shalt not covet. Dispel desire.

“You…you should stop.”

“Stop?” The absurdity leaks into your voice. “You’ve given up so much for this silly church, don’t you think? Why give this up, too? Don’t you deserve it?”

A pause, a steadying breath, to quiet your dissatisfaction disguised as rage.

“And besides, look how badly you need this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” An angel, caught in your trap; to think you may not even have to clip his wings. “Don’t you want to feel good, my dear Sunday?”

Eyelashes delve into the creases of his eyelids as he tightens them closed, lips pulled into a gasping frown. Everything in his mind, in the years of his training, of memorizing verses and teachings and sermons and rules and rules and rules, tells him to say no, to force a stop to this nonsense.

“And,” you perk up at his hesitation, “it won’t even be violating your so-called ‘rules’ if I’m the one touching you, right?”

Even through the feather-light touches, Sunday worries he’s losing his mind, like your fist might as well be piercing through his chest and ripping his soul from it, dragging it into hell with you. The thoughts that make it up his spine are too blurry with lust to let the more sluggish Reason through.

“Right.”

Smiling into his neck, you feel his carotid jump under your teeth. “Good, good. So just let me do this, okay?”

So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires.

He says the words over, and over, and over in his mind.

Do not be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world.

He knows better than to make idols.

And yet, all he can do is nod his head.

He doesn’t face you, of course, buried under the shame of it. If the church was any older, he’d worry the brick would collapse in on him at any second, to punish him for the sin he was too weak to avoid committing. Perhaps he should be turned to salt, a fate befitting of his pathetic disobedience.

“Okay.”

It’s immediate, the way he relaxes when you finally reach below his boxers. The heat of your touch melts him, his throat craning as it releases strained whines. He’s heavy in your hand, a weight his so-called gods would surely commend, if they could spare such thoughts. Soft skin, unsoiled, untainted. Utterly holy.

As you stroke him with a tenderness only known to the clouds of salvation, he looks nothing short of angelic, the arch of his spine making space where wings ought to be, the tickle of his hair soft like a crowned halo. And you, wrapped around him like a flame, carry him through the air. Lower, and lower, and lower. To soften the blow when one falls from grace.

It takes so little for him to shake, to shudder and cry and bend, until you worry his shoulders may snap if you weren’t caging his torso against yours. His head falls back, slack-jawed and awe-struck, as he releases into your palm, pumps of white coating your hand.

It’s a beautiful thing, the sounds he makes, the purity of it. White and cream and gold, just as you’d imagine heaven to be.

There’s waves of pleasure, his stomach clenching with each one, pushing him further and further into you, and you swallow him whole, welcoming with open arms.

Slowly, you press your lips to his cheek, scalding hot.

“Goodnight, Sunday.” And he falls into your chest.

It grows increasingly difficult for him to hide the dreams (at least, that’s what he would convince himself they are). It’s been months now, although truthfully, you’ve stopped counting.

Every night, he falls into a troubled, humid sleep. Every morning, he wakes to a mess, still half-hard and panting.

And yet, he’s more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. When he turns to the parish, his neck moves more easily. As a well-educated (well-trained) man, he assumes he hides it well, but his relief is palpable, a taste too thick to anyone who knows him.

“You seem different lately, Sunday,” Father Wood observes casually.

With his back facing him, Sunday conceals the way his spine tightens. “How do you mean, Father?”

Pensively, Father Wood lights the altar’s candles, an honor given only to those most highly ordained, an honor Sunday used to dream of performing (now, of course, his dreams are consumed by other desires).

“Just…different, is all.”

Sunday’s attention falls to the flames before him, to the way they dance nervously despite the still, stagnant air inside the church. Perhaps they know something he doesn’t.

“I’ve been spending more time in the library lately. Perhaps my reading has enlightened me.”

“Perhaps,” Father Wood echoes. With quiet purpose, he lights the final candle. “This church is your home, my boy. You had nothing before you came here. I remember the day we took you in, the day you were saved.”

There’s a pit in his stomach, one that grows and grows and grows; he’d expect it to taste like acid, but all he gets is honey. “I remember it, too.”

Father Wood hums, facing away. “‘If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.’” A pause, a flickering flame. “Sunday, I trust you not to forget the oaths you swore.”

A shiver runs up his neck. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. “Of course not, Father.”

That night, you meet Sunday in bed. Normally it’s little trouble to untuck the sheets, to find the welcoming skin of his thighs, but tonight he seems determined to bury himself within the blankets.

“Sunday,” you say. He fails to respond, but his ears twitch. “Sunday, I know you’re awake.”

One eye slowly cracks open, revealing the sun behind his eyelids. “Go away.”

“Excuse me?” you choke a laugh. “You want me to ‘go away’?”

Closing his eyes, he hums in affirmation.

Within your chest, your heart flutters - he’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control. Perhaps that’s why you chose him (the chase is always the most fun, the tension of it all; you think Eve’s first bite of the apple must have been underwhelming compared to its weight in her palm).

Perhaps your routine will bring him back. Slowly, you trail a finger along his collarbone - before he pulls away. Curling himself onto his side, he tucks his knees to his chest and shuts you out.

This is certainly a novel development. And it certainly will not do.

“Fine then,” you state, leaning back to the corner of the mattress.

In response, his left ear twitches, but he gives no other response. So be it.

Against the wooden footboard, you open your legs, visible if he were only to turn towards you. With well-practiced hands, you easily slide the black lace panties down your knees, letting them fall at your ankles and leaving you bare (it requires few garments to do your work successfully, after all - they’re made for this).

Silently, you spread your ever-wet folds open. With your other hand, you draw circles around your clit, slowly, tauntingly. Delving into your own heat, a sound of relief comes as an exhale, one that finally has Sunday’s gaze peeking from between his eyelashes.

“What are you doing?”

“If you don’t want me to touch you, I guess I’ll just have to touch myself instead,” you say. The words flow easily, thick like milk and honey, something sweet, something to help him sleep.

This time, his eyes remain open.

His mouth does, too.

Silent except for the ragged breaths coming past his lips, he watches you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers curl, knuckles disappearing only to reappear shining. The inky pattern adorning your womb morphs and glows; a spot of saliva catches in the dim light, and he makes no move to wipe it away.

With an arch of your back and a tilt of your head, you beckon him closer - always such an obedient little thing, your Sunday (he was praised for it, once); he slowly rises. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, holding it unsteadily, as he crawls towards you. Unwavering attention held raptly between your thighs.

“Sunday,” you say, to snap him out of the trance that pulls him towards you. He says nothing, a small trail of drool spilling from the corner of his perfectly eager lips. “Sunday.”

His eyes snap up to yours, the sun eclipsed behind the growing shadow of his pupils.

Your palm cradles his jaw, thumb wiping away the glistening desire. “Are you going to behave now?”

A blank stare.

A fragile nod.

“Good.” Your grin splits the earth open with wicked flames, poking between your teeth. He drinks in the heat with a starving throat, ignoring the way it burns (or reveling in it).

A sparkling star shines in his eyes, nearly glowing. You pull the two fingers from your cunt, still warm and sticky and sweet, and hold them before his face.

You don’t even have to tell him to open his mouth - obedience is such a lovely thing.

When your taste lands upon his tongue, he releases a moan like molten gold. His lips close around your fingers and he sucks and licks the essence from them, hungry and gnawing. Your fingertips glide over his molars and he fights the urge to bite, to claim (a well-trained dog is still just a dog, after all).

There’s a half-hearted whine when you remove your skin from his, one that makes your cheeks ache.

“Tell me what you want, my dear Sunday. Anything you want.”

If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.

Perhaps dying here tonight, with your taste still lingering in his throat, would be a graceful demise. A martyr of his sacrilege.

Already, he looks ravished, his cheeks dusted red and eyes wild and unfocused. The pretty ones are always the most fun to ruin, to dirty with desecration; they look so beautiful as they fall.

“I want-” there’s a lump in his throat where his servitude lives, where the years of holiness coalesced and stayed. He swallows heavily. “I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“Ah,” you breathe. “I suppose I can do that.”

“But-” he catches himself. Rules, and rules, and rules. They clog up his esophagus, his vocal cords straining to get past them.

With a gentle finger, you hush his worries. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky sound. “Okay.”

It takes little pressure to recline him onto the bed, the sheets already dampening from the sweat collected in the hollows of his back. He lets you undress him, lets you place scalding kisses into his skin, soft and sweet as a fig. Ripe like one, too.

Only two pumps of your fist up his length and he’s already leaking, twitching and aching.

“So eager,” you coo when his hips rut into the air, chasing your touch.

“M-my apologies,” he says weakly.

“Nothing to be sorry for, my sweet Sunday. Pleasure is a thing to be worshiped, don’t you think?”

They’d bury him for this. The other priests would crucify him and leave his body out to rot. He’d deserve it, he wouldn’t even complain, he’d be perfectly obedient until his very last breath.

As your thighs encase his, as you line his tip to your entrance, as you sink down, slowly, slowly, slowly, until you’re flush with him, until you’ve swallowed him whole and nestled him inside of you, his vision goes white and he feels the warm smile of forgiveness.

“Yes.”

From behind, your tail twitches into his peripheral vision. A cruel reminder, a crash and burn. Melted wings and the sea. But then your hips circle, once, twice, and he forgets himself again, he enjoys the fall.

His hands fly to your waist, before they’re swatted away with a click of your tongue and a sparkle in your eyes. “Ah, no touching me, remember? Those are your rules, after all.”

“Right.” Instead, his fists dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white.

With each plunge of your warmth up and down his cock, he’s reborn, fresh and gasping, each breath burning like the first. Crescent moons carve into his palms, and he groans.

“Is this…is this real?”

A chuckle bubbles from your throat. “Do you want it to be?”

He hesitates for a moment, lets your hand rest on his unsteady heart, lets your skin stick to his. Just below it, a knot forms, the strings tightening and tightening and tightening under years of strain.

“Yes.”

You fill his vision, all-consuming, eating the space between you with sharp teeth. When you speak, it’s a low sound, a rumbling purr. It makes his stomach clench. “Good.”

His breaths come in faster, now that he knows it’s real, that the heat creeping up his neck and down his legs is real, that this is happening. That something exists that feels this fucking good.

And then, all at once, the knot unties itself. The moans he releases are holy, more beautiful than a choir with all its ordained voices.

Damp palms grab at your hips, and you let them. With greedy fingers he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. Tears well in his eyes and in the blurry haze, he thinks he sees heaven. It opens itself before him, warm and beckoning, in the space between your thighs.

“God, fuck,” he exhales, and you grin.

“How blasphemous, Sunday.”

If he hears you, he gives no indication. Curses tumble from his lips, raw edges cutting his lungs.

He chases a high with urgency, with uncoordinated thrusts and a too-tight grip. His dedication is truly a virtue.

It’s only a moment before he stills, eyes widening, jaw falling open to release an angelic cry. Truly beautiful as he falls, as he comes undone. In the space below his arched spine, you swear there’s a momentary flutter of wings.

Eyelashes open and close, as if to prove that this is not, in fact, real. But the heat still encircling him is proof enough. He shivers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“Oh Sunday,” you hum, fingers tracing ribs that rise and fall unevenly. There’s a twinge of something mixed into the pride, something sadder, something longing. “This certainly has been fun.”

“Fuck,” he says again. Dread settles on his shoulders, heavy, heavier than duty or scriptures or a grave, than a cross. “Will I…?”

“Be excommunicated for this? Probably not,” you smirk.

Weakly, he shakes his head, sweaty strands of hair sticking to the pillowcase below. “Will I see you again?”

The question makes your heart flutter. How cute.

“If you’d like to, my dear.” With a gentle hand, you brush the fringe from his forehead. “Anything you want.”

At that, he relaxes, his shoulders sinking deeper. With heavy eyelids, his blinking slows. “Good.”

How beautiful he looks like this, half-conscious and spent, utterly debauched. Utterly holy.

“But for now, get some rest.” Warm lips press into his cheek, and he leans into them with a hum. “Goodnight, Sunday.”

#q writes #oneshot #sunday #sunday x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #sunday hsr #sunday honkai star rail #hsr smut #sunday smut #cw dubcon #cw religious imagery #cw religion #<- if i am missing any tags PLEASE do not hesitate to let me know and i will add them!!!!!#cw sacrilege #cw blasphemy

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trappolia · 10 months ago

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SUNDAY IS FOR REST ── sunday x halovian!reader, 918

"do be careful, my dove," he murmurs as you straighten out the light feathers behind his ear.

"you haven't preened yourself in a while, have you?" your voice is soft, a hint of chiding to it that makes his heart flutter — there's a groggy rasp to your tone as well, having just stirred from your own dreams. sunday dares not look back at you, for there is a sweet domesticity to be found in the impression of rumpled bedsheets against your cheek and the heavy-lidded eyelids that make it known that you would love nothing more than to go back to sleep — proper sleep.

a hum resonates in sunday's chest as he allows himself to be fully immersed in the moment; early morning, messy hair and feathers, the sleepy press of lip against lip. his head tilts to the side, allowing greater access for you to tidy the feathers in question.

"you are correct. there's no need for me to do such preening in the dreamscape, though i prefer it when you offer your generous help," he replies, a mix of contentment and fondness pervading his voice.

"i'll help you only if you stay still," you grumble. your hands, which were straightening out his feathers, are now hovering just above them as sunday tries very hard not to shift in place again.

he cannot help it, truly. it is not just the factor that sunday is unused to, well, anyone touching something as intimate as his halovian wings, but also the fact that the slightest brush of your skin against his is a sensation like no other.

not that he would ever tell you, of course.

sunday nods, a silent affirmation that he will try his best to remain still, although a trace of a smile dances upon his lips. as you resume tending to his wings, each brush of your fingers brings a newfound appreciation for the sensation of your touch. he can feel the slight tingle, akin to electricity, every time your skin makes contact with his wings.

"my apologies," he murmurs, a chuckle slipping past his lips — as if he is not willing his chest to rise and fall rhythmically, having to manually breathe under your intimate ministrations. "i shall endeavour my utmost to be an inanimate statue. your wish is my command."

"haha," you say dryly.

in spite of your tone, sunday cannot help but chuckle at your jest. a cruel man he is, to find amusement in your grumpiness in the early morn. your nimble fingers gently untangle his feathers, and the sensation is a mix of tingles and warmth that spread across his wings. the act of having someone, especially someone he holds in such high esteem, tend to these parts of him that are reserved for only the most intimate moments is endearing, to say the least.

as you work, your movements deliberate and precise, your lover muses softly, "only you could make tending to feathers feel like a luxury."

"it is a luxury when you are not the one doing it yourself," you huff, hands moving around with practiced ease: smoothing a feather here, tugging a broken one out there.

sunday's chest rumbles with barely suppressed laughter at your huff of annoyance, but he remains true to his word and does all he can to keep still. his skin feels electrified with each brush of your touch, even more potent than before, and he wonders idly if it's because he's aware of how much effort you're taking in taking care of him. he is always the one caring and fussing, rather than being cared for and fussed over. it is strange, for the tables to be turnt. strange, had it been anyone else but you.

"perhaps," he manages to say between bouts of laughter, reaching back to catch one of your wrists and presses a chaste kiss upon it. "we could make a habit of this."

"is it truly proper of the head of the oak family to make a habit of keeping himself less than pristine?" you murmur.

how embarrassing; the passing thought occurs to sunday at your words. indeed, it is unbecoming for him, who stands at a position of such power and authority, to be so unkempt, so careless around you. it feels… freeing.

and so his response is a gentle tug upon your wrist, guiding your arms to wrap around his shoulders and link with his fingers. with a smile full of affection and a touch of teasing, he gently brushes his thumb over the tender flesh between your thumb and forefinger.

"i am simply indulging in the pleasure of being cared for," he answers in that same gentle rumble. "and if that means i am a tad bit less than pristine as a result, so be it."

"i suppose so," you hum, and from where sunday sits in between your legs, he feels you lean forward, hooking your chin over his shoulder. your own wings tickle his cheek, like a lover's kiss in the early morning. "preen me next?"

a low rumble resonates somewhere deep in his chest at the feeling of your breath against his neck. the closeness you've allowed between you is not something sunday takes lightly, and he relishes in it with every beat of his heart.

"with pleasure," he answers, unable to help the upwards tug of his lips as he squeezes your palms.

"let me take care of you, my dove — as you do to me."

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generalsdiary · 3 months ago

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you brought your partner a flower bouquet. it isn’t something they often receive, and you felt a desire to change that. being a solemn, thoughtful person after thanking you they said;

“yes… it is sad that I’ll have to watch them die.” “they started dying the moment they were picked. kind of like humans, from the age of 25 their bodies officially begin to die.” upon hearing your words they look back at you, sharing a knowing look. “that is too short. I…” they clench their jaw for a moment. “humans have too short of a life span. we- I will find a way” soft, whispered words flowing between you two like a breeze on an early spring morning.

depending on the context behind their words, that perhaps brought you joy, that your loved one would go above and beyond to have as much time as possible with you. or it filled you with fear, knowing their history with such ways of life manipulation.

“no matter how much time we have, we will be alright. I cherish every moment I get with you. and once I’m gone-“

“please don’t say that.” their voice fell to a broken whisper. noticing the change in their body language, you moved closer, cupping their face, and matching their quiet tone you said, “let’s stay in the present. I’m right here, living and breathing. focus on me, on my heart,” you take their hand and place their palm on your chest. “on how it beats for you. for us.”

Dan Heng, Jingliu, Blade, Dan Feng, Neuvillette, Xiao, Wanderer, Scaramouche, Capitano

divider cr: @saradika

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k9wa · 5 months ago

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⟁ 7:14 PM ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — braiding his hair bc my brain is rotting and i miss him.

⚠︎ fluff, thats really it, mechanic!reader but its not really relevant, suggestive if you squint and cover one eye and hang upside down. gn reader, wc 860.

boothill's head was lulled back between a pair of soft, comfy thighs, eyes a content and lazy half lidded as he felt some familiar calloused and precise fingers detangling little pieces of his hair. the sun was almost down past the horizon, and the last few warm rays peeking out left the room hued a gentle orange colour, its two inhabitants bathing in it..

he felt a slight tug here and there as you worked your magic, taking the knots out of those long white locks with patient fingers.

“you have such pretty hair.”

you mused quietly, combing out another strand with your nails. boothill's lips tugged up lightly in a gentle smirk— a hint of pride washing over him. he was a bigger sucker for praise than he’d ever admit.

“well, it’s gotta look good if it’s gonna match th’rest of me.” he drawled, voice a low rumble filled with a certain ease that rarely surfaced— well, rarely with others, anyway. he received a playful tug of his hair in response.boothill leaned back a bit more, trying to catch a glimpse of your endearing focussed expression.

he was slowly melting against your deft fingertips, silently whirring internals mimicking the quiet purr of a cat as you twirled a piece around your finger.

“can i braid it?” you asked simply, already sectioning out a few strands at the top.

“do whatever you want, sugar.” he granted with a little shrug, smirk still playing on his lips. “reckon a braid’ll help keep it from flyin’ into my eyes so much.”

he felt the rhythmic crossing of each strand as you began to braid, every brush of your nails against his scalp sending a pleasant shiver right through his wires.

“y’know,” he opened, voice still that gravely tone you could never get enough of. “ain’t nobody else i’d sit still for like this.” he admitted, brashness taking a backseat to give way to a tenderness reserved for one person only.

“yeah?” you smiled a bit, continuing to braid. “just for me, huh?”

boothill couldn’t help but let out a scruff, throaty chuckle, vibrations running through his chest.“just for you, darlin’.” he echoed.

“you’ve got a magic touch, i s’ppose,” his eyes shut briefly. “could get used to this.”

the melodic and methodic movements of your fingers were earnestly making him drowsy, a soothing lullaby that laced and weaved around him in the same patterns as his hair.

“like being pampered?” you teased playfully, earning a chuckle from him.

“you just got a way of makin’ a man feel real special. that’s all.”

your fingers kept slowly crossing and twisting strands.

“you should let me curl it some day,” you suggested, amusing yourself with the thought of him dawning a bunch of puffy ringlets. “you’d look like ‘genti.”

boothill's low laughter echoed quietly in the room, a deep sound that harmonised with your own.

“now that’d be somethin’ to see,” he admitted with a playful scoff. “ol’ boothill with curls bouncin’ around like some dandy.”

he shook his head as he pictured it, and you had to flick his cheek to remind him to look straight.

“i'd sport some curls if it meant i get to see you smilin’.”

you smiled fondly at that, taking a small hair tie and wrapping it around the tail of his braid.

“you’re sweeter than you let on.” you reached around to fix his bangs a little bit.

“there.” you tilted his head up a bit to look at him, feigning shock. “well, ain’t you pretty?”

hearing his own southern drawl echoed back to him made the cowboy snort. “ain’t i just the belle of the ball now?”

boothill's hand instinctively reached back to feel your handiwork, prosthetic fingers tracing along the weaves of his hair.

“mighty fine job, sugar plum.” he commended, turning around to face you on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met behind your back in a careful hug around your waist. he looked up at you— really looked at you, that mushy softness in him pushing out through the cracks you always left in his defences.

“thanks, darlin’.” he said quietly, those red cruciform pupils locked in on your own. “means more’en you might know, you spendin’ your time fussin’ over me like this.”

the cyborg’s head fell comfortably down in your lsp, nuzzling into you.

“i think fussing over you is a full time job,” you teased lightly, a smile evident in your voice. “not that i mind.”

one of your hands traced the mechanical connections of his arm, all the way up until your fingers gave a gentle brush to his cheek.

boothill let out a breathy chuckle, some air fanning across your tummy. his fingers, a soothing and smooth cool metal, traced little shapes along your lower back.

“well, i reckon i oughta start payin’ you overtime for such dedication.” he quipped quietly, demeanour playful yet earnest as always.

“paying me to start might be better.” you gave a playful pinch to his cheek.

“i got a few ideas for how i can pay ya,” he teased back, giving a little nip to your thigh.

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

#boothill #boothill hsr #boothill x reader #boothill x you #boothill fluff #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr headcanons #hsr oneshot #boothill headcanons #hsr boothill #boothill honkai star rail #this is a warm up #gonna try and get to reqs soon :salute:#UNEARTHLY

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milkbobatyun · 4 months ago

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an eye for an eye

pairing: jiaoqiu x gn!reader

genre: angst

summary: the two of you were always bitter enemies, ever since you were young. but feelings change over time, and you made the greatest sacrifice because of it.

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i have finally gotten around to editing and now posting the pt 2 of save your tears!! to the people who were requesting this, i hope this is up to your expectations ૮₍˶Ó﹏Ò ⑅₎ა

you remembered now.

your rivalry started when the two of you were fresh-faced students, attending the ranzhi school in hopes of becoming the top healer.

jiaoqiu and you had opposing views, often clashing in heated debates in class. the two of you were like fire and water, fighting tooth and nail to rip the position of no. 1 on the exam billboard from each other. every exam, the title of no. 1 bounced between the two of you.

you detested jiaoqiu’s sly smirk, his teasing voice every time he scored higher or was praised by the teacher. every self-satisfied smile made your fists clench, nails digging into your skin. his proud mannerisms made you want to both punch his face in and bash your head against a wall.

yet what you hated the most was how his sly remarks made your heart dance in its cage, tomato red saturating the tips of your ears when you made eye contact.

jiaoqiu hated your quiet presence, how his eyes would search for you every time he entered a room. your arrogant presence ruffled his fur. your quiet, studious presence made his fur prickle with irritation. whenever the teacher affirmed your comment and you sent an arrogant smirk in his direction, jiaoqiu wanted to claw his own eyes out.

what jiaoqiu despised the most was how his heart would speed up every time he saw you, ears pricking up with interest when he heard your voice.

every class was a battle, the other students only watching in silent mortification as you and jiaoqiu battled with medical terms and theories, words clashing like swords, relentless and unstoppable, each seeking to deliver the final blow.

the climax of your rivalry was during a class discussion, when the teacher posed the hypothetical question–what was the best treatment for someone who had drunk tumbleweed poison?

a hand shot up in the air.

“an eye for an eye. find a willing participant to donate their eyes.” you spoke, confidence and certainty clear in your voice.

the teacher’s remark is cut off by a hand slamming into the table.

“ridiculous. who has ever heard of such a thing?” jiaoqiu jumped up, fur bristling in every direction, ears flattened in anger and pointing an accusatory finger at you. “who would ever want to sacrifice their own sight for someone else? i say that medicine to slow down the poison and its effects is the best method, there is no known cure for tumbleweed poisoning.”

as expected, the debate between the two of you lasts long, the sun’s pale yellow rays deepen into a warm golden, sun sliding further down the horizon, before the bell tinkles in the distance, signifying the end of the class.

it was ironic, that was the last debate that you had with jiaoqiu before your graduation. after, you both went your separate ways. sometimes, you found yourself missing the cunning foxian, with his smiling eyes that held something more.

jiaoqiu often found himself wondering what you were up to, his thoughts drifting to you when he drank a tea you had once mentioned to your friends. he missed your arrogant presence, with the quiet studious nature drawing all his attention every time he entered a room.

he habitually visited your herb store, tail and ears twitching with amusement as he pushed your buttons. he could see the vein throbbing in your neck, how you would clench your hands on the tabletop, a forced polite smile carved onto your face. a similarly sly grin was reflected on jiaoqiu’s.

when the war broke out, you sometimes wondered if jiaoqiu would be safe, after all, he was the healer for the merlin’s claw, the frontlines was his second home.

while he treated feixiao, jiaoqiu often found his thoughts wandering to you. would you have used a different herb to treat her? or would you have used a completely different method? he found himself almost missing the heated debates and the thrill it gave him, his heart beating faster, tail swishing in excitement.

the sound of the door opening awakens jiaoqiu.

sunlight warmed his body, as he lay in his bed, resting, according to the doctor’s orders.

though his sight had been stolen by the poison, he knows where everything is, the memories and layout etched into his brain.

“jiaoqiu,” feixiao called from the doorway. the mentioned foxian’s ears swivel atop his head, turning his face in the direction he hoped feixiao was standing. “i’ve brought someone to help you regain your sight. we’ll come in now.”

two sets of footsteps pattered across the wooden floors, before stopping at the side of the bed.

“so,” jiaoqiu begins. “who is this mysterious doctor who can cure me?”

“we started on the wrong foot before, jiaoqiu,” your voice floated through the air. “but i believe i can heal you.” you spoke quietly, voice wavering with nervousness.

though jiaoqiu couldn’t see, your eyes were flitting around the room, desperate to focus on anything but the foxian in front of you. your fingers were busy, picking at the bandage wrapped around your hand, from when the shard of porcelain sliced into your hand.

despite his sight being taken away, jiaoqiu’s ears could still recognise the voice of his rival during his student days and the person who he had rudely thrown the teacup at. his body stiffened, tail swishing in agitation and anxiety.

he suddenly recalled that he never apologised for his previous outburst. guilt flashed across his face, though he was quick to quash it down. his eyebrows furrowed, fists gripping the blanket underneath his hand.

jiaoqiu could imagine you, standing next to feixiao, proud and arrogant, like how you were in your youth. now, you had more reason to gloat. you had the upper hand in this moment.

the silence fell heavily between the three of you, feixiao’s brows knitted together, her sharp eyes noticed how you silently winced next to her, face turning more guilty than you were before you walked closer to jiaoqiu.

“feixiao, if you’ve come to taunt me with false hope, bringing along the person i least want to see, you can leave.” jiaoqiu’s voice cuts through the silence, definate in his decision.

you take a hesitant step forwards, stretching out a hand, worry and despair that jiaoqiu can’t see reflecting all on your face.

“stay away from me.” jiaoqiu growls, baring his teeth in your direction. “have you come to mock me again? to rub it in my face that i can’t be the top healer anymore?” spite and hate drip from his voice, like poison.

no, that's not what he meant. he was supposed to apologise, but this, sharp words that only served to harm people, came more naturally, especially with you.

you flinch, snatching your hand back, trying to stop the trembling in your hands. your hands tightened its grasp on your medicine box, knuckles turning white.

feixiao sighed, exasperated at the childish nature of her healer.

“jiaoqiu,” she spoke firmly. “if you want to be able to heal me in the future, then you need your sight back. i know you had history with [name], in fact, i heard about what happened last time, but they’re the only one right now who has a shred of hope in saving your sight.”

hearing feixiao’s reasoning, the fight left jiaoqiu’s body like a deflating balloon.

with an annoyed exhalation, jiaoqiu could only obediently nod his head in agreement.

settling your medicine box onto the mahogany bedside table, you began unpacking your instruments, while explaining the procedure to jiaoqiu and feixiao.

“i’m sure you remember, jiaoqiu, the proposed theory i had about how to treat tumbleweed poison.”

“an eye for an eye.” jiaoqiu echoed, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement as he remembered the memory.

“indeed.” you affirmed, nodding your head.

with a shaky breath in, you picked up the right instruments, beginning the procedure.

when jiaoqiu awoke, the weak morning rays filtered through the window, shining upon his blankets. jiaoqiu marvelled at the success of your operation, drinking in the sights of his familiar abode. he glanced around. the traces of feixiao’s presence were clear, an empty chair pulled up beside his bed, her coat thrown over a chair and her weapon propped up against the wall.

slipping out of bed, jiaoqiu exited his bedroom, expecting to see you at any moment, ready to gloat to him about your genius and how you were better than him in medicinal skill.

yet the house was oddly silent, no life present, the only sound the soft patter of his slippered feet hitting the wooden floor.

confused on where the guests were, he made his way outside, the spray of the sea air sprinkling against his skin.

he saw the back of your figure, whispering something close to feixiao’s ear. the roar of the waves drowned out your voices, not even jiaoqiu’s sensitive ears could pick up what you were muttering.

feixiao noticed jiaoqiu’s lurking presence, glancing at him with surprise and a hint of worry in her eyes. with a curt final message, feixiao left the two of you, throwing a departing glare of warning at jiaoqiu.

pausing by jiaoqiu’s shoulder, feixiao muttered to him a word of warning.

“be mindful of what you say to [name] and be gentle with your words.” feixiao hissed.

jiaoqiu dismissed her words with a shrug of his shoulders, annoyance present on his face. he was the patient, so why was feixiao being so nice to the healer?

with purpose in his step, jiaoqiu stalked towards you.

the tap tap of footsteps drawing closer behind you alerted you to a presence behind you, a simple deduction telling you it was most likely jiaoqiu.

“so,” jiaoqiu’s silky tone broke through the din. “how do you feel, o mighty healer?”

his voice dropped with mockery, a sly smile cruelly curving his mouth.

“i feel the same.” your curt voice was indifferent, not turning to look at jiaoqiu.

his fur bristled in annoyance. the fight in your voice, always present when you talked to him, was gone and it unnerved him.

“which unfortunate individual did you scam, to trade their eyesight for mine?” jiaoqiu pressed on, hoping for some sort of reaction from you. anger, glee, smugness, it mattered not to him, your lack of emotion put him on edge.

silence.

“i’m talking to you.” jiaoqiu growled. “at least look at me.”

only the splash waves answered his question.

jiaoqiu marched towards you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder and turning you around to face him.

almost in slow motion, you turned, the white bandages falling away from your face.

the howl of the wind fell silent, the whole world holding its breath. jiaoqiu’s breath caught in his throat, his thoughts scattering like startled birds, words faltering on his tongue. a numbing shock swept over him, rendering him frozen.

jiaoqiu’s sharp eyes met yours. they were once so full of life and fire, now clouded over with milky white, sight stolen. his heart dropped in his chest, all the mockery and sarcasm ripped out of him.

the final remanants of arrogance melted from his tone, leaving only disbelief and pity. his ears flattened against his head, as he stared at the bandages.

“you–” jiaoqiu’s voice cracked. “why?” he breathed. “why give your eyes away? to me, of all people?”

your lips twisted into a wry smile. “love makes people do stupid things, jiaoqiu.” you whispered, sadness saturating your voice. where tears used to form, beads of scarlet began to pool, threatening to spill over.

jiaoqiu’s sharp tongue, always ready to retort, was rendered useless, staring helplessly at the person in front of him, pale eyes gazing somewhere beyond him, a once fierce rival, reduced to a broken and selfless person.

jiaoqiu’s throat tightened, reaching out his hand, hovering near your shoulder. an overwhelming sorrow ate away in his chest, guilt gnawing at his insides.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice flooding with confusion and hurt.

you laughed, a hollow sound, laced with upset. “you wouldn’t have let me, if you had known.”

jiaoqiu’s ears flattened in shame, his lips pressed into a thin line. he knew, he would’ve argued with you, hell, even fought with you if he could see. but now, it was too late.

“you know, i never really hated you,” your voice broke through the silence, bloody tears trailing down your cheeks. “no, wait, i did, at the start, i really did hate you, with a burning passion.” you let out another sorrowful laugh. “but somewhere along the line, the hate, it turned to love.”

jiaoqiu’s breath caught, all those years of rivalry, it was something more, something simmering beneath the surface, just out of reach, something neither of you wanted to admit.

he wanted to say something, do anything, reach out and wipe your tears, perhaps, but his words and his body weren’t listening, he was frozen. his hand still suspended in mid-air. the weight of everything left unsaid hung between the two of you.

“i’m sorry,” he finally exhaled, voice raw with emotion, regret, barely audible in the wind. “maybe one day, if you wish, no, if you could ever forgive me, would you still give me a chance?”

deep down, he knew, it would be a long time, but he would wait for you, no matter how long.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

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yandere-sins · 21 days ago

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Yandere!Mydei caring for a depressed darling

a/n: Tried to do something new with the type of headers I do. Not quite yet close to the aesthetic girlies but I don't hate it! Anyway, I'm now a diagnosed ✨depressed✨ and life's been up and down lately, so I wanted to write for my current comfort character ♥

Characters: Yandere!Mydei(mos) x GN!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Possessiveness, Obsessiveness, Kidnapping, Depression

❥ Mydei likes to return to you doing something. He likes to find you taking a bath (scrambling to get some clothes on when you hear the door unlock) or reading a book (sighing because your reading time is effectively over), stuffing your mouth like an adorable little animal with food, or even wreak havoc if you must (and he gets to put you back in your place). It excites him. It makes taking a rest so much more enjoyable, and he needs to see you thrive in this environment he created for you. Knowing that it's his place that you live in satisfies the homesickness he suppresses, as he can live vicariously through you. Coming home to you asleep—or at least trying to—isn't quite what he has in mind for a greeting.

❥ He's not too pleased to have to wake you up or make you at least acknowledge his presence. But he will, of course, do so however his mood commands him to. Sometimes, he grabs the blanket so you end up rolling out of bed; other times, he spoons you from behind, applying more and more pressure to your body until you react. Or he calls out to you and pokes you until you're finally up. Just this time, everything he does seems to affect you less. Like you don't care. Like you can't care.

❥ When you do finally get up, he immediately notices the changes in you. He can't pinpoint what exactly is wrong. Still, everything from your sluggish demeanor to the faded light in your eyes gives him clues to an unsolvable puzzle. He doesn't like it. Mydei asks you what's going on with you, his repeated questioning getting annoying fast, but your shrugging your shoulders and being dismissive isn't cutting it for him. He will test for a fever and belittle you for not taking care of yourself as you should as he tries to find any wounds that could cause you distress. Clearly, you've been up to no good and probably worn yourself out. Mydei is so obsessed with finding the cause that he can't see the forest for the trees.

❥ Frustrated and angry at you since he doesn't know what is going on with you (this could just be another one of your ways to challenge him), he storms off to take care of his own needs for a little while but eventually does return with your favorite food. Even though Mydei has to get you out of bed again—which he does unapologetically and ruthlessly by picking you up regardless of your state of awareness—he forces you to have a meal with him. He gets even more upset when you barely touch your food. He keeps piling more items on your plate, but you just sit back after a few nibbles, unwilling to consume more. It's grating his nerves, but even more so, it raises a sense of discomfort in him that he never felt with you before. Even when he had to fight you, wrestle you to the ground, and force you to obey his whims, he never felt like this... somewhat... helpless. It's uncomfortable and distressing, and Mydei doesn't want to think of the memories these feelings remind him of.

❥ You, not objecting to being placed on top of him like a weighted blanket for the night, is the final nail in the coffin. You hate it with a passion when he picks you up and moves you like a doll, especially if it initiates more body contact than you feel like having with him or being placed in an awkward position. But you don't even tell him to stop or push your hands into his chest, giving him a reason to wrestle with you for a bit. Instead, your behavior keeps Mydei up all night after he pulled a blanket over you two, and you actually have the audacity to fall asleep on his chest without any complaints, not knowing the agony he's going through. But fine! You want to not interact with him? Well, that gives Mydei the opportunity to do whatever he wants with you.

❥ So, in the morning (later than he usually gets up), he forces you to bathe with him. You do tense up and try to get away from him, but he won't let you. Having your hair washed by Mydei is not a gentle undertaking, as he scrubs the soap against your scalp seemingly without an ounce of care. However, when some tears fall, he at least makes an effort to be more careful with the rest of your body. You'll be surprised to witness how he is still able to learn from his mistakes despite forcing you into this relationship with him. But even if it isn't how he's used to doing things, he tries—for you. The same goes for brushing your teeth (he'll use his tools for you unless you do it yourself), combing your hair (washing was enough torture, although he's reaching for the comb almost too quickly for you to decide if you can manage it yourself or not), and putting fresh clothes on (which takes a lot of time as he ponders what you should wear that day).

❥ Mydei's special care doesn't stop there as you are getting carried or dragged around all day by him—no matter where, except for the place you had been forced to call your "home". Into meetings with the other Chrysos Heirs (which everyone is very surprised by since Mydei never allows them to visit you and keeps you all to himself usually), onto the training grounds (where he was nice enough to bring your book along in case you were bored, but he ended up checking up so much on you that his training was cut short), and to restaurants three times that day, so he could make sure you were eating right. You've never actually got to hang out so much with him outside his place, and he had never shown any interest in you learning about his daily routine, either. So, although you can't appreciate the change as much in your current state, you do enjoy being outside and doing something (even if it isn't what you want to do).

❥ Even though he kept his eyes on you all day, your lack of trying to complain to someone about Mydei's treatment concerns him. Usually, you'd try to tell everyone your tale of being forced into a relationship with him the few times he took you outside, always causing a scene with him in the streets. But you seem to lack the energy for it. For anything, really. You're still barely eating and even allow him to reach for and take your hand at any given moment, which he enjoys but is only half as rewarding as when he has to fight for the right. You even stopped struggling whenever he picked you up, instead slumping over and resting in his hold. And you sigh a lot, reaching up sometimes to wipe away tears that threaten to fall. If he wasn't concerned the day before, he definitely is now.

❥ It can't be helped, Mydei doesn't know what to do. So, despite grumbling about how he can't believe all this, he takes you to a spot no one can see you two in. Somewhere, the sun will shine down on you despite it being evening, and he sets you down between his legs, leaning you against his chest before resting back against a wall, too, soaking in the sunlight. It doesn't take too long until the silence gets to you, emotions swelling inside you until they burst out in tiny sniffles. By the time you are turned into a sobbing mess, Mydei is hugging you tightly against his chest, letting your tears run down his skin. He's neither hushing nor reprimanding you, rubbing your back calmly instead and letting you cling to him even if your nails dig into his flesh. The part that suppresses all of the uncomfortable feelings inside of him locking them away and burying them deeper every time they act up, doesn't understand what is happening. Mydei put them away to keep himself clear-headed and fighting at all times. But the other part—the one ruled by his heart that loves you so very much—feels for you, wishing he could just take care of whoever and whatever made you feel this way. He longs to have your feisty, adorable self back and wishes he could prove to you how capable he is in protecting you. Still, instinctively, he knows that it wouldn't be this easy.

❥ Mydei is not admitting to being part of the problem. He's not allowing anyone, not even you, to tell him that. But he will be the one to help you fix whatever issue you're having. You will follow his routine, and he will adjust it so you think of anything other than the thoughts in your head that torment you. If he can provide you with a new experience, he will. If buying you a hundred new books, he will. Ice cream for breakfast? Just say the words. He'll stay behind from some missions, no matter how hard he itches for the fights, just so you aren't as lonely. He'll do anything—anything—so he doesn't have to come back to find you this way again. So that he doesn't encounter this condition that he doesn't know how to fix. A condition no one taught him how to take care of and which he doesn't acknowledge in himself.

❥ Despite not getting any softer than this, Mydei does show you a tremendous amount of care the next few days. He drags you to many more outings, but there are also a lot of planned rests in between. You get to meet the others, and sometimes, he sees your smile return, however short-lived it is. Mydei goes out of his way to make you happy, never saying it out loud but showing through actions that he cares. He lets you roam the market by his side or even allows you to hold a weapon once or twice (under his strict supervision) when you show interest in it. He does stop you the few times you try to tell someone what is going on because losing you isn't an option, even if you seem to think it is. There is no way he'd ever let you go... but he does want you to feel better again. Having you wither away had never been the plan, although he reflects that sometimes it could have looked that way to you. He's not going to change his ways in the future, but he will provide you with what you need as long as he can give it to you.

❥ But the first time you get upset at him again, his heart makes a massive leap in his chest, trying to burst out. Mydei wants to rip it out from beneath his rips so he can throw the stupid thing at you, hoping you'll finally realize how bad his feelings are for you. Just having a glimpse of the you, he loves, back is enough to satisfy the ache that had risen over the time he had to watch you live in your depressive state. And sometimes, when you two fight, he even lets you win now. Mydei can spare a night not smothering you beneath him as he falls asleep spread on top of you. Letting you push him off and wearing the very temporary bruises like marks of endearment on his skin. His love becomes increasingly undiluted, especially when you show him the fire returning to your eyes. Your tongue, too, tastes better once it's sharp again and he has a reason to shut you up. Even though he carried you around for a while, seeing your body move around on its own is like a mesmerizing dance that he watches with rapture, and it raises his appetite for you like never before.

And you will never know how much effort he puts into keeping it this way for the rest of your time together.

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crystalitecloudie · 2 years ago

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I think that in SAHSRAU, Sampo would be the first to realize that he was in a game, or being watched by some "extraterrestrial" audience. This post was in part inspired by this theory video, that Sampo is a part of the Masked Fools. Feel free to watch that whenever you would like.

In normal SAHSRAU, he'd probably be the first to try and contact the outside world, after realizing he was just in a game. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the entire organization of the Masked Fools knew this secret from the very beginning, before the game even started. And now, their biggest goal is to make the player laugh.

Maybe with more sinister intentions, like not wanting the player to abandon their game. Like, what if all of the jokes and references in the game (ex: Ast Rickley, Chandelier by Sia, and the closet) are all little things the Masked Fools snuck into the code? Especially with the closet scene, imagine that entire narration in the trailblazer's head is actually just Aha speaking directly with the player.

And we don't even know it.

In cult renditions of the AU, branching off of the previous paragraph, I think that the Masked Fools would be the biggest worshippers of the creator. Since they are such an ancient being, I wouldn't be surprised if there were peoples in the galaxy that didn't even believe in the creator.

The fact that there has been signs of your return through you playing the game and guiding your chosen acolytes, they know you will return to your true place in the universe soon. They know all of the signs.

And you do first descend, they will also know. Don't think they don't.

If you first descend to Belobog? Sampo is on it. He is cozying up to you WAY too much (much to your discomfort). This is perfect x reader material guys.

A/N: I've been seeing your sahsrau posts, I'm lurking :)

Also sorry I didn't write more, I might make a oneshot about this idk yet

#x reader #sahsrau #honkai sahsrau #hsr #honkai star rail #honkai star rail oneshot #honkai star rail au #cult!sahsrau #imposter sahsrau #sampo #sampo koski #genshin sagau #sagau #the masked fools

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moineauz · 5 months ago

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𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐑𝐀𝐏 ?!

synopsis: when you think you've learned just about everything about your husband, fate tells you otherwise.

side comments: the highlight of the 2.6 livestream was dr. ratio rapping. facts. also i absolutely believe that when dr. ratio was a teen he was fixated on learning how to rap.

extra: gn reader, established relationship, fluff

YOU HAVE BEEN DR. RATIO'S SPOUSE FOR ABOUT 3 YEARS. Thus, you have learned perhaps every bit of his stern and eccentric mannerism: how he abides by his routine, the books he reads, how he dresses, and how the finite curve of his ever-astute eyes seem to gaze at you with unwavering tenderness.

Yet, learning that your husband could rap was knowledge that completely escaped you.

"Oh come on!" you plead, attempting to sound grave as you grin brightly, "Pass the tablet! You looked so cute as a teenager! So scrawny and-"

"Oh, that is quite enough," chides Veritas, still in his casual clothing, the tablet now securely gripped in his hand, "Plus, how could you have possibly found my tablet— "

He pauses, his expression now humorously annoyed, "It was that damn gambler isn't it?"

You've met Aventurine several times before. Often sharing coffee and the occasional banter.

However, last's visit turned out to be incredibly fruitful.

"I can't believe it..." your husband sighs, massaging his temples, "So when I was out getting papers, Aventurine gave you my tablet? From and in my own office?"

You smile apologetically, though, your suppressed giggle escapes you.

"Unbelievable."

"Well," you begin slowly, rising from the couch, arms crossed as you saunter towards your husband. A mischievous glint nestled within your iris. "I think your unique skill makes you all the more charming."

He scoffs, shaking his head before facing you. His countenance was clearly unamused. "Is that so? How exactly can you draw upon such a wild conclusion?"

"Because..." you drawl, searching for an answer, "I just do!"

Veritas scoffs again, this time, his large hands find their way around your waist, and you uncross your arms; unravelling.

Underneath his visage of quick-drawn remarks, deep measured inflection, and the unparalleled intelligence locked within the auburn hue of his eyes, is a delicate lover. A man with unconfessed dreams with the inner desires of a boy: to be seen and validated.

Veritas leans into your touch. Further burying himself into the crook of your neck, inhaling all of you in slow, measured breaths.

From afar, the scene is comical. Dr. Ratio is a man who is similarly known for his stature: the broad length of his shoulders, the defined angle of his jaw, and his considerable height. He loomed over you in public places, your head only meeting his sculpted shoulders.

Veritas was a Greek statue eager to be cracked by the delicate touch of your hands.

"The fixations of my youth..." he begins, his voice muffled, "Are rather embarrassing."

You pull him closer.

"Not at all," you whisper, "You have nothing to be embarrassed about when around me."

The two of you stand interlocked, your husband's large figure melting away in light of you.

"I suppose we can look through videos together."

You break into a grin, and Veritas scoffs. This time, with lingering amusement.

"By the way," you whisper, a cheeky smile spreading across your lips, "Can you rap for me?"

Veritas sighs, breaking away from your embrace as he tilts your chin, "The things I do for you."

masterlist.

#writing ᝰ.ᐟ #—stellaronhvnters.#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr dr ratio #hsr oneshot #hsr fluff #dr ratio x reader fluff #dr ratio x you #dr ratio x reader #veritas x reader #veritas ratio x reader #veritas ratio #dr ratio #honkai star rail fluff

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miyaz6ki · 6 months ago

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──── on your knees now

𝜗𝜚 synopsis. childhood frenemies w benefits w bladie (kinda)

𝜗𝜚 pairings. blade x gn!afab!reader (take this however you want. cuz this has pussy eating, you can imagine it as ass instead tho :P. + masturbation from blade' s side), !!nsfw content ahead!!

𝜗𝜚 director's notice. old draft on my old blog (plus rewrote a lot of the stuff) again lol

𝜗𝜚 word count. 800+ !!

blade who's so in love with you, he hates it so much. nothing he's more hungry for. all this time he's been so against you, especially when you both joined the stellaron hunters, his addiction to you got even worse

blade who spread the precum of his cock down onto its base, this hasn't felt more pleasureable. why does he feel like this .. thinking of you?

blade who can't help but let out small moans of your name, biting his shirt just to keep himself quiet, as he stroked his cock slowly, his movements only get faster when he can imagine you sliding down slowly onto his cock, only getting turned on more by his imagination

oh.. the sight of seeing your hole sink down onto his cock.. he gasped as he slowly stroked his length back up. blade whose cock feels so sensitive, thinking about you riding him so slowly and sensually.

ahh even right now, your legs spread wide open and thighs squeezing his face close to your scent. the way blade's lengthy tongue would kiss your velvety walls, you can't help but clench down on it.

even more so when he gets you to come over and over again, letting it all squirt on his tongue, gladly lapping up whatever he could get. blade eats you out like a starved man, one who hasn't ate in years.

letting you sit on his face, your hands in his hair as he only fastened his pace inside you. blade who just can't help but stroke his dick, watching your expression only turned him on all the more.

it's only when he finishes with you, warm semen landing on his own stomach as you came into his mouth. only now is when blade would hold you down with his calloused hands, your thighs in his hold, making sure you wouldn't get off just yet.. no he needed everything.

to put you into a mating press like this just after fulfilling another one of his fantasies shittt he was hard again. gladly pumping his dick down into you, the warm feeling on his cock felt great, and getting to see how good he made you feel, hearing every little sound, every little moan, every arch, every breathy whisper of his name, he felt like he could fuck you forever.

moon shaped marks left on your hips as he held you rough and close, blade couldn't help but lean down, and kiss you, but it was a lot more gentle and soft, in contrast to his unrestrained strikes to your stomach, the mark only getting clearer.

the bulge in your stomach could only worsen, as he whispered into your ear, lust clear in his tone, "so good right? so good you won't let anyone else fuck you like i do right?" blade's possessive side could only get gradually worse

blade who grinds into your g-spot, letting you see how good he treats you after what seems like your 5th climax, still so sensitive, you couldn't do anything but let out whimpers of pleasure,

blade who makes sure you look into the mirror in front of you both while sitting on the edge of the bed, one of his hand on your waist, and the other on your jaw, making you face your reflection

but blade who makes sure to hold your hand throughout everything because it's a habit he's had ever since you both were kids, even when you both hated each other, whenever other tried to hit on you, his hand was already intertwined with yours, and ready to defend you against the catcaller

blade's possessive side which wouldn't allow himself to let anyone else see you so vulnerable like this, but at the same time only got more turned on from the thought of fucking while on the astral express. or wherever you can imagine

blade who makes you sit on his face, knowing how stressed you must be after claiming another stellaron by his side. not even needing words, you already knew what he meant when he led you to another room

blade who loves to see the way you rock back and forth while you take it from behind, watching how he slowly sinks into you, only to quicken the pace right after observing such a sight.

but also blade's aftercare game is insanely good, i don't see him treating you bad at all. in fact is a lot more gentle, and talks in a softer tone while spooning you

blade's aftercare game so good he always makes sure that you're okay with what you both have been doing (i don't see any character in-game allowing non-con personally)

blade who still won't admit he loves you, but he does, and like the saying goes, actions speak louder than words.

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yuumenakaiser · 11 months ago

Text

How to give proper affection; guide by Y/n

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Boothill x gn!reader

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆. Lots of fluff ♪⁠～ a bit crack ♪⁠～ not edited yet-

Step 1 : locate the boothill

Today will be a special day, a really special day. A day where you are going to learn how to give affection to Boothill. The proper way of course. So whoever needs to know this. It's our special day of teaching! Well you already have a good prepared plan and it will work for 100%. It's bullet proof, you tested it. How you may ask yourself, you don't know yourself. Great. So-

Cough.

To start this operation you first need to check your weapon. Your hands and lips, what else? Perhaps a pokeba-

Whatever. Your eyes scan the surroundings, the area where boothill should linger around. His favorite place to be alone at sometimes. But today will be different.

And mhm! There he is, you spotted the innocent Boothill who has no clue about all this. He was relaxing on a field eyes closed, letting the sun tickle his face. The only part where he could actually feel touches.

Crouching down between the bushes and carefully moving towards the galaxy ranger without making any noises.

"no one can hide from my sight." you whispered before you leapt forward to attack him. Boothill was now pressed against the grass, his eyes opened and a chuckle escaped his lips. Making you feel the vibration on his chest. His Cowboy hat has fallen off from your attack.

"whoa there! Watcha up to again pumpkin? Tryna trick me with yer sly games again?" Boothill caressed your hair and gave you one of his sharp smiles.

Now it's the right time to begin the second operation! You completed step 1 successfully what a proud feeling.

Step 2 : touch the face of boothill

Moving on to step 2. It is time to get serious, sit down on his stomach so there is no chance to escape at all for him. Boothill blushes slightly from your action and as you refused to let him go but that doesn't matter right now. What matters is that you show him the love he deserves!

"a successful hunt! It's time to move to plan b." You whisper yelled to yourself and let boothill pick up on that you really are playing your games.

"y/n sweet pie I should be the hunter not yer-"

Before he could finish his tricking sentences, you cup his face with your hands and start touching it. Sto

Stroking his cheeks with your thumbs in a rhythmic motion. His cheeky grin faded into a comfortable soft smile and let you do your little plans. He leaned into your touches and moved his head to the side grabbing you by the wrist and placing a kiss on it.

Your face slightly heats up from his affection towards you. This is failing, he should be the one to blush and not the other way around.

"hold still or I have to take stricter measures!"

Boothill furrowed his eyebrows and looked at you a little confused but plays along with you.

"is that so y/n darling? Watcha got in petto." And here he started grinning again and giving your wrist more kisses. You gasped "the prey is trying to charm me, im repeating the prey is trying to charm me I need to move to step 3!"

Boothill let out a deep chuckle again and buries his face deeper in your hands.

"mhm and what is yer step 3?"

"a secret! A full missionary secret!"

Step 3: face cuddles and kisses

You almost failed the operation but you planned everything of course and this next step will totally make him flustered. He won't take the advantage anymore this is your guide and attack of how to give boothill proper affection.

You are slowly using your secret weapon for this. You took a deep breath, placing your hands onto his shoulders. Leaning towards his face and then pressing your cheek against his one. He raises a brow and wraps one of his arms around you and with his other hand he touches your free cheek.

With this position you begin to rub your cheek gently against his and cuddle his face. Smiling proudly and pressing now the other side to rub yours with his as well.

His hand moves to your hair, stroking and playing with it while you do the face cuddling.

"Why yer being so cute today? What's with all these touches on me? Missed me that much, have ya?" Without answering him only humming you move to step 4!

Step 4: ultimate kisses

It is time...for the real weapon...the one everyone would fear...the ultimate kisses.

A huge grin appears on your face, pulling away from rubbing your cheeks against boothills.

You grab again his pretty precious face in your hands. "Are you ready for this Boothill?" He tilts his head lazily and stares into your eyes. Giving you a wide smile again that reveals his sharp teeths.

"ready for anything love."

And with that you start to place kisses all over his face. First off starting to kiss his forehead, moving down to his eyebrows, nose and then cheeks.

Kissing his chin and then you spot his lips and place the ultimate kiss on his lips.

"my my~ look at my dear being the sweetest."

Satisfied with your operation you roll away from him and happily yell "mission completed!!"

But little did you know that boothill will not let you go so easily after that. A shadow appeared in front of you.

"where do yer think ya goin huh? Now we will play my game my sweet prey."

Okay but the end wasn't planned! Now you need to try to escape from him. Time to move to step 5- well actually it has no use anyway there is no way you can escape his hungry eyes.

Upsies.

#boothill #honkai star rail x reader #boothill x reader #hsr x reader #fluff #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr boothill #boothill x reader fluff #crack #oneshot

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blaydie · 6 months ago

Text

ᥫ᭡ A FOOL’S MISTAKE — “It’s not like him to be so careless.” -> Dan Heng x GN reader.

Word count: 1.2k

Contains: Dan Heng x GN reader, injured Dan Heng, fluff, comfort, affection, reassurance, cuddles, kissing, indirect confession.

Sprawled across your bed, Dan Heng lays there, scrunching his brows when your hand rubs over the wound he received while with the crew. He was sent back to the Astral Express, advised by Himeko to rest for the remainder of this trip. You’ve been here for a while and are accustomed to everyone’s mannerisms, but even an outsider could tell how frustrated he was for letting his guard down so easily. It’s not like him to be so careless.

“I swear I saw you. You were there.” He grunts, his fingers creasing your sheets with the force he grips them. The ointment coats the damaged skin, aiding repair and prevention of infection.

Whatever he experienced out there has led to a set of delusions. He keeps repeating the same words as though he is in denial about the truth.

“I’ve been here with Pom-Pom the entire time. I haven’t stepped foot off of the Express since our last mission.”

“I tried to—”

“Himeko said you ran straight into the enemies. Mr. Yang called you back, but you didn’t listen to him. Whatever hallucination you had wasn’t real, Dan. I’m okay. I never left the Express.” You speak softly, attempting to calm him from his frenzied state.

“…” His eyes fluttered, releasing his clutch on the sheets. His index finger trails down the length of your arm, searching you for any wounds.

“I’m fine, I swear to you. I wouldn’t lie to you, especially not about something like that.”

“It knew how to get to me then.” He mutters, leaving his hand flat on top of yours. “I thought you were going to die.”

“It was a cruel trick. You know the others wouldn’t let that happen so easily though.”

“Hallucination or not, I wouldn’t let you go like that. I couldn’t just watch it happen.”

“In future, please don’t rush into a hoard of creatures for me without double-checking with the others. You’re worried about me dying, but you could’ve been seriously hurt if that fight wasn’t wrapped up quickly.”

“I’m a fool.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am. I’m the only one who was unable to resist their manipulation. That hallucination. Everyone must have seen a different one.”

“You were just worried for my safety. I’m sure if anyone else witnessed one of us in danger, they would have had a similar reaction. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

A shaky exhale left his lips while his fingers locked with yours. His thumb brushed over the bumps of your knuckles, grounding himself from the extensive shock his body underwent. He remembers that day when he swore he would never let anything harm you, how you will always be the first one he saves. There was never a moment you doubted him, fully aware of how willing he is to throw away his own life if it means you get to live.

“I got you a change of clothes when I heard you were hurt. I had to search through your closet, I hope you don’t mind.” You sheepishly push a fresh set of clothes towards him—the ones you usually catch him lounging in while working in the archives late at night.

“No, not at all. Thank you. I’m glad that you’re the first person I saw when I woke up.” Discarding his sombre expression, his lips twist up slightly. A subtle twinge of colour spreads across his face, scooting you aside while he sits up.

“Is the bandage too tight? I can loosen it a little if you’d like.” You glance at his bare torso, eyes lingering on his abdomen for longer than you’d like to admit. Something was alluring about him in your perspective, something that others may not see.

“It’s fine. I appreciate the effort you put in to take care of me.” He stands to his feet, turning his back to you as he changes his attire.

When fully covered, he returns to your bed. Propping a pillow against the headboard, he pulls a blanket over himself, seemingly getting himself comfortable. It appears that he plans to stay here for the remainder of the evening, something he knows you won’t protest. Pulling you into his side, your head collides with his shoulder, a shared spell of laughter illuminating the darkness that was once cast in your room.

“I need to tell the group chat you’re okay. They were worried sick about you when you fell unconscious.” You reach for your phone, snapping a picture of the very alive Dan Heng beside you.

Within a few seconds, multiple notifications flood your screen, mainly March and Pom-Pom, the usual dramatics when something like this occurs. Himeko sends her best wishes while Mr. Yang writes a small lecture. He doesn’t mean any harm by what he said, it’s the instinct of being a parent—he will always look out for you all, whether you like it or not.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Dan speaks up when you turn off your phone, capturing your attention.

“Don’t be. All I ask is that you don’t die without me.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Weaving his arms around you, he held you close in an embrace, the only sound filling the room being your mingled breaths completely in sync. It’s no mistake that out of everyone on the Express, Dan’s strongest connection is with you. You’re the one he turns to when he feels no one else would understand his woes, you accepted him and his stoic ways into your life without trying to change him. For that, he’s grateful. You understand that not every issue can be fixed with a smile, a snack, or a nap.

Shifting his hand from the small of your back, he pushes your chin up. You grin at him, eyes crinkling as he stares back at you. The outline of your lips is a shape he learned how to trace, now able to reconstruct it using his memory when not presented in front of him.

“I’m glad you joined the Express. Travelling through the stars together is romantic when you view it the right way. I wouldn’t want to experience that with anybody else.”

Sealing his sweet speech, he presses his lips to yours in a searing kiss. Allowing him more space, you open your mouth slightly. Dan adored every inch of you, being granted permission to be so affectionate was merely a blessing. The heat radiating from his palms made your skin clammy, a stark contrast to his usual cold hands.

Pulling away, your saliva remains at the corner of his mouth while he beams at you, his eyes half-lidded. His chest heaves, your lips more pronounced from the puffiness. The look in his eyes speaks words that he is not yet ready to admit, and you understand them all. When the time comes, he’ll tell you properly in the way he has planned.

Developing an attraction to you felt like a mistake at first, he didn’t want to let you down and paint himself to be someone he’s not. However, you proved to him that you can handle all of his issues and emotions. Every flaw he possesses you manage to see the beauty—memories which used to haunt him don’t dare reside in his mind when you’re nearby. You ease the pain placed upon him.

#💌 — writing pieces #dan heng x reader #hsr x reader #dan heng #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #fanfic #oneshot

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leaf-line · 6 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐬 𝐀 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

Yandere! Dr Ratio x Gn! Reader

❏ You and Dr Ratio bakes cake after your milestone! All harmless, absolutely nothing bad will happen!

cw: invasion of privacy, implied isolation, people pleaser reader, mentions of insecurities and mental illnesses, suicide.

w/c: 2,856

"I'm starting to see your improvements." Ratio hums, sounding pleased, which is rare for him to do, but it's not impossible.

Contrary to his calm demeanor, you were emotional.

"That's all you could say!? This is big! This is a big deal!!" You cried out, snatching the papers—the fruits of your labor, the results of your hard, hard work—from Veritas.

Your heart was thumping so loudly. It was as if all your red blood cells received glucose simultaneously.

"I can't believe... I got high scores on all tests... All in a row..." You weep out of joy seeing all of them be above the number of 95. You could let your knees fall to the ground and start having a breakdown to release all the stress kept up in your years of living. "My life... Is fulfilled... Suffering... Is no more... Augh—" You state dramatically, Ratio could only scoff at your s-tier performance.

"It is a feat for a person like you. However, this is not the ending point for you to cry out of joy; there's always more to strive for and be better at. The room isn't that small. There's still more for improvement. However... You did great, I'm proud of you for that." He lectures as if to say 95 isn't enough and you need full scores, but honestly, you can't even be mad at him.

After all, he was the one who pushed you to achieve something such as this. If it weren't for him, you'd be nothing but a plain potato who didn't achieve anything meaningful.

A genius prodigy such as him could easily turn a useless stone like you into a shining diamond. You felt grateful.

"Ahaha..." You laugh ironically. "But thanks, it's all thanks to you, you should be proud." You wipe your tears eyes with a finger, then smile brightly at him.

He said nothing, and you grinned. Maybe it was because your smile was so contagious he was stunned, but then again, you don't know what's going on behind that mask of his. You could only see him turn his head away from you.

You wanted to know truly if he's fond of you or not.

Your tutor... No, rather, your friend Ratio was someone you never expected to get along with. Rather, you were extremely opposed to the idea, and perhaps, even was he.

Recalling back to that time, both of you first met... Wasn't exactly the best first impression...

"Welcome, Sir Veritas Ratio. Meet my child... [Name], please take care of them from now on. They might be a little... Uneducated, but I hope that you can help them with that." Your mother pushes your back towards him, in which you internally scowl in return.

You eyed him. He looked rather young to be your tutor.

"Ah, and I couldn't help but notice that both of you are the same age. If that is the case, then I hope that the both of you will get along well!" Your mother cheerfully says so.

You doubted that heavily.

That's because you did your research before meeting him in person.

A lot of people said that the prodigy was cruel, relentless, and maybe even sadistic. And the list goes on. The most positive and recurring mentioned trait of his was being academically talented.

As soon as your mother left you with him, you felt vulnerable, as if you were out in the open and someone was ready to stab you with words like knife, take for example; the person in front of you.

You try to pace down your heartbeat to not overthink it... It works.

It's fine, it's fine, he's a prodigy, surely he knows about the fact of how the human heart is delicate and needs to be handled carefully. What's the worst he could say to you out loud?

No matter what it is, you won't let it reach you!

"Hey... You." He calls out, you prepare yourself.

There's no way he's gonna be 'that' cruel to you... Right? You both just met.

"Have you taken a shower? You stink."

...

A part of you cracked.

"Let's move on quickly, I don't have time to deal with idiots such as you."

And it cracks again.

Yeah... It wasn't the best, but at least he doesn't say that anymore. In fact, it helped you that he said that, since you don't neglect hygienic activities as much anymore. But as Professor Veritas Ratio once said, 'Don't dwell in the past for long,' let's focus on the future and present!

Since this is a milestone for you, you should gift Dr Ratio with a thank you.

"I'm in no need of your services. This feat was only achieved through your hard work. You should treat only yourself." He said out of nowhere.

"Wait— H-How did you even—"

"Your face said it all."

"Huh???"

Dr Ratio seems to have a knack for using his hidden mind-reading powers on you. You don't like that. You'll always feel vulnerable to him every time at this point.

"Ah... Too bad... I was gonna make myself some homemade cake and share it with you... Too bad you don't want it. I guess I'll just stick to being lonely and take it all for myself." You puff out, obviously picking on him.

"Then let me help you, for all I could know, the house might be burned down before you can even bake one successfully." He replies back with no remorse.

"How rude!"

You end up baking at his home.

You simply didn't want the place to be yours since your mom is gonna be there saying you're wasting your time doing all this, so it's gonna be annoying.

And so you're there, stirring a bowl with a whisk, while there's Ratio holding out the instructions. You can't lie; he looks kinda cuter with that apron he's wearing if only his strange plaster sculpture weren't covering his appearance.

"You know... Veritas... You can remove that mask off. Since... Ya know? We're baking."

"Focus on the task at hand."

"Damn..."

You were silenced immediately, so you carefully put down the bowl, ——albeit with a trembling hand that made you feel pathetic——, to move over to the chopping board with the bowl of strawberries that you're gonna cut. You reach out for the knife

...If not for Dr Ratio intervening.

"Let me handle that." He says, practically shoving you away from the chopping board. He takes the knife and chops it with ease despite wearing that weird sculpture on his head. You wonder if he can see with that.

"Woah... Are you worried about me accidentally cutting myself?" Your eyes widen in surprise.

"I didn't know you actually cared for me, Professor Veritas... Hmmm, but I suppose you can't help it; after all, I'm the cutest and the best student ever had, aren't I?" You bat your eyelashes for the sake of sarcasm.

"Perhaps."

"...Eh?"

Too blunt, you feel your cheeks burning up.

You wonder if he's just playing along with your sarcasm because there is absolutely no way that's the case.

"I'm not playing around with your jokes. I'm simply laying out the possibility."

"There you go... Using your mind reading powers again..."

"It's not that hard to do if you have two eyes and a brain."

"I have a brain too... Not everyone can exactly know what a person is thinking just by looking at their face and expression."

"I doubt both of those statements."

"...Okay, rude."

"It's not about skills, actually; you're just an open book."

"Am I really??"

You hum, seeing him chop the strawberries more efficiently than you ever could. You know all well you'd cut it clumsily, then they'd end up looking like you've beaten them to mashes. You walk to the over to preheat it while he does his own thing. You gaze at the warm light.

"This cake is just for the two of us. I can't really share it with anyone else. If only I could, I would." You murmur your thoughts out loud, feeling close enough to him to tell him your issues occurring these days. You stand up to walk over next to him.

"...Why is that?"

"Everyone at the campus... Ignores me. I don't know why." You say, your expression showing one of disheartened, but you bothered to put up a smile. "I know, I know, I shouldn't be bothered with this minimalistic stuff." You chuckle.

"... Human life inevitably takes the form of a struggle against loneliness. We reach out to others in order to avoid sinking into complete isolation. However, although they might provide us with some degree of consolation and felt connection, our loneliness is something that can never be overcome. Therefore, you have the right to be bothered by it. Even if everyone on your campus notices you, you'll still end up feeling lonely."

"So... You're telling me my feelings don't matter even if I single myself out?"

"You have me, don't you?"

"Woah??"

"Don't go around putting random ideas in your head. It's just, if you ever feel like you're the only person existing in the universe, remember me." He placed down the knife to lightly pat your head.

"..." It was as if you remember something foul, you feel your smile fading for a bit. "You know, I wondered if people avoid because they think I'm annoying. Do you find me annoying too Dr Ratio?" You humor a question.

"I'd be lying if I said not entirely."

"And here I thought you were trying to comfort me." You laugh, taking the strawberries he chopped and mixed it with the other ingredients. You think carefully on what you're about to say next.

"There was this one guy named [____], he thinks I'm annoying but... We... 'Talked' everyday, but one day he just suddenly killed himself." You wonder if you were the reason, though it's too far fetched, you still felt guilty.

"...i see, but you shouldn't blame yourself. It's not your fault, he must've had his own problems." He says... For some reason, you felt like he sounded awfully guilty too.

"...You're right."

You glance back at your baking progress only to see that it's already prepared for the oven. "Oh... It seems like we were taking too much I didn't even realize."

"Focus. Place that in the oven for 40 minutes." He orders, you nod and follow obediently.

As that was done, you breathe out a sigh. "Where's your bathroom?" You ask.

"Go to that hallway, you'll find it eventually."

You didn't bother to ask more and marched straight into it.

Whilst walking, you find... His room, no, it might be an office knowing who he is.

Your curiosity lead to dumb decisions such as this one, so you open the door which was surprisingly open. The room felt fancy and professional, you felt like you were a dirt intruding inside a perfectly clean place.

The walls were decorated with a bunch of awards, eight doctoral degrees, outstanding achievements in the fields of biology, medicine, natural theology, philosophy, mathematics, physics, and engineering— ah, you felt dizzy.

"Uwah..." You felt jealous, though it must've been stressful and uneasy to achieve all this. You send a regard in your mind for him, hoping that he didn't stress all this too much.

You wonder why you were even next to him, how could you even stand next to someone such as him, it felt like something out of fantasy, only someone with the same level as him should he be talking to. You were a simpleton compared to him.

Being in character of a simpleton, a stupid, brainless simpleton, you dig more on his room, to that resulted of you seeing a notebook placed on a desk. "Looks important... Is this his diary or something?"

Despite saying that, you still flipped the notebook into a page, reading it...

[Name] [Last Name]

Home Planet: Cosmos

Gender: [______]

Species: Human

Height: [______]

Weight: [______]

Address: [______]

Social Security Number: [______]

Birthdate: [______]

Collage Campus: [______]

Degree: [______]

Average Grade: 57% —> 96%

Biological Parents:

Mother: [______] - Occupation: The IPC Strategic Investment Department

Father: [______] - Deceased

Huh? Isn't this your... Private information... Why... Is it in his handwriting...? Your hand reluctantly flips to the next page.

[Name] [Last Name]'s history with their mother isn't difficult to understand, they're not fond of their mother for the sole reason of abandonment and high expectations, their mother does not have the time to raise a child for she is busy working for the IPC. However, she holds high expectations for [Name] despite not teaching them and leaving them to fend for their own without help, naturally, [Name], without tools, [Name] learned nothing and struggled to understand the materials exposed to them. With no choice left, their mother found a teacher that will help them raise up to her expectations.

I do not understand why she chose me out of everyone, perhaps because of the same age we have, but unlike them, my standards were advanced, choosing me will only cause [Name] to struggle more, I feel bad, so I set my teachings to them to be more tame and easy to understand, but difficult enough for them to improve even slightly, but to my utter surprise, they followed along with it. Not to say that they didn't struggle, in fact, they struggled greatly, but despite that, they pursued the materials. Despite their many flaws, they strive for the betterment of themselves.

Struggles and insecurities, they suffer from anxiety and depression, for one, they struggle to be hygienic and procrastinate, they prefer to relax and wallow on their own self pity rather than choose to study, they have a rather low view of themselves and low confidence, dead honest about thinking that they're a hopeless idiot, however they cover the fact that they think of that by joking around and putting up a false confidence to everyone. They care about the well-being of other people more than themselves. On the other hand, they feel the fear from failure, evident by how their hand trembles whenever they feel like—

Enough. You felt cold sweat dripping on you face. That's... Too much, he isn't supposed to know all this. It's you personal thing. How did he even...

You don't why, you really don't know why you still haven't left the notebook alone and left the room, you don't know why you still flipped to the next page.

Spreading rumors about them weren't difficult, as it seems like all those people are easily swayed by simple words, however, through that action, [Name] regretfully became a target of bad intent. Through pros and cons, I conclude that it was worth it, the sight of [Name] relying on me is ever so priceless.

[____], a wretch, a classmate of [Name], bullying [Name] over his own insecurities, rather than taking it out on something else, he takes out his pent up stress on other people, [Name] being the victim. [Name] seems to have noticed this, so rather than telling people of fighting back, they endured it, telling nobody about it (even me). I have a speculation that they simply endured it with a naive thought of helping that ignorant wretch.

He appears to have a delicate ego and heart, as it turns out he was taking it out on [Name] simply because he admired me and thinking that it should be him that I should be teaching rather than [Name]. As said, he had a delicate ego and a delicate heart, so it wasn't difficult to shatter it into pieces. I admit, though immoral, I found his dismay satisfying, ignorant people like him deserved to jump off that building—

You head snapped to the door and you felt a chilling sensation on your spine.

No longer wearing his mask, his head leaned onto the doorframe.

You drop the note book on the floor, seeing as pictures of you that were stuck on that note book to fly and scatter on the ground.

"Had fun reading? Were even in terms of privacy, did I ever tell you that you can meddle with my notes?" He questioned, his face showed no emotion.

"...Why— Why would y-you—?" You felt tears invade your vision, you heart being constricted.

"I take it were gonna have a long conversation later? No, actually..." He says, getting closer to you, you instinctively take the same steps back.

He gets closer and closer until your back is facing the wall, he placed a hand to obscure your vision. Perhaps the reason he covers his face around you, is because he's just as an open book as you when he's around you, he can't have you seeing his overly infatuated expression, even after he was trying so hard to hide it.

"Let's settle this short, right here, right now, I'll tell you everything. We have 25 minutes left, can't have the cake burning in the oven for too long can we?"

a/n: fun fact! just in case you missed it, at the first part of this short story, dr ratio subconsciously turned his head away from you because he was flustered by your gratefulness for him, sorry if it sounded like a vent at some parts, idk what occurred to me 💀, maybe it's because dr ratio is ironically my comfort character, i hate people like him irl but...

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