Tbh Kuni Being A Tittie Lover Is So True And I Stand By That

— YANDERE! MALEWIFE GENSHIN AU part one

⇢ venti, albedo, bennett, diluc, kaeya, razor

introducing! a nagging from your boss and the side effects of overworking is definitely taking a toll on your body, but luckily you have your husband to take care of you! as people of mondstadt, their culture has taught them to treat their lovers with the warmest hospitality they can manage! so just sit back and let them do everything from here on out! … oh, and why do you smell like someone else’s perfume? + 3.4k words

warning! obsessiveness, possessiveness, creepy behavior (fuckin venti), manipulation, jealousy takes place in modern teyvat

a/n! this fic legit got me procrastinating 💀 tried out a new style and it was so fucking long I ended up putting this off for months. an aquarius at their finest

― WINDBORNE BARD. venti | 温迪

[ “you’re home! thank barbatos, i was about to die if you didn’t come soon!” ]

⇢ to think that the sloppy bard you met at the winery all those years ago would now be your husband… love really is a mystery

⇢ you’re well-aware that venti has little to no house managing skills whatsoever, but anemo visions really do come in handy, so cleaning up the house while you’re gone is an easy task for him. his real talent in being a husband shines when you’re finally home

⇢ true to his nature as a bard, venti’s songs never fail to make you relax. after a day of cleaning up after your co-workers and getting run ragged by your boss, venti’s sweet voice and lyre is just what you need to take the pain away.

⇢ he’s quite doting too! although he doesn’t have many recipes up his arsenal, venti excells in homemade food that are warm and comforting, the kind that truly makes you feel at home. he’s a sucker for compliments too! so keep praising him and his good efforts, alright?

⇢ your husband is quite the alcoholic, and it’s times like these where his true nature tends to shine through. whether it be at the tavern or at home, his endless rambling could be shrugged off as the produce of alcohol, but to the more perceptive friends of his… they’re just downright obsessive

⇢ he sings songs of praise about you, from the twinkle in your eye to your hard work and perseverance to the XXXX ! XXX ♡! XX ♡ XX?!?!! ♡♡♡ of your XXXX! XX ♡ ANd .. oops… did he ramble too much again?

⇢ sometimes, when the memories are too much, he comes to your touch seeking for comfort, but sometimes he’s too handsy for your comfort, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a liqour daze too disturbing for your liking

“perfect…” he mumbles, mouthing against the skin of your collarbone and holding your hands in what is supposed to be a tender touch. instead, his nails grip too tight and he presses his hot forehead against yours. your breath hitches.

green eyes bursting with hearts and adoration, a drunken blush covering his cheeks as he giggles against your lips. the very picture of obsession.

“as i expected,” he breathes out, his nails drawing out blood from your skin.

“you really are a mortal worthy of my songs.”

[ “i’ve devoted my everything to you… won’t you grant me a little favor?” ]

Keep reading

i was working on ur request and got side tracked. thinking about yan diluc and how bad he wants his captive little darling.. jerking off to the thought of them, moaning their name, so so frustrated and he aches with want. and reader. reader hears it every time, sometimes is witness to it. how desperate he is, how obsessed he is. maybe reader is sometimes awoken by the sound of him while he sleeps next to them. maybe he does it in front of them because he won't hurt you but please, please let him look at you? holding you down while he jacks off, eyes clenched closed so he can pretend it's in you. steadily losing his resolve bit by bit. ohoho my mind is running rampant.

every day. EVERY DAY i think about yan diluc. i am so sorry to my followers but i see a pathetic aristocratic repressed man and i go AHJDVNJKFVDJNKFVkjn.

cw: kidnapping, non-consensual touching, yandere, reader wears a nightgown, diluc's saviour complex. (bondage and being fed in a Non Sexy way) dub-con/non-con.

He makes you sleep in his bed.

It's for precaution, he insists, his crimson gaze not quite meeting your own; to ensure that you're safe. He just feels more comfortable, more assured that you are sheltered from the dangers of the world, if you slumber beside him - if he slips in late at night after whatever business he attends to that has him come back smelling of blood and burning, and sees you peaceful beneath his own coverlets.

You hold your tongue; bite back the insistence that you would be safer if you were not a captive in the house of a madman, if you were permitted your freedom, if he wasn't so selfish and disgusting and monstrous. You have long since learnt such protestations mean nothing to Diluc; he simply bows his head, face anguished, and makes a quiet noise of agreement that he is a monster.

("It is worth it, though," he says, and you see the vision he wears at his hip glow for a moment, "to know that you are safe, beloved.")

One falls quickly into routine when routine is all that one is allowed to partake in. You are permitted only the smallest freedoms; most of your time is spent under Adelinde's watchful eye, trapped in the four walls of the winery, wishing you had appreciated the freedom of Monstadt when you were still able to partake in what the Anemo Archon blessed you with.

And your routine, now, includes . . . slipping on one of the expensive confections of frill and lace and chiffon that Diluc buys you to wear in bed. Spraying some of the perfume that he brings back from his trips, in the vain hope that it will drown out Diluc's own particular cedarwood and vintage wine and iron scent. Slipping beneath the covers and hoping that sleep will come easy to you, that you will not be woken by the inevitable--

You always are. The feel of the bed dipping down beside you; the soft sigh that escapes Diluc's mouth, as the covers are pulled down and you are revealed to his hungry eyes.

The nightgowns are modest; innocent, even. They are all frills and fanciful creams and ivories, georgette sleeves that drape over your shoulders, ruching and delicate lamp-grass embroidery and little ribbons in Diluc's favourite colour (red, it's always red). That just seems to rile him up more.

The feel of a hand, grazing atop of the fabric - his hand searing heat even when he does not fully touch you. The soft little groan of your name, so longing and wanting it almost makes you sick. And then . . . the sound of Diluc's own nightclothes, being displaced. The wet shlick of skin-on-skin, as he touches himself to the sight of your helpless body, whilst he thinks you're sleeping.

You have lost count of the number of times you have woken to the sounds of Diluc touching himself. Your name, gasped out through clenched teeth in heated hisses - praise for you, calling you his darling, so good for him, so beautiful and lovely . . . Calling you his. Mumbling to himself about how pretty you are, how soft and warm and tight he's certain you are as he imagines he is rutting his cock into something other than his fist.

You keep your eyes squeezed shut. You can take this; you can live with this. You can bear it, if all he is going to do is lie beside you and fantasise. You hear the whine when he comes, feel the way his back arches, the way he pants and pants and how the rhythm of his hand and the slick sounds change a little--

He always touches you with those hands, afterwards. Always pulls you against him spoon-fashion. Always drops hot kisses along your throat and drags you against him in such a tight hold you think he fears ever letting go, with his own come drying on the sheets and messing your nightgown.

(It doesn't bother him; he does not do his own laundry, and Adelinde looks at you in the mornings when she comes to strip the beds and gives you an encouraging smile. She had told you, once, when you had been new here and still railing against your imprisonment--

"Master Diluc is lonely," she'd said, sighing, "I have not seen him so happy as he is in your presence for many years."

As she had checked the tightness of your ropes, sharper eyes than one would expect of a maid had met yours.

"I don't need to tell you how much of Monstadt rely on Master Diluc," she says. "On the business of the Dawn Winery? Do you not think that a little unhappiness may be your responsibility to bear?"

"It's barbaric!" You'd snapped back. "He wants me to be . . . some imprisoned bird in a pretty cage!"

Adelinde's face sets like stone. Diluc was away that night; when she had brought up a tray for your dinner, the soup had been stone cold.

"Do you know how many natural predators birds have?" She'd asked you, a falsely polite smile on her face as she ladled the cold soup into your mouth and you had no choice but to swallow it. "Why, I've seen Master Diluc take several out with a single arrow. Perhaps a songbird ought to be glad it is ornamental enough to be spared that fate.")

You should have known that Diluc would not be satisfied with merely lying beside you, having you so close and yet not doing anything about it. The first time his other hand had crept to your thigh, pushing up the lacy hem, your eyes had snapped open.

"Diluc?" You had whispered, softly, into the night - hoping that your voice may be soft enough and persuasive enough to make him ashamed of it. "Wh-what are you doing?"

A ragged voice had answered you.

"I just . . . just let me look at you, darling. Just let me . . . touch you a little--"

Burning hands on bare skin. Diluc, shifting, so he lay on his side - big wine-dark eyes seeking you out in the moonlight filtered through the curtain as he groaned out your name.

"So pretty," he'd said, as he'd pushed the nightgown higher and higher. Bare thighs. bare stomach. The place between your thighs. A soft groan had escaped him at the sight. "Spread your legs for me. Please."

"Diluc--"

"I won't-- I won't hurt you--" He practically tripped over his tongue in his urges. "Please. I just want to look at you, darling, beloved, angel--"

. . . Just look. Just gaze on you. You sleep in the same bed, but you are - now at least - trusted to do such personal matters as bathe and undress on your own. Adelinde had helped, when you were still bound . . . but you had been good, and you had earnt your freedoms. A sob hiccups in your throat as you bare yourself to him. Your cheeks heat at how hungrily his gaze devours you.

"So beautiful," he whines, hand going to his cock - the first time you've seen it, properly. Pretty - thick, long, with a flushed ruddy tip and a gentle curve, soaking precome as his fingers wrap about it. "Please stay like that. Hnn-- Just . . . just let me think about how you feel, I won't hurt you, I promise I promise I promise--"

But just a little turns into more far quicker than people expect. At first it just just looking at you - and then--

"Just let me touch your thighs," Diluc whispers, his breath hot against your cheek as he lavishes the warmed skin with kisses. "Ahh-- hnn, they're so much softer than my hand . . . Is this what you'd feel like . . . inside?"

"Just let me settle between your legs," Diluc begs you. "Just . . . let me hold you by the hip, let me imagine I'm inside of you, darling, please, I need to--"

"Hold my other hand. Please."

"Just . . . against your thighs. Let me rut it against your thighs. I'm begging you, beloved, if you don't I think I shall simply die--"

"Kiss me--"

When he presses it against the cleft of your sex and whispers;

"Just the tip - I promise, my darling. I would never hurt you. Have I ever? Please . . . I simply need to feel every part of you--"

. . . What else can you do, a captive ornamental bird in a fine cage, but accept it? Spread your legs wider and welcome him in?

It was always going to come to this.

It is still a better fate, you suppose, than being shot down in flight.

"Diluc, just let her(their daughter) have some fun for a while. She's been cooped up for long and just... Just let her have this, please"

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of emotional abuse

He regards you with a pensive look. He looks tired and overburdened. He sighs at your words, turning his head back to look at your daughter, curled up on the small child-sized chair pushed up against the window. The book in her lap is open, forgotten, and she stares out the window with a sad longing that makes your heart hurt.

You know that look.  You know that longing.

Yet at least this overly protective side of Diluc’s fatherhood was something new. Something temporary, you hoped, because you couldn’t imagine your daughter flourishing under Diluc’s tighter reins. 

He had been surprisingly open to letting her enjoy a carefree childhood, and though there was something sick and bitter that grew in your heart when you realized your daughter had more freedom than you ever would, you stamped it down again and again over the years. Let her enjoy that freedom. Let her live the life you couldn’t.

And she did.

Until a few weeks ago.

Your daughter had come running into your arms one morning, eyes filled with tears, voice pitched in some helpless warble that sounded so unlike her. It was more than alarming. Papa, she said, had told her that she wouldn’t be allowed to go into town today after all. She wouldn’t be allowed to go anywhere. Not even to the local school where she’d been attending expensive, exclusive classes. The next day was the same. And the next, and the next.

Oh, he got her new books, and you and the maids and even Diluc himself took turns tutoring her. And she had more toys than she knew what to do with, and she wasn’t discouraged from talking to the maids and cooks, who started eyeing her with more and more pitiful glances as the days, now weeks, went on.

“It’s for her own safety,” is all he said, when you questioned him. “It’s for her protection.”

You’d heard those lines before, but never aimed at your daughter, whose boundless energy kept her outdoors wandering the vineyards; kept her flitting into town with her father, with maids on errands; kept her visiting friends and schoolmates; attending parties, birthdays and childhood afternoon teas filled with pastel pastries.

But the endless days indoors and lack of friends were beginning to change her now. She wasn’t just bored or frustrated. She was losing something, some critical part of herself that had sparked the first time she’d been taken outdoors and was kept lit all these years.

You’d lost that part of yourself. And now he was taking it away from her.

“Diluc,” you repeat, persistent. “You see how this is affecting her. I know you do.” His tired eyes flit from her to you, and you know he sees what you see. It’s like she’s becoming grey.

You turn and gently tug on his arm, and he follows you away from the doorway of her playroom. When you’re safely out of earshot, you turn to him again.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s for--” he begins, and you press your hand to his lips, taking a step closer and bringing yourself against his body. The intimacy of the gesture is lost on neither of you. You can’t afford to feel standoffish today, not on important matters like these.

“Yes, I know.  You’ve told me. But why? What has changed from before?”

There’s something in his eyes that darkens. A knowledge he doesn’t want to share with you.

“Diluc,” you say, pressing your hand into his. He accepts it and you squeeze.

He regards you for some time. You don’t say anything, because you know he’s deciding on something. His voice is low and grave when he speaks.

“Children have been going missing. No one knows why or who…” His next pause leaves much unsaid. “But I can’t risk our daughter’s safety. She could be a target.”

You close your eyes and nod. It’s not… wholly unreasonable. But the current situation is not sustainable, and you very much doubt that all the parents in the region are keeping their children like prisoners in their own homes. Manors or not.

“This is killing her,” you whisper, with the confidence that comes from previous experience of what such isolation does to a person. “You’ll kill a part of her that she’ll never get back if you don’t do something.”

When you open your eyes and look at him again, you feel your eyes brimming with tears. You didn’t expect to see his own just as shimmery.

“I know.” He presses you close to him, holding you too tightly for a moment before lessening his grip.

“I’ll…” He pulls back, and toys with the collar of your shirt. “I’ll take her with me into town today. Perhaps we can stop by one of her friend’s homes, for a little visit.”

It’s not much. But it will be enough to keep your daughter’s spark from being totally snuffed out. For now, at least.

“Thank you,” you answer, and you mean it.

I’m thinking of General Gorou. General Gorou who goes into heat every few months of the year, and his sweet subordinate who wonders why he holes himself in his tent during extended periods. His sweet subordinate who also gets too curious for their own good that they sneak to his tent one night and pokes their head through the flaps ever so slightly—which they shouldn’t.

Everyone’s told to not bother General Gorou during his private months. They respect him. They follow the rules. But not you. You, his sweet yet disobedient subordinate who takes a peak to see General Gorou—the ever so brave and strong soldier—whining and groaning and huffing as he desperately tugs at his shaft, ears twitching and eyes filled with tears. General Gorou who is in heat; he’s vulnerable and desperate and his tip is blazing red with the utter need to come again and again.

And you, his sweet and cute subordinate swallowing your shock and trying to contain yourself even though you can feel the heat rushing up your neck and burning your ears. Oh goodness, how hot the scene before you was.

General Gorou’s sensitive, and he smells your arousal. His eyes looking up to see his most favorite underling, watching him at such a pathetic state. Is he embarrassed? No. But does he stop? No.

He thinks you’re here to help him. What a sweet person you are. He spread his legs, hand fondling his balls as he tugs at his cock with the other. He looks at you with those big turquoise eyes, pleading and eager. He whines and whimpers at you to come and help him out. He’ll repay you, he says. He trusts you, he praises. He promises he’ll be good for you.

And fuck… you didn’t dare say no. Not when he looked so good—so fucking delicious. You go to him, help him, and listen to everything he wants. You do it. You kiss him and caress him, you replace his hands with yours and you put your mouth on his throbbing tip until he bursts ropes of cum down your throat. Yet he still hasn’t had enough.

General Gorou would selfishly take everything from you for himself. He’s in heat and all his mind can think about is to be buried deep inside of your sopping wet heat. He’ll press you down deep into his mattress, legs up against your chest, and his lips sloppily against your as he ruts his sensitive cock into you. He plans to breed you—to knot you.

You’re his sweet subordinate after all. He could do anything he wanted with you. You promised you’d let him—a promise given through pants and moans and mewls as General Gorou desperately fucks his cum over and over again into you. Oh archons, but it was so good you couldn’t stop him. Not even when your legs are shaking and numb and you’re about to pass out from overstimulation.

You’re a wonderful soldier of his after all. You would do anything to please General Gorou.

Think of Me | Yan!Venti x Reader x Yan!Diluc Opera AU

Summary: Master Diluc, the infamous composer, has been the Opera's greatest star for years now, being a favorite among the elite, as well as your devoted teacher. Nevertheless, Venti's growing popularity among the masses garners your attention.

Credits: This series is heavily inspired by Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Phantom of the Opera”, as well as Bernard Rose’s “The Devil’s Violinist”. This short fic is part of the Opera AU series. Warnings: General Dark and Yandere themes, implied stalking

“She may not remember me, but I remember her” ― "The Phantom of the Opera".

You had heard about the joyful bard that enraptured the public's attention. Known to play in the lesser of stages, as some would call them: places such as taverns, bars, and busy streets. He seemed to dislike and criticize the pretentiousness that surrounded the Opera you worked in, to the point of refusing to lend any of his compositions to be adapted to the greatest stage of all.

You met him while running your usual errands outside the Opera, a few weeks after your debut, joining the multitude comprised of people of all standings who gathered around the small plaza to listen to him play the lyre and, just like them, became instantly fascinated by his whimsical style.

He dressed... extravagantly. His clothes were mismatched and had patches from different materials, which you found endearing and sort of charming. The only thing of value he seemed to carry was his lyre and the small hat that sat on the floor to collect tips, which was filled to the brim.

After apparently recognizing you, the mysterious bard asked you to join him for a very popular love song, the type that your Maestro would think of as too mundane and corny, making you hesitate for a minute before you ended up agreeing after some pressure in the guise of encouragement from the audience.

To your surprise, never in your entire career had you had that much fun singing. His music reflected in many ways the nature you had long before Master Diluc discovered you. It had a lively, effervescent joyfulness to it. It had no need for perfection, nor the dark exigency that you had become used to with Master Diluc's complicated pieces. Its simplicity felt right and freeing, and it brought you to happier times when you practiced for the choir try-outs as a child. The melody felt like a memory, which in turn felt like home.

His gaze rested on you for the entire performance, with a strange understanding, as if he knew you from a time past and this was the culmination of a long-awaited reunion. The same type of longing look a foreigner makes after hearing someone speak the same language as them.

The melodious last note is mixed with the loud cheer from the audience, which had doubled during the song. You raise your hand over your lips as you let a small giggle escape them, slightly surprised and amused by how you'd lost yourself in the performance.

Seeking the gaze of the bard, you are, for a moment, slightly taken aback.

By what, exactly? It was hard to pin down, as his eyes had an eerie and slightly unsettling quality of grim delight, of somber joyfulness…if such words could ever be used to describe the same thing. But it gave you the feeling that, despite the triviality of this moment, something had occurred.

The cheering stops abruptly, promptly followed by startled gasps that draw your attention. The audience in front of you begins to divide into a clear line, and your heart stops at the sight of your Maestro. Your smile died down instantly.

In unconscious response to the coldness of Master Diluc's gaze, you lower your eyelids and bow your head, surveying his dark profile in secret from beneath your lashes. Silence reigned, as fascination settled in among the crowd. He had a certain quality that created a conception of him as a being with a superior understanding of everything beautiful and solemn, the one and only authority when it came to music. You yourself were tightly enmeshed by it and felt in debt to your beloved Maestro, who had miraculously condescended to favor you over the rest.

The air condensed as he approached, his slow steps matching the slow thick strokes of your heartbeat. People started to feel the awkward tension, but the young bard stood unbothered by him, a charming smile illuminating his face. They exchanged some common courtesies, and even vaguer compliments, but you could barely pay any attention to them.

Your whole perception of your surroundings was hazy at best, barely making up something along the lines of: "Maestro Diluc! I borrowed your little songbird for a tune, I'm sure you don't mind" and "You heard about me, Sir? I'm flattered!", which sounded... almost like mocking, but Master Diluc tilted his head anyways, which seemed to lift the tension for a moment.

After a short indication, you wrap your arm around his, ready to leave the small, sunny plaza for his somber candlelit kingdom. Just before you start walking, the bard gently takes your hand, raising it up to his lips.

"It truly was my pleasure, Miss."

You feel Master Diluc's arm tense immediately but says nothing as you thank your previous music partner with a small bow. As both of you turn your backs to the bard, you see him reach into his pocket and pull out a single bill, which he drops into the bard's tipping hat, skidding over the coins to the dirty floor.

"Is it true? Are you absolutely sure?"

"I saw it with my own eyes! They brought the music sheet to the Director's office, but I think it appeared in her dressing room first, signed "Venti the bard" and all. Apparently, he wants no other singer, that's his sole condition."

"I thought he didn't like Opera Houses"

"Well, something must've changed his mind."

+ f!reader. he calls you angel. cum, cum, cum. xiao overstimms himself. dacryphilia. unprotected. praises. not proofread. xiao got me in a chokehold this 2.7 so have this lil drabble of the best boy <3 minors do not interact.

—

continuously rutting into you has left xiao’s cock raw and sensitive. his slit starts to twitch, wet with his precum and your arousal. yet, he can’t stop the pump of his hips, he can’t sever the connection between you. not when you look so pretty under him, clinging onto his neck to kiss his lips.

“xiao…” you gasp, head bleary from his sloppy thrusts. you can feel his cock stretching your velvet walls as if preparing your womb for his release. “xiao…”

“i’m here,” xiao grunts, gritting his teeth before pressing his lips to your cheek, gasping achingly as your pussy clutch around him again. “right here, angel. ‘s alright, i got you.”

“xiao… you feel so good,” you sob, blurry eyes and all. “feel so good…”

his pumping has turned more erratic, an automatic switch as he hears your praise. xiao embraces you, stuttering hips pistoling his cock through your cunt greedily. he captures your lips, drools slipping out your mouth as he kisses you.

“ah, fuck,” xiao pants— his own eyes almost rolling back to his skull, his balls getting heavy with his shaft sporadically pulsing. “‘m so close, angel.”

“you’re so pretty, xiao…” you murmur, lost in the feeling. you smile at him, pulling him closer to you. and that’s when he breaks.

“hah— so are you, angel,” he huffs out, “fuck, fuck—” his stomach clenches as his heart aches, squirting a thick amount of cum right into your fluttering cunt— and yet it isn’t enough. xiao grabs your waist, still pumping his cock into your hole while he continuously creams your pussy and folds all while deliriously sobbing out your name.

—

by 8kh. + masterlist.

giggles. . . tighnari likes being close to u when he fucks you and he subconsciously wraps his tail around u to keep u close. he's also 100% down with outdoors sex in the middle of the rainforest. generally a v soft man

*twirls around* he's adorable ty for indulging me de <3

warnings: f! reader, outdoor sex, soft tiggy, creampie; 0.5k wc.

He reeks of desperation in the way he tugs you closer to himself, “you're so warm.” he breathes, lips chasing yours as you try to sneak in a lungful of oxygen.

It's true, your skin feels like it's on fire and it only spreads like gasoline with each touch of his. The added thrill of being out in the rainforest like this just sets all your nerves alight, “so are you.”

smiling at your giggle, he wraps his tail around your waist, the soft green fur of it a welcoming gesture against your bare skin, “what if someone catches us like this?”

Tighnari slants his hips into yours and your mouth falls open in a breathless moan, “hm, then they'll know that you're mine.”

he says it so casually that you're hitting his shoulder playfully, “kidding!” a laugh falls from his lips, “who would ever come to the middle of a rainforest?”

He doesn't allow you a moment to ponder though, cock pushing past your tight walls and rendering your brain numb, “s'tight— ah, you're...”

he's stumbling upon his words as his cock throbs inside your clenching pussy, “you're gonna make me cum too soon if you keep squeezing me like that,”

his hand weaves into yours, fingers intertwined as he whispers against your lips, “relax baby.” and he hears you gasp for air as you try to follow his suggestion.

But as soon as he thrusts into you, your cunt is clamping down on his throbbing cock with both your groans filling the air around,

“you close?” you're nodding at his question, perhaps too eagerly, “yeah,”

“good,” and his voice is shaky now, his ears twitching as he heaves above you, hips rutting into yours in a frenzy— like he couldn't get enough of you, “gonna cum for me, darling?”

“yes, tighnari— fuck,” your voice breaks off into a loud moan as you gush around his cock. Tighnari follows close, teeth sinking in your neck as he fills you up with his cum seeping down your trembling thighs,

“for research purposes,” he chuckles, out of breath from the intensity of the orgasm, “we should do this more often.”

© munsonsins. do not steal / copy / translate / recommend on tiktok or any other platforms.

— and i'll call you..!

summary : when the genshin men call you "his".

cw : nothing to note

genre : romantic fluff!

characters : albedo, diluc, xiao, ayato

albedo ; the science of observation.

getting matching stationeries with albedo was a terrible idea. it's hard to discern which pens are yours when they're identical to his. your only hope of finding out would be by asking your boyfriend. "hey, albedo? is this pen mine or yours?" is a question heard often during study sessions. one quick glance, and he'd answer with a curt "mine." but on days where studying gets a little too boring, you decide to play with him. "albedo, is this mine or yours?" he does his signature quick glance, only to double take when he sees your finger resembling a mischievous arrow to yourself. he pulls you closer to study your features- eyes glazing over your skin with a smirk. "hm... i believe this is all mine."

diluc ragnvindr ; rare occurrences.

many a time does diluc call you his- though he mostly doesn't do it verbally. rather, the title of being 'diluc's partner' comes with the many gifts and accessories he gets you. you don yourself with expensives only the uncrowned king of mondstadt could afford, and he cannot be prouder of himself; hoping to get more and more until you've drowned yourself in his name. despite this, the times he's actually uttered the word "mine" can be counted on one hand. you add one more to the list when he comes up behind you, facing a mirror. a small smile graces his face. "you're stunning," he whispers, before taking a hesitant breath. "you.. look like you're mine."

xiao ; noisy lips.

xiao isn't a vocal lover. he's more of an action guy, someone who presents his love on a plate of romantic gestures. hold him in your arms, however, and his tight lips turn loose. his breaths explore the vast expanse of your neck as he snuggles up within your embrace. "mine," he mumbles, smearing a warm sensation onto your skin. that warm sensation is followed by a kiss- short, wet, and full of affection. "mine," he whispers again. again. again- leaving a trail of kisses that lead up to your jaw. and when his pupils meet yours through the top half of his eyelids, you're met with an urgent question. "mine?" and it's almost a plead. you laugh- "yes, xiao, i'm yours."

kamisato ayato ; claiming his rights.

being ayato's partner means that you're often free when he's not. there are, of course, many ways in which you would spend your time. thoma would be one of them. on days when you're feeling active, consuming your energy is best done with inazuma's fixer. him running errands all over town is your second best source of entertainment- the first being "accidentally" bumping into ayato at the boba store. your lover's feigned surprise always ends with a playful wink; right before he leaves for more work. at the end of the day, as you chat with thoma through the exhaustion, ayato'll come to pick you up. "pardon the intrusion- i'd like to take back what's mine."

— title; when is a monster not a monster? (oh, when you love it).

— pairing; zhongli x reader

— summary; in which zhongli loses control and turns into a dragon, but you manage to bring him back.

— notes; i don’t play genshin, so i hope it’s not too ooc !! special thanks to @yuebloom​ and​ @degenerate-yandere and @teyvatstories​ for their support !! if anyone is interested, the song referenced in this fic is called asking the zither and can be found here !!

Screaming.

The sound that sears itself into your ears is like nothing you’ve never heard before, the hoarse scream of an enraged animal that vibrates through your whole body, scraping over your skin like claws.

With much effort, you finally manage to open your eyes. It’s excruciating. Your eyelids feel like they’re made of lead. Squinting against the sudden light, you try to sit up, but can only groan as your body erupts into joint-wrenching pains. Your face is wet, and dampness runs down into your collar.

Keep reading

Anniversary

(Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader)

“May I request for a scenario where darling tries to surprise yandere scaramouche for a celebration? I want to know how you think his reaction may be like .3.” -Anon

I’ve had this request written out in my google docs for months and couldn’t find the original ask on Tumblr when I came to finally post it. For those who don’t know, Scaramouche is a character from Genshin Impact, but you could also read him as a whumper in the context of this drabble. I definitely wrote him like one. 

CW: Forced marriage, captivity, possessive whumper, unhealthy relationship dynamics, stockholm syndrome, hot and cold whumper

Surprising Scaramouche for a celebration? Good luck. He’s one of the most aware and controlling yanderes there is, so getting anything past him will require a lot of planning. Whenever you ask for anything from the Fatui-trained maids who take care of your daily routine, they immediately report it to The Balladeer. But, it’s still possible…

Today marks the second anniversary of your marriage to Scaramouche. He was never one to keep track of these things. When you’re not alone in your room or doing your permitted hobbies, you are by his side like a loyal pet. Why celebrate a special occasion when every day can be treated as such? But you have kept track of each day since you were forcefully led to the altar. And as each month passes, your memories of that day become more rose-tinted.

You almost forget the tears in your eyes as your hair was styled and dress fitted. Prim and perfect just how Scaramouche likes. Your makeup made you look like a Marionette puppet, but you saw how your future husband’s eyes lit up the moment you began to walk down the aisle, a Pyroslinger’s gun pointed at your back to dissuade you from acting up. You were desirable, beautiful, made in the image of your captor. Back then, you still had an instinct for self-preservation. That’s why you only said “I do” after a warning shock to remind you of your place.

That instinct for self-preservation was slowly replaced by an instinct for survival. You didn’t want any more warning shocks, no more guns pointed to your back. So you did anything you could to avoid them, even if that meant giving into your delusional husband’s whims. You learned how to read the Harbinger’s emotions, worded your sentences carefully to hide your true feelings, and even began to desire his affection.

You could only take the risk and hope for the best.

He and Pierro have been busy plotting something big lately; you don’t care much for the Fatui or their schemes, and Scaramouche tends to get angry when talking about work, so it’s a subject you tend to avoid. You use the extra alone time to ask a few favors. Discrete ones, and always separately to avoid The Balladeer’s suspicion, like flowers, groceries and minor decorations. You stash these items away upon delivery.

You’ve been especially “well behaved” lately, so you hope your good favor will outweigh breaking his endless and ever-changing rules. Plus, it’s a present for him! He can’t be too angry…right?

You manage to cook a festive meal and prepare your private living area for the occasion. Now, all you could do was wait…

~

Scaramouche knows something is up the moment that he enters his estate. The Fatui on guard look like they’re hiding something, averting their gaze more than they should and fidgeting with the hems of their uniforms. Even though they assure the Harbinger that nothing is amiss, Scaramouche can’t shake the feeling of unease.

He doesn’t quite know how to react when instead of an escaped darling, he finds a whole feast. The room has been lit with scented candles. The table is set just how he likes, Inazuman foods had been shipped to his home and prepared to perfection, and the necessary equipment for a tea ceremony is set in the center, ready to accompany the meal. You twiddle your thumbs in anticipation for his reaction. After a moment, he laughs, mocking and dangerous. “What’s this? I don’t remember you ever being this obedient for me, doll.” The oh-so-familiar darkness flashes across his eyes like a bolt of lightning. You’re already on thin ice. “What did I tell you about being direct with your wants?”

“I don’t want anything right now, My Lord.” When he doesn’t look convinced, you press. Luckily, you had already prepared what you would say, an unfortunate habit you picked up out of a desire to stay on your husband’s good side. “Today is the anniversary of our marriage. I wanted to show you my progress and prepare a celebratory meal. That’s all, I swear.”

He pauses for a moment, reading your expression as much as you read his. Being in a relationship with Scaramouche often feels like being in a constant game of telepathic chess. Constantly trying to strategize and predict the other’s moves so that you lose as few pawns and pieces as possible. At least, that was your goal.

The static in the room dissipates, and Scaramouche’s expression changes again, from paranoid to amused. “You’re so… sentimental.” He says it laced with poison, as if being genuinely romantic were an insult. But there’s also a sense of wonder, in the way that he looks at you as if you’re an adorable puppy bringing over a stick.

You’re used to his thinly veiled insults by now. You shrug it off, leading him over to a cushion by the table. “If anything, you should be the sentimental one, seeing as you couldn’t help but bring me here.” 

The Balladeer’s shoulders tense and you mentally curse your loose tongue. Your husband knew full well that he had forced you into this marriage, so that wasn’t why his smile stiffened in response. He believed that his emotions were a weakness, a defect that caused him to be rejected by his creator. You instinctively backtrack. “This is…just how I show my love for you, My Lord. You have your ways, and I have mine.” The dangerous glint in his eyes fades away, and so do your nerves. 

You move to pour him a glass of freshly brewed sake. He takes it with a smirk. “It looks like my lessons finally sunk in,” He chuckles again, giving you that patronizing look. “Took you long enough.”

You can expect that Scaramouche will want the full anniversary treatment more often in the future.