𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 | Yandere!dottore X M!reader

i would LOVE to bottom out in Jude to

he should let me do that no questions asked

i would LOVE for you to control your peepee

why do you seem too like the mentally ill ones, like luka from alnst and anton from eros story, luka and anton have some things in common

HELPPP THE WAY I CACKLED SO BADLY WHEN I SAW THIS 😭😭😭😂😂😂

there's really not that good of a reason as to why i like these weirdos lmfaooaoa i just find them fascinating characters because they fuck shit up all the time while remaining very sexy when they do it.

(i also wanna dissect their heads and find out how their brain works like nom nom nom)

Excuse me? I just wanted to drop by, to let you know your writing is absolutely phenomenal and amazing. So I just had to let you know, so have a wonderful time!!!!

AWWWW this is very sweet anonnie tysm!!! mwa mwa

*insert barking dog meme*

SACRED | YANDERE IMAGINES

prompt: yandere!priest x transmigrated!male!reader

character(s): priest (anton), you

warnings(s): mention of violence, god complex, religious imagery, dub-con, not to be glorified or romanticised

note(s): male reader, second person, past and present tense, not beta read. from twisted faith on my wattpad.

It takes a few moments for you to truly process what just happened. From the coarse sheets underneath your skin that differ greatly from the silken ones you have grown so accustomed to, to the air that smells like blood, you know something is terribly wrong.

Then you see a mural of a priest on the wall, and you remember where you are. A horror game.

Anton. It’s the name of the priest you need to find.

The first time you see the priest is the day after you transmigrate into a horror game. The said game, Spiraling into the Abyss features almost a cult like fanaticism with religion: you learn in the first few seconds of your time in the new world that they worship a priest like a God, and that they sacrifice humans to please the apparent gods of the heavens.

You’re a sacrifice. You know that. You are found to be guilty of some stupid crime you didn’t commit, and as far as you know, you are a worthless extra who will die by burning—you will do everything to prevent that.

To survive, you need to get into his good graces. You see him on the day or worship, when you come early to the Church: and his beauty astounds you. Symmetrical features—and the whole blue eyes and golden hair combination that is seen as rather cliche, in terms of beauty—but Anton doesn’t have a common kind of beauty; he is radiant. Benevolent. Ethereal. You marvel at him. His skin is without a blemish, and is fair, like he hasn’t gone out in the sun for a while...yet it has a healthy glow to it. His expression is serene. Anton's hair frames his face perfectly, and his eyes are expressive and rather captivating, with long, dark lashes that draw attention to it. His cheekbones are well-defined, his nose straight—and those only add to Anton's appeal.

He speaks to you in lilted tones, and immediately, you realize the priest isn’t just evil—he’s downright a menace.

"Sometimes I forget you are a new, naive believer. God is perfect, is he not? So his messengers, in turn, can do no wrong. He sends his messages through me. God is part of me. I'm merely ridding the world of evil."  He strides to where you are, and his hands touch the top of your head lightly. His fingers fall to your cheek, and he strokes it gently.

You can only swallow. “Yes, Father Anton.”

There’s one day where you ask him why he burns those bodies. He calls it “cleansing”, apparently.

“They donate to the church out of the kindness of their hearts,” you tell him, swallowing the bile down your throat as you hear more screams. “Is that not…a little extreme?”

“Extreme? Why, no, not at all.”

“You burn people alive.”

“That is the cleanest way to proceed. Their ashes tumble away, and it makes it much easier for the people, too. If we were to use magic, or beheading, or even hanging—it would be much messier, no? And I believe fire is such an awfully beautiful thing. It can make death look inviting; and even though the heavens might cast them away…in hell, all they will see is the fiery pits. This is their punishment. To feel sorry for them is strange, Y/n.”

Despite this, for the sake of your survival, you continue to visit him. Now, such visits are rare: Anton barely makes time for anyone. But he does, for you. 

Of course, this partial treatment doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He treats only you like this: it’s concerning, actually. His words are light and gentle, but the weight of it isn’t. In fact, he speaks of cleansing, he speaks of murdering in such a calm manner that you wonder if the devil truly resides in him.

But one thing is clear. 

To survive, you need to get into his good graces.

You feel your sanity slip each minute you spend in the game.

Anton kills. So does the Church. And you still can’t explain the goddamn obsession he has with you. Why has he not killed you yet? Anton is no saint, not at all.

Perhaps Anton was ensnared by the promise of Godhood—ensnared by the tendrils of his own self proclaimed grandiosity. Perhaps he had been idolized so much…worshiped by the devoted believers that he had simply been led to believe in his imagined divinity. Anton was a mortal who had dared to cast a shadow that eclipsed the very stars that he had reached for. Anton was simply adorned in robes of imagined omnipotence, and smelt of the fragrance of narcissus.

Here, he was god, but Anton was completely alienated from empathy. For what was a god in isolation but a sovereign ruler over an empire of one, ruling over a realm devoid of the richness of God’s grace?

You can’t deal with him much longer. He keeps murdering: he murders those who come to you under the guise of the silly notion of cleansing, he finds it amusing to see you sob and cry…and he has no qualms about drugging you. If not for the items you have stored in your inventory, warning you of drugs, you would have succumbed long ago.

Anton is no priest. 

And now he stands before you, his lips curling into a smile when he sees the look of despair on your face. He has just killed a friend,

You have to. You have to fight Anton…you have to…

Anton leans forward. You two are a hair’s breadth away.

God. Is God real? Is the devil real—has he taken form in Anton himself, twisting, persuading, begging, tempting people to court evil, to withhold the stench of death? The crimson flames have not faltered for long, and have only seemed to welcome him with fiery contempt, only surrendering when everything has been destroyed in its wake.

You long to spit curses towards Anton. You long for your limbs to connect with his face, and leave a mottled bruise there. You long for your twitching fingers to wrap around the priest’s neck; watch as oxygen slowly slips from his lungs out of your throat. You long to see his body grow limp.

“You are so perfect,” Anton murmurs, “so, so divine. So perfect…”

You don’t get why he says this. He’s been telling you this for ages: it’s the reason why you’ve been treated well. He claims you are some savior from an oracle ready to save him, he claims you saved him.

And now in this scenario, where his fingers are grazing your cheek?

You swallow. There was no way, right? No fucking way—

“I want to kiss you.”

Your heart drops. “…If I say no, you wouldn’t listen.”

A kiss. It would just be a kiss, right? That was okay. It means simply brushing your lips against Anton’s…yeah, that was possible.

You want to cry. Anton presses his lips on yours—it’s a mixture of heat and warmth; the way Anton ravages your lips has some sort of twisted hunger to it, craving and craving and craving. There is an obscene sheen of saliva coating your lips when you part.

The kiss tastes just like the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of desire. It is the same way that Eve sinned—eating a fruit that had belonged to the serpent. It was as if you had forged a pact with the devil himself—that in kissing Anton, it was like sealing your fate in the molten wax of sin, staining the canvas of your soul. Had matted it black. 

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss…

Once Anton fully lets go, he smiles, and you collapse on the ground, tears running down your face.

He needs you, Anton thinks, he needs you. You are the savior who has brought him from the depths of hell. You are his miracle. You are his little pet; his little divine sacrifice, the white sheep with the white wool. You are the one who will follow him guiltlessly. Untouched, untainted, clean.

You are shaking like a newborn lamb.

He presses another kiss on your forehead.

[ before, Anton’s pov ]

The world was dirty.

It needed a savior. Someone to bring them out from the depths of hell—to cleanse them. After all, was that not what the texts read? Was that not what he had learnt, ever since young? Was that not what had been instilled in him since his very birth? Luke 15:11-32. The wayward son who squandered his inheritance but was welcomed back by his forgiving father—Anton had marveled at it when he was young. To think someone would have such boundless grace; such forgiveness for a foolish person…

The oracle. Anton saw the oracle as a gift—a symbol from God. It had been delivered to him when he was young, naive, and careless. 

Anton remembered very little about his childhood. Extremely little. He remembered his mother, his father. But that was it—but oh, how he hated them. Anton did not remember why he hated them, why the portrait of his family had been torn out. He regarded life then, and now, as the beginning of the end.

Something fleeting, something ephemeral. Something tragic. Life was a wonderful tragedy.

People look at me with such endless wonder; such spellbound eyes and widened mouths. They see me as God—they see me as a deity above them all.

And that was true, Anton thought. That was very true. Sinners. Wretched, dirtied, horrid sinners, all of them! Anton despised humankind; they were worthless—made of brittle bones with flesh. He did not even see them as humans. They were just mere vessels in need of salvation.

“Father Anton!”

“Father Anton, would you please help me?”

“Bring me to the path of salvation!

He was anointed by a divine purpose to purify the soiled souls of the world…

Yes, that was his purpose.

It was relieving and calming to have a purpose. To drift in the vast expanse of the world; the universe without a tethering purpose is akin to being a feather in the breath of the wind. Useless, damaging, lonely. Anton could see—it was very easy for him to see who were those who were aimless in life, compared to those who had the bright, bubbly life shining magnificently in their eyes.

Oh, Mother. Anton would stand before her grave. Again, he did not remember much of what he believed was to be a mundane, boring childhood, but his mother’s name left a bitter taste on his tongue, horrid and painful. Somehow, he did not feel a single bit of…remorse, or guilt when he gazed at her tombstone. He expected to feel guilt for something he was quite sure he didn’t do.

But his lips would always curve into a smile when he saw the words etched on the grave. She was dead, he would remember. Dead. Occasionally, snippets of memories would come to him—her shrill voice, her messy, jagged hair, her crazed, crazed eyes. The way her fingernails felt on her skin when she scratched at him wildly.

Clearly, she deserved to die. How did she die, though? What exactly transpired? What kind of person was she, and what kind of person had she tried to make Anton into?

Anton found, to his surprise, that he was bothered about this. Detachment was something he prided himself on: he would never venture too close.

To have attachment with someone would be detrimental. Annoying. Haunting.

There were times—many, many times when Anton had awoken, hollow and void. 

The oracle.

The oracle.

When is it coming? When is it coming? Have the gods lied to me?

The oracle—his lifeline since he was young—was the very proof that this world had a chance, to live on, to heal.

A savior.

There were times Anton would grow impatient. He needed to do something about the state of the world. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Why did people falter in front of flames? What did people shun away from blood? Was the sight not wonderful, not enchanting? The heat was welcoming—a gentle caress. Those who ventured in, would have their faces bathed in mesmerizing glow. Nevermind their screams, nevermind their bleeding, rotting flesh. 

The fire illuminated the world before it dissolved like nothing. Like it hadn’t existed. 

“Horrible! Horrible! You’re fucking horrible!” Then the stinging of flesh. There was something piping hot, something burning him.

“Why won’t you even flinch, you monster?”

Anton smiled loosely. Another memory. They came into his mind occasionally and quickly. He never pondered over them—it was useless to; for he already had everything he wanted.

The day you came into the world, was the day he felt alive. Waiting had become a bore to him—it was the same routine over and over again, with the same stupid, foolish people—

Something extraordinary had graced his reality. The oracle. You were the chosen one. The chosen one. The chosen one. The one he yearned for; seeked for; the change in the world.

“Dear God,” You had said the first time he saw you. “I confess I have been impure in my holy spiritual presence…”

Anton had seen you before the mural; your head lowered, your words soft and quiet.

Anton had stepped before you, tilting his head to the side as he observed you. In fact, you seemed to be struggling.

“You have to be sincere. You can’t just read off the mural.” Anton sighed.

You seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

“Forgive me, Father Anton, for I have sinned.” You appeared shocked for the words to even slip past your lips; and oh, you were beautiful. Lovely. Innocent. Anton gazed at you—this was the person he had been waiting for his whole life—fervently, impatiently, silently. 

“You don’t seem to be used to this,” Anton said at last, as he took off his hood. He had not meant to come to church today—he was aware the crowd was growing more stifling, more crazed by the minute. The women of the church reminded him of his mother. There were times he wished he could draw a blade to their throat, and watch the blood spill out in a wonderful crimson.

“I’m afraid it’s been long since my last confession.”

Anton couldn’t help but smile. You were lying. 

“That’s alright,” He said calmly, “you have come now. Is there something in particular that’s troubling you, perhaps? To bring you to confession?”

“I…”

Anton could read human beings exceptionally well. From the way their eyes narrowed, the way their pupils widened marginally, to the gap of their fingers…you were trembling. You were thinking of what other lies you could say.

An adorable fool.

“You…?” He prompted. “You must not feel self conscious in the eyes of God. He already knows, Y/n. He is only waiting for you to confess.”

I am only waiting for you to confess. To tell me that you are from the oracle.

“I cannot even recall it.” You admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

“What do people come here for, Father Anton?”

Many things.

“The ones who have sinned so awfully they are made to be sacrifices.”

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

There were times he would stand before dead bodies, blood in his hand, blinking slowly. When? When had he killed them? It all happened so fast, he wasn’t even aware of the blood staining his clothes, the bodies riddled on the ground.

“You tell me, Y/n.”

“Murder…?”

Anton wanted to laugh. A textbook answer. You had much to learn, didn’t you? It was alright. Anton could teach you. Teach you from ground zero, till you would become who you were supposed to be.

“Mostly, it’s their lack of faith. Rebelling against us. It is their perceived lack of loyalty, and their utter ignorance and disregard for God that leads us to take drastic measures.”

“But that’s…that’s killing isn’t it?”

So pure. So untainted, so innocent. 

The oracle. The person from the oracle. 

“But that doesn’t matter,” Anton said softly, “you show a desire to learn. And that is always very splendid, always welcomed.”

Anton would morph you and turn you into something splendid, divine.

remember to reblog and like! comments are always appreciated

sorry for the uhh false alarm of oc post that people probably thought were updates hehe but i had brainrot of making my ocs here based more upon the arcanas in tarot cards!! (makes them more fun to write for me personally)

here's hoping i can get an update out like next month cause my supervisor has been a lil bit of a biatch >:(

( 𝐈𝐕 ) ✦ ⎯⎯ 𝐃𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐑𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐌𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐌, the emperor  ˚ · .┊ 𝇄𝇃 ✧.

he demands perfection by his side, and you, the brave little assassin sent in his sleep, is exactly that.

─── THE EMPEROR represents authority, structure, and most definitely, control. he is a symbol of power, of discipline, of stability, and upholds order in his role of leadership.

✦ ″ beauty incarnate — that is what comes to mind when you allow yourself to truly look at him. his short blond hair frames his face with perfect symmetry, and the hollow blue of his eyes holds your gaze so intensely that it seems impossible to believe the man before you is, in fact, human.

✦ ″ he is everything a ruler should be, they say. armed with a formidable arsenal and a mind as sharp as any blade, he guards his kingdom with an iron grip. and that grip of his... these days, it seems fixed solely on you.

[ directory . ]

01. — your lips are reserved solely for mine

02. — i've grown rather fond of you, my assassin.

do not claim, repost, or use this character without permission. character art by @hataria_kawa

你好

再见👋

i had just read your yan! emperor x assassin reader omg ??? i saw u liking my posts, im a big fan of ur writing in quotev !! i feel so honored!!!

⁉️⁉️ the jumpscare i just got HELP 😭😭🙏 i was just reading ur neglected gn reader series ITS SO GOOD I CRIED A LIL NGL!! wasn't expecting quotev to be mentioned tysm agajssgjsgsjshdj

Pookie I just wanna say you're my fav fav author, I been reading your books on quotev and let me say, they're sooooo DAMN great. I miss Idris btw,😞

awwwww that's super super super sweet of you anonnie thank you so so much!!! 🥹🥹🙏🙏🙏🙏 *sending you big hugs* and yes i miss idris too, as most are i assume HAHAHAHAHHA 🤣🤣 i'll give him more scenes in the wattpad rewrite trust 👍👍👍

OFFERING | YANDERE IMAGINES

prompt: you are sacrificed by your village to be the god’s offering. You expect to die—but instead, the whole situation spirals into a maddening obsession.

character(s): yandere!god, you

warnings(s): possessive, manipulative behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamic

note(s): male reader, second person, present tense, not beta read

You do not expect anything but death.

You hear the hostility and animosity boiling in their throats, scorching your skin with the heat of a thousand suns. You feel the hands that pull at you roughly, dressing you up in garments you’ve never worn before— silks that are red, hot and heavy, a veil that hides your features. They do not bother to hide the wounds that are festering on your skin—it is a common fact that the God, Elias, kills the offerings, and his heart is as cold as ice. He will not bother about you. He will not care about you. You know that being offered is akin to courting death.

You are despised by the village. You are abandoned by your parents, and you have no one to call a family or friend. The scars you bear are not pretty, either, and no woman will take you as a husband, and no man will take you in as his wife. 

You have lived a lifetime of suffering, and now you only wait for it to end.

So you choose to close your eyes, having a fitful sleep in the rocky carriage. You are convinced that this night will be your last.

—

You do not see the God named Elias, at first. 

But you hear his voice in whispers, in echoes. 

“So you must be the new offering,” his voice is soft, elegant, graceful—your first thought is that he cannot be the fearsome God people speak of—“do you, [Name], know of the fate that awaits you?”

You are a mortal. You feel fear, no matter how much you’ve prepared yourself. You will fear death, after all, and you will wonder if your death will feel quiet and painless, or if it will be excruciating. You’ve heard horror stories of the latter.

“You…” your voice stays firm to your surprise, “will kill me.”

You still cannot see him. He is described to be beautiful in some stories, ugly in others. You truly don’t know. But his voice is lilting, quiet, and music-like. Is it toned down on purpose for you to let your guard down? Will he rip your heart out the minute you doze off? Will he torture you before he kills you? There are a million questions you don’t dare to ask him.

“Truthfully,” the voice holds amusement. “You are the first to truly make it to me.”

You stiffen. “I’m sorry?”

“The others have died, yes,” the God says, “but I did not kill them. They committed suicide. Is it not pathetic to have people be so fearful of you that they will choose to end their lives before they meet you?”

He’s lying. He’s definitely…lying. You remember the horror stories you’ve heard: first, the village chief’s daughter, Sarah, who had her throat ripped out viciously because she dared to be rude. Second, the village chief’s niece, Amelia, who had her body found beneath a cliff, supposedly punished for her grave misdeeds for stealing, thirdly, the male, Rufus, who had been the first male offering towards Elias, who had his remains returned to him for supposedly no reason.

“And spreading rumors about the deity cruelty, really,” Elias’s voice flows on like a steady stream, mirthful, “ridiculous, is it not?”

“Are you…” you find your voice at last, “saying you didn’t kill them?”

“No, of course not,” Elias says, “you are the first one who has made it to me.”

“That is not one I’ve heard.”

“Rumors can be exaggerated.”

You think back to the earlier offerings: of Sarah, who kicked at you, spat at you, and slapped you until your cheek welled. Of Amelia, who framed you for stealing and got you whipped in front of the village folk. Of Rufus, who got a group of boys to strip you of your clothes before they dumped you shivering into a river. They met a rather fitting death.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, “if you want to kill me…”

You squeeze your eyes. Your heart is thumping against your chest wildly: you feel fear course through your veins, fear thrumming at the surface of your mind. Do not be deceived, you tell yourself. Do not be deceived by this murderous God.

The blow never comes.

Your heart still beats.

You are still alive.

You can’t see him, but you can feel a hand tip your chin up.

“Now,” Elias says, his tone strangely fond, “why would I ever kill you? I’ve been looking forward to your arrival for a long time after all.”

—

You see him for the first time, drenched in moonlight.

The first thing you think is: he’s beautiful. He is. He truly is. His hair is silvery blue under moonlight—it’s long and falls to his waist. His features are delicate, yet masculine enough for him to seem more handsome than beautiful. Everything about him seems—perfect—the slant of his nose, the glittering of his magnificent teal eyes, and the fullness of his lips. He seems so vividly familiar to you.

For the past few days, he’s been speaking to you merely as a voice; as a shadowy whisper floating to your ears. 

And everyday you marvel at the fact you’re alive. You’re still alive.

He treats you gently. He treats you like the very thing you were supposed to be: a bride. He brings you gifts, he feeds you well, he dresses you generously in luxurious silks and attire. You didn’t see his face then, but you could feel the sensation of his gentle touch against your skin, as he brushed off a petal, or a loose strand of hair.

You want to ask him why. Why he chooses to hide his appearances, why he treats you so well. You fear the answer. You fear that this was how he treated the earlier offerings before he slaughtered them. You fear many things, and his tenderness is one of them.

“I kept you waiting, didn’t I?” Elias says softly, before he reaches out to you. You flinch, and he frowns. “My mana has yet to be restored. I apologize. What’s wrong, [Name]?”

You think back to his words a while back: why would I kill you? I’ve waited a very long time for you. Does this apply to the general idea of a companion, or is he referring to you in particular?

“Before all this…” you murmur. “Did you know me? Did I know you?”

Your memories are patchy as a kid. You cannot remember the face of your mother, and neither can you remember the face of your mother. They are all erased in your mind.

Elias smiles. He always smiles at you—you can’t tell if it’s genuine or deceitful. You tell yourself continuously that it’s fake—it’s easier to live with him that way. Every breath you take, you are amazed at the fact that blood still flows within your body. The place you live is empty, except for strange servants, except for Elias. It’s a lonely place, completely devoid of anyone. It makes you realize that divinity is lonelier than any human existence.

“I’ve waited a long time for you,” is all Elias tells you. His hand reaches out to you and touches your cheek gently, pressing on a scar almost sorrowfully. “You must have gone through a lot of pain in the village. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.”

“You know me.” You swallow, “but I don’t know who you are.”

Elias doesn’t say anything. He kisses your forehead gently, brings you to the bed, and tells you to sleep well. His skin is cold against your own and he pulls the sheets over your body, bading you goodbye.

“Sleep well, [Name],” Elias murmurs. “I will tell you another day.”

—

That night, you dream for the first time in years. And this dreams continue to persist for the next few days,

You dream of a flower field. You see your fingers picking our petals from the flowers. The flowers are odd, unlike any other thing you’ve seen before. It has silvery blue petals, much like the color of Elias’s hair. You see a silhouette from a distance, and you feel yourself calling out a name—

“—Elias,” you whisper, as you fist the blanket. You had awoken from the dream in panic, and now you found yourself panting, shivering. What was that? You think desperately, just what was that? A cold feeling washes over you, and you stumble to your feet. You find yourself walking to the grass outside, your bare feet treading on grass. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel the breeze caress your cheeks.

You freeze.

Your hand trembles as it reaches out to touch the flower in front of you. It’s the exact flower you found in your dream.

“I don’t…” you give a long sigh, closing your eyes. A headache starts to thrum in your head. “I don't know what’s going on anymore.”

Ever since you came here, you’ve seen flashes of memories pop in your head—of laughter, of the warmth of shared hands, of someone. The boy cannot be seen, and he’s unnamed. You feel younger, more childish, more happy in your dreams. And each time the male turns to face you, the dream ends. 

You feel your heart getting weighed down every time you wake up. Turn around, you plead, turn around! Let me see you!

You feel a blanket drape over your shoulders, and you soften. “Elias.”

“[Name]. What are you doing so late at night?”

“I’ve had…” you say absentmindedly, “the same recurring dream.”

“A nightmare?” Elias asks, his voice dressed in concern. A hand immediately reaches out to touch your forehead, measuring your temperature. “Do you feel unwell? Humans are such fragile creatures.”

“You speak as if you’ve lost a human before.” You say, amused, before you shake your head. “No. Not nightmares. Strangely enough, I’ve dreamt of this flower field multiple times. With someone…with myself, reaching out to these very flowers, plucking off the petals…” you turn to face him. “I don’t know anything, Elias. I only know your name. You don’t tell me why you care for me so. You don’t tell me the truth about the earlier offerings. You don’t…”

You don’t tell me anything.

It’s impossible for you not to fall in love with him. Such gentleness—such love—can only cause your feelings to spiral out of control. It can only cause you pain and grief. Elias has ulterior motives, you are convinced, and you use use those motives to destroy your feelings before they can destroy you. So you continue.

“But perhaps it’s for the better, isn’t it? To place a distance. After all, a mortal can never be a God. And a God can never be a human.” You tilt your head. “You are shrouded with mysteries. You will never explain anything to me. You will treat me with fondness—love, almost—and you will expect me not to doubt you. But of course I doubt you. How can I not, when all my life, I’ve been taught that love is a privilege, and not a right?”

“No, [Name],” Elias says in a strangled voice.

That’s foolish, you think, gods should never have such an expression on their face.

Elias’s heart throbs. He’s heard these very words before from you. He has. You don’t know it—you don’t know that he’s been waiting for your reincarnation for ages now—you don’t know that he does know you, from eons, centuries ago.

.

.

“But you’re human, aren’t you?” You smiled as you faced him, joy alighting on your features. “Why must you rob yourself of such emotions?”

Human..

Your words were like music to his ears. They filled him with immeasurable joy.

Human.

How long had it been since someone said that to him? His mother had told him before, perhaps, but that had been…no, had anyone even told him that before?

A person as bright as the sun, as beautiful as the flowers. Those were his thoughts as he looked at you— a picturesque sight you made indeed, hair messy and a playful smile on your face, limbs dipped in the water. You seemed more like a God than himself, with the way the moon seemed to favor you; coating your whole body in some resplendent light.

Your scent had him intoxicated. Your voice. Your words.

Elias had loved you desperately. He had, before you had been ripped away from him from a common cold that killed you.

Elias grieved.

Humans are such fragile creatures.

.

.

“I did,” Elias turns away, shadows casting down on his face. “I did know you.”

You don't say anything for a few seconds, before you open your mouth. “What?”

“There’s a reason I asked for offerings,” Elias murmurs. “I thought it would be you. I wanted you to come back to me. It wouldn’t matter to me what form you would be in, what you looked like—I just wanted you with me.”

“You must be the male in the dream, then,” you realize, “but—”

“I’ve waited so long for you since you died.” Elias swallows. His gaze is almost murky, almost dangerous… “so, so long. Centuries have passed since the last time I saw you alive. You pledged your eternal devotion to me then. But you…” Elias’s hands are cold as they seek warmth within yours. “You took so long to appear to me again.”

“Then the offerings. They didn’t commit suicide, did they?” You ask him. You know the answer. And you fear that you’ll forgive him for his cruelty. After all, is this not the male—not the God—who has treated you with so much kindness? So much love? Is this not the God whom you dream of, the one who had been your lover before? Is this not the God whom you have so utterly and pathetically fallen for? You have given your heart to a God, and now his divinity will kill both your souls. 

“They hurt you,” Elias closes your eyes. His hands are pulling you to him now, your head buried into the crook of his neck. “I…lied, because I simply…” He kisses your neck softly, his tone low. “…I could not deal with the idea, [Name], of those dirty vermin hurting you. And I waited and waited and waited for that useless village chief to send you; for me to reunite with you, but…it took four tries. Four tries, [Name].”

Your memories are rushing back to you. You remember Elias’s words from your past life: I’m sorry, [Name]. Loving a God is never easy. When I kiss you, you will taste the loneliness rotting my tongue. When I hold your hand, you will feel the ichor and ice in my veins, freezing you, and when I gaze at you, you will see my faults and my coldness. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to remember you.” You shake your head. “I didn’t..understand. I didn’t understand anything at all. I felt confused; lost: in a constant state of almost anger—because I wanted a reason greater than my love for you to explain why you were so tender to me.”

“I do,” Elias almost melts against your skin, like he’s seeking refuge within you; like he’s been starved and deprived and he’s been finally quenched of his thirst—“I love you, [Name]. I…”

His love for you is terrifying. He’s seen ungodly parts come out within him when others hurt you, when others dare to lay a hand on him. It has taken three bodies to be sent back to that stupid village for you to come to him. Divinity is lonely, and Elias hated the days without you. You have to be with him. You have to be with him, no matter what. He will not allow any other thing: you will stay by his side, he will annihilate everyone who dares to even touch you. You’ve given him a reason to live, and now he must make sure to protect you. Elias has never cared about mortals until now: but now he laments their weaknesses, he loathes their fragile selves. 

Everything that Elias has ever loved has disappeared. His mother perished. The pets he raised as a kid died. And now you…Elias fears that he’ll have to wait another few centuries for you should you die again.

He is willing to wait, of course, but sometimes, it’s impossible—it’s impossible.

Elias never had a chance to kiss you. Despite being your lover in your previous life, he’s never kissed you before. And perhaps that is the answer of divinity: his divinity will flow from his lips to yours. Perhaps it’ll be painful, but you love him too, don’t you? Won’t you stay with him?

It does not matter. Nothing will matter. Perhaps fragility is best. It’ll ensure that you’ll never run away from him, after all. You say you love him, currently—but how can he be so sure of that? Humans lie too, and you are still human.

Elias will make sure that you are beside him, no matter what, even if it means ripping your humanity away from you.

comments are always appreciated! I apologise if the pacing felt strange and the writing was off :’) low key forgot how to do oneshots. pls reblog and like, it’ll mean so much to me!