𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

Fleeing is futile. The hunt has only just begun.

❤︎ Synopsis. As they claim you piece by piece, the silence of your resistance is the sweetest melody to their madness.

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

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Granger x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Gusion x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Aamon x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Xavier x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. When Love Kills – Part 1

♡ Word Count. 3,966

♡ TW. dom + top yandere, non con, psychological manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, forced relationship, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non con kissing and touching, implied kidnapping, bondage and restraints, stalking, BDSM

♡ A/N. Why can’t I find any quality reader insert for my favorite game of all time. Gusion + Granger + Xavier combo wohhh. I’ve now fulfilled a childhood want. So gonna do this again, I don’t care if it’s fanfic underrated. Granger’s cooked so hard.

♡ Granger.

The shadows of the dimly lit room press against your skin like the cold fingers of death itself. His gaze—piercing, calculating—lingers on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. Granger does not speak; words have never been his forte. It’s the weight of his silence that crushes you, the unspoken symphony of violence and desire that thrums between you like an electric current.

You stand there, your arms bound, the rough cords biting into your wrists, a grotesque imitation of the violin strings he cherishes so dearly. He leans against the far wall, the red scarf draped over his shoulder like a swath of blood, his pale hands meticulously cleaning the barrel of Dirge. The metallic sheen of the weapon glints in the low light, and for a moment, you wonder if the cold steel of the muzzle will touch your temple tonight, a kiss of death laced with his deranged affection.

He has always been methodical, deliberate. Granger does not rush, for he finds no pleasure in haste. His every movement is a calculated note in the sonata of your despair. His leather gloves creak softly as he sets the gun aside and steps closer, his boots echoing ominously in the confined space. The smell of gunpowder and faint, acrid sweat follows him, a scent you’ve come to associate with your cage—both physical and emotional.

His touch, when it comes, is featherlight, a mockery of tenderness. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, tilting your face upward to meet his shadowed eyes. They’re not cruel, not overtly violent, but they burn with a simmering hunger that no amount of carnage could sate. He studies you like he’s dissecting a prey he’s already gutted, curious and detached yet filled with a predatory satisfaction.

“You think you can scream,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. “But here… no one hears. No one comes. This silence—” he leans closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear—”is the sweetest part of the requiem.”

The violin case rests nearby, its ominous presence a constant reminder of his duality. Inside lies Requiem, a weapon that has sung the dirge of countless demons, yet in his hands, it becomes something more—a symbol of his madness, his grief, his obsession. You’ve seen him caress the case with more reverence than he’s ever shown another human being. It’s as if his soul, fractured and jagged, resides within its confines.

His hands trail lower, the leather of his gloves scraping against your skin, leaving a path of gooseflesh in their wake. You shudder, but it’s not from the cold. It’s the way his touch feels like ownership, like a brand searing into your flesh.

Granger is not gentle. He doesn’t believe in softness. The world has never been kind to him, and he sees no reason to extend that courtesy to anyone, least of all you. Yet there’s an artistry to his cruelty, a methodical precision that speaks of his inner torment. You are his audience, his instrument, and tonight, he intends to play you until you break.

His lips curve into a faint smirk as he tilts your head back, his gloved hand gripping your throat with just enough pressure to make your pulse quicken. “Do you know,” he whispers, his tone almost conversational, “why I keep you alive?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

“It’s not for love,” he continues, his voice dark, melodic. “It’s not for affection or warmth. Those are luxuries I cannot afford. No…” His thumb brushes over your racing pulse, savoring the way it flutters like a trapped bird. “It’s because you make the silence bearable. Your fear, your resistance, your tears—they’re the melody that drowns out the noise.”

And then, with the same eerie grace that defines him, he steps back, leaving you gasping for air. He retrieves the violin case, opening it with the care of a man unveiling a sacred relic. The instrument gleams in the dim light, its polished surface unmarred by the bloodshed it has witnessed.

He plays for you sometimes—not out of kindness, but to remind you of the life you’ll never reclaim. The mournful notes fill the room, echoing off the walls like a dirge for the living. It’s beautiful, haunting, a stark contrast to the violence that defines him.

As the final note fades, he sets the violin aside and turns to you once more. His eyes gleam with a dark satisfaction, a predator surveying his prey.

“You won’t leave,” he says, his voice soft but firm, like a command written in stone. “Not because you can’t… but because deep down, you know. You belong to me.”

And as the darkness closes in, you realize with chilling clarity that he’s right.

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♡ Gusion.

The moon hung over Castle Aberleen, a luminous scythe against the abyss of the night. Its light seeped through the jagged cracks of the ancient stone walls, pooling on the icy floors in fractured streams. The chill that crept through the air was unnatural, a biting presence that clung to your skin and made your breaths visible, each exhalation dissipating like ghosts lost to the void. In the suffocating silence, he waited, cloaked in the shadows that seemed to bend to his will, as though even the darkness obeyed his command.

Gusion watched you from the far corner of the room, his lean figure blending seamlessly into the dimness. There was a precision to his stillness, a calculated tension coiled in his frame like a blade poised on the verge of unsheathing. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving as cut glass, traced the fragile contours of your form. Every rise and fall of your chest as you slumbered, every shift of your limbs under the thin blanket, was etched into his memory with surgical exactness.

He had always been fascinated by fragility—how effortlessly it could break, how its destruction revealed the truth beneath. You were no different. Soft, vulnerable, utterly unprepared for the monster that had breached the sanctuary of your quarters. You were an enigma he sought to unravel, a riddle written in the language of skin and bone, breath and pulse. And oh, how tempting it was to solve you.

You stirred faintly in your sleep, your lips parting as a muted sigh escaped. The sound was nearly imperceptible, but to him, it resonated like a siren’s call. His fingers twitched at his sides, where faint tendrils of light magic flickered like the dying embers of a fire barely restrained. It would take so little to touch you—to mark you—and leave behind evidence of his existence in the hollows of your being.

“You sleep so peacefully,” he murmured under his breath, his voice a low cadence of menace and reverence. The words were not meant for you to hear, yet they seemed to hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. He stepped closer, his movements so deliberate, so unnervingly silent that not even the creak of the floorboards betrayed him.

The room itself seemed complicit in his intrusion. The faint scent of lavender that clung to your skin mingled with the metallic tang of the cold, creating an intoxicating blend that muddled his senses. He stopped mere inches from your bed, his gaze devouring every detail of you. The delicate curve of your neck, the vulnerability in the way your fingers curled loosely against the sheets—all of it was an invitation, whether you realized it or not.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?” he whispered, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear. His words were a scalpel, slicing through the stillness with surgical precision. You stirred again, a faint whimper escaping your lips, but his hand was already on you, firm and unyielding, pinning you to the bed before consciousness could fully grasp your predicament.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and glazed with panic as they met his. The sheer intensity of his gaze rooted you in place, a predator’s focus locking onto prey. He loomed over you, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, as though the air itself had been stolen from your lungs.

“Shh…” His voice was deceptively gentle, a soft croon that barely masked the razor edge beneath. “Don’t scream. You wouldn’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, would you?”

His fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin upward with an unsettling tenderness that belied the bruising force of his grip. The juxtaposition was calculated, designed to disorient and unnerve. His touch was cold, clinical, yet imbued with a possessiveness that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“You’re trembling,” he observed, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts amusement and malice. “Is it fear? Or something else? I wonder…”

Your body betrayed you, trembling under his scrutiny even as your mind screamed for escape. The struggle only seemed to amuse him further, his expression darkening with satisfaction as his hands began to roam. Every movement was deliberate, methodical, as though he were dissecting you with his touch alone.

“So fragile,” he murmured, his voice laced with something akin to awe. “So exquisitely breakable. It’s almost poetic, really.”

The faint hum of his magic grew louder, a pulsating rhythm that resonated in your very bones. The light it emitted cast eerie shadows across the room, distorting reality into something nightmarish. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your skin, as his lips ghosted over the sensitive curve of your neck.

“Did you think you could run from me?” he asked, his tone conversational yet dripping with menace. “Did you truly believe you could hide?”

His teeth grazed your skin, a fleeting threat that sent a jolt of terror coursing through you. The pressure increased, sharp enough to draw blood but not quite enough to break the skin. He reveled in your reaction, the way your body stiffened, your breaths coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

“You belong to me,” he growled, the words a binding oath that echoed through the room. “No one else will ever touch you. No one else will ever have you. Do you understand?”

The air was thick with the scent of blood and magic, an intoxicating blend that blurred the line between pain and pleasure. His hands tightened around you, his fingers digging into your flesh with bruising intensity. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in like the jaws of some monstrous beast, trapping you in this twisted tableau.

“Stop struggling,” he hissed, his voice a venomous command that left no room for defiance. “It’s pointless. You’re mine. You always have been.”

When he finally pulled away, his expression was one of dark triumph. His fingers trailed down your body one last time, leaving behind a searing heat that felt like a brand, marking you as irrevocably his. The faint glow of his magic lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of his presence.

“Remember this,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “No matter where you go, no matter how far you run, I will find you. And when I do, it will be as though you never left.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, leaving you trembling and broken in his wake, the echo of his words lingered, a sinister promise that etched itself into your soul. And in the oppressive silence that followed, you knew with chilling certainty that he was right.

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♡ Aamon.

It begins in the silence of Castle Aberleen, where the cold moonlight filters through stained glass, painting the stone walls with fractured colors of blue and crimson. Aamon, the Duke of Shards, watches you with an expression carved from ice and fire. His pale eyes are unreadable, glinting like his conjured mana shards—beautiful, sharp, and merciless.

To him, you are not just a curiosity but a challenge—a test of his resolve, his discipline, his control. Yet control is a tenuous thing, a thread stretched too tight. He doesn’t break it outright; no, breaking things is for common men. Aamon unravels control strand by strand, methodically, purposefully, until there is nothing left to bind him but his own desire, raw and unrelenting.

You never asked to be caught in his orbit. Perhaps it was your misfortune, or perhaps it was his. He doesn’t care to decide. He only knows that you are here now, your shadow crossing his domain like a streak of sunlight piercing the abyss, and that alone is enough to condemn you. Not to death—no, death is too fleeting, too easy—but to him. To the cage he will forge from his affection, his obsession, and his cruelty.

When he first touches you, it’s almost gentle, almost tender—a gloved hand brushing against your arm as he leans close, his breath cold against your ear. He whispers something, words meant to soothe, but the undertone is unmistakable. It’s a warning, a claim, a promise. His lips curl into a faint smile, but his eyes betray him. They are dark, bottomless, promising horrors you can barely fathom.

You try to resist, of course. It’s in your nature, as much as it’s in his to pursue. Resistance makes it sweeter for him. He thrives on the dance, the back-and-forth, the tension stretched so tight it threatens to snap. Each time you pull away, he tightens his grip, his patience fraying but his desire sharpening. Aamon is not a man to be defied lightly, and you learn this in ways both subtle and brutal.

In the shadows of the castle, he strips away your defenses with a precision that speaks of his training. His words are daggers, cutting through your resolve, leaving you raw and exposed. He speaks of duty, of loyalty, of love twisted into something unrecognizable. His voice is a low murmur, smooth as silk and just as binding. “You don’t understand,” he tells you, his tone almost mournful. “Everything I do, everything I am, is for the ones I love. For you.”

But love, in his hands, is a weapon. He wields it expertly, slicing through your will until there’s nothing left but your trembling submission. When he finally claims you, it is not an act of passion but of possession. His touch is scorching, his hands roaming your body as if to memorize every curve, every shiver, every desperate gasp. He moves with calculated grace, his strength tempered by an unyielding need to dominate, to control. Every kiss, every caress, is a mark of ownership, a declaration that you are his and his alone.

He takes his time, savoring each moment, each sound you make, each futile struggle. His voice, low and commanding, pierces through the haze of fear and desire. “You belong to me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Every breath, every thought, every inch of you. Mine.”

And yet, there’s a fragility to his madness, a crack in the armor. In the quiet moments, when the heat of his rage and desire subsides, he looks at you with something resembling vulnerability. He doesn’t apologize—he never would—but there’s an unspoken plea in his eyes, a desperate need for you to understand, to accept him for what he is.

But acceptance is not your choice. He has stripped that from you, just as he has stripped away your freedom, your dignity, your sense of self. What remains is a hollow echo of the person you once were, a reflection of the man who has claimed you.

Aamon is not kind. He is not gentle. But in the rare moments when he allows himself to be soft, it is almost worse. Because in those moments, you see the man beneath the monster, and it becomes all too clear: he is not beyond redemption, but he chooses this path, this darkness. And he has chosen you to walk it with him, whether you will it or not.

And so, the Duke of Shards keeps you close, his most precious possession, his most exquisite torment. He watches you as he would a star in the void—something beautiful, distant, and entirely his.

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♡ Xavier.

The silence drips like blood, thick and suffocating, pooling around the dim chamber where you stand paralyzed. Shadows lick at the edges of the barrier Xavier has erected, its stark light casting cruel illumination on the scene. His eyes—blue, sharp, and cold as a blade—are fixed on you, and though his lips curl into the faintest approximation of a smile, there’s nothing but venom beneath it. He looms over you, impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in the pristine vestments of his station. A contradiction: the embodiment of light, yet soaked in a darkness that seeps from every pore.

“Did you think,” he begins, his voice a measured hum, low and dangerous, “that you could slip from the light’s grasp? Even shadows are born of its radiance.”

You flinch against the searing gaze that seems to strip you bare, his power coiling like a serpent around your chest. The mystic energy that crackles in the air is suffocating, a living thing that laps hungrily at your skin. Each breath you take feels stolen. He has caged you here, the walls of light forming an inescapable prison—your last, bitter sanctuary. His presence dominates the space, a crushing inevitability that consumes the very concept of escape.

He steps closer. The sound of his boots on the stone floor echoes with deliberate finality, each step a nail driven into the coffin of your freedom. The heat radiating from him is overwhelming, oppressive, and alive with a silent promise. You try to look anywhere but at him, anywhere but at the man who stands as both executioner and savior. But his gloved hand is there, tilting your chin with a gentleness so at odds with the storm raging behind his eyes.

“Look at me,” he orders, and the authority in his voice strikes something primal within you. Reluctantly, trembling, you obey. His sapphire eyes gleam with an unholy intensity, a fire that threatens to consume you. “That’s better. I prefer seeing the truth written on your face.”

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundary between what is his to possess and what he has yet to claim. The contact burns, not with heat but with the cold inevitability of a man who has decided he will not be denied.

“You defied me,” he whispers, his tone threaded with something more dangerous than anger—a quiet, simmering madness. “You spat in the face of everything I’ve sacrificed. Do you understand what that means?”

You want to answer, to plead, to scream, but his grip shifts faster than thought. In one smooth motion, he’s seized your wrists and pinned them above your head, his strength inhuman, unyielding. The barrier at your back thrums with energy, and its light burns against your skin. You can feel his breath against your cheek, warm and steady, even as yours comes in ragged, panicked gasps.

“Ten years,” he growls, the words rasping out like a confession to the abyss. “Ten years of serving hypocrisy, of fighting for a world unworthy of salvation. Ten years of losing pieces of myself, piece by bloody piece.”

His voice breaks, but only for an instant. The mask slips, revealing the depth of his despair before the cruelty returns, sharper than before. He leans closer, his lips brushing the curve of your ear.

“And now you dare to defy me? You, of all people?”

The question is rhetorical; he’s not interested in answers. His other hand, gloved and steady, moves from your chin to trail down your arm, each touch a cruel mimicry of affection. Your body reacts against your will, muscles trembling under his predatory attention. There’s nothing soft about his touch—it’s clinical, calculated, the touch of a man dissecting his prey to savor its fragility.

“You’re afraid,” he observes, his voice tinged with something akin to delight. “Good. Fear suits you. It’s honest.”

There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes as he tightens his hold on your wrists, forcing your body flush against the barrier. The light behind you flares, casting his features into stark relief. He is beautiful, impossibly so, but it’s the kind of beauty that scars—the razor’s edge of a man who has abandoned all pretenses of humanity.

“Do you want to know what I’ve learned in all these years?” he asks, his tone softening to something almost mournful. “Righteousness is a lie. Justice, mercy, hope… illusions spun to keep the masses compliant. There is no light without darkness, no salvation without sacrifice. And you—” he pauses, his lips brushing against your temple, “—you were supposed to be my solace. My tether.”

His words hit like blows, each one carving a deeper wound in the fragile armor of your resolve. Tears prick at your eyes, unbidden, and he notices. Of course, he notices. A cruel smile spreads across his face, and his thumb brushes away the first tear that falls, smearing it across your cheek.

“But solace is a luxury I no longer deserve,” he continues, his voice dipping into something darker, more intimate. “So instead, I’ll take what I need. What I’m owed.”

The mystic energy in the air thickens, the barrier behind you pulsing in time with your racing heartbeat. He presses closer, his body a furnace against your trembling form. There’s a hunger in his eyes now, an all-consuming need that has nothing to do with the righteousness he once championed. He wants to break you, to carve his name into your soul, to make you his in every way that matters and some that don’t.

“You can struggle,” he murmurs, his lips so close to yours that the words seem to linger between you, “but it won’t change anything. The light consumes everything it touches, and you… you are too exquisite to remain unclaimed.”

His lips brush yours, a ghost of a kiss that’s more cruel than tender, leaving you gasping. His grip on your wrists doesn’t falter, even as his free hand moves to cradle your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. You search his face for humanity, for some shred of the man he once was, but all you find is the abyss staring back.

“Hate me if it makes you feel better,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “Fight me. Curse me. In the end, it won’t matter. You’ll belong to me.”

The barrier flares one last time, bathing the room in blinding light. For a moment, you’re weightless, untethered from everything but the reality of his presence. Xavier’s lips curve into a smirk, and his voice drops to a whisper that cuts deeper than any blade.

“One way or another.”

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