#╭▐ ;; [ WILT & BLOOM | ooc ]

[juricel]

I got an idea for a yandere shadow milk thing...a yandere concept i thought up in general.

Imagine yandere shadow milk with a love who just...doesn't fight back. Like they laze around shadow milk's home, let's him shower them with affection, and just easily gives in...to the point where even shadow milk would be so concerned why y/n just...gave up to him so easily.

Think it's because of him being a very powerful beast? No! It's because y/n is just...weak and had just...given up.

If ya wanna go darker...maybe say they had a bad homelife or something? If you're uncomfortable with that then feel free to make your own reason why reader is...well already broken in a way so they just accept shadow milk taking them in and stuff...

Like can already imagine some senarios like shadow milk putting y/n outside to get some fresh air and trying to spark some life back into them but what do they do? They just...waddle back into the spire and flop onto the couch.

Just an interesting concept of a love who has already given up before the yandere-ness even started and just goes with the flow...

Sorry if this is a weird concept and if ya don't wanna do it, it's completely fine and I can always just send in another request to replace this one.

If you do end up writing it...I hope you enjoy it! If not then apologies if this request makes ya uncomfortable in any way/shape/form...

a/n: it's a pretty unique idea! and nono, don't worry, if anything, i have written worse before so no worries!

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x corpse-like! reader hcs

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: surprisingly not much content warning, yanderes, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, mentioned mindbreak, implied physical and emotional abuse, potential ooc.

𖦁 shadow milk cookie adores puppets (cookies); doted on the way they come haywire when deluded when brainwashed with illusions, doted on the way they struggle and kicked like overturned beetles, their legs scrabbling at the air, at nothing, at everything—scrambling and holding onto grains of sand between their fingers to maintain their sanity. a deliciously absurd, perfectly grotesque show! they were foolish—adorable! and shadow milk cookie, ever the connoisseur of folly, relished their spasms, their little convulsive rebellions against the strings they could not see. a puppet is at its most exquisite when it believes in its own freedom, when it writhes not out of obedience but out of some feverish, implanted conviction that it resists. he watched them with the indulgence of an artist admiring his own brushstrokes—oh, the precision of their programmed passions, the meticulous choreography of their so-called thoughts! one whispered suggestion, a single tug at the right filament, and behold!—a revolution, a devotion, a hatred, all flaring up like phosphorous, consuming, dazzling, and then, just as suddenly, extinguished: it always never failed to draw a good laugh from him, but oh, his sweet moth-lit darling, his dear starved seraph, didn't fall under the category.

𖦁 at first, he was ecstatic—how prettily you danced, how sweetly you swayed to the tug of his strings. his dear puppet, so pliant, so perfectly wound to his will. but oh, how swiftly delight sours into monotony! the charm of obedience is in its resistance, in the tension before surrender, in the flickering illusion of will before it is snuffed out. and you, poor thing, had gone limp too soon, a marionette whose joints no longer creaked, whose painted eyes no longer widened in horror or bliss. what was left to do but break you apart? a toy must shatter to be new again, to sing anew in its ruin. but even as he wrenched and twisted, even as he chipped away at that fragile veneer, you remained—ah, how dreadfully, how disappointingly the same! the same sweet darling, limp as a wilted bloom, with a demeanor not unlike a corpse cooling beneath its shroud. and oh, how that vexed him, bringing a petulant frown to his lips.

𖦁 and almost, almost, he feels bad but not enough to free you from his strings. of course, he could try again—he always could. and yet, the results, much to his mounting vexation, remained unchanged. you remained unchanged. a broken puppet that did not twitch, a porcelain thing that refused to shatter properly, no matter how fervently he willed it. and so, in a rare moment of something almost resembling consideration, he entertained the notion—briefly, ever so briefly—of letting you go. not as an act of mercy, no, but as an experiment. don't get him wrong! he adored you best when you were a ruin of his own making, deadened, petrified, crumbling deliciously at the seams—but only when it was by his hand. the thought of anyone else attempting to unmake you, to claim the pleasure of watching you fall apart—ah, the sheer audacity! he would kill them. and he would do it without fanfare, without flourish, as one swats an insect interrupting an evening’s amusement. So, for once, he loosened his grasp, allowed you the illusion of escape, certain—no, convinced—that this taste of freedom would rekindle the lost spark, that you would return quivering, trembling, gasping, that the dance would begin anew with the liveliness he so craved. but oh. oh, how infuriating. you returned just as you had left—unshaken, unchanged, that same placid corpse as you were. the same glass-eyed indifference, the same dreadful, impenetrable stillness. A doll left too long in the rain, not softened, not weakened, merely waterlogged with something he could neither extract nor break.

𖦁 ah, how he despised it, that wretched imperfection, that offense to his carefully curated world. there must be a way to remedy it, to smooth out the unsightly edges, to make you whole—no, to make you better.

a/n: juricel writing a somewhat soft yandere shadow milk cookie?? hmm! for a good while, i was actually stuck on how to make him soft while still making him the good ol shadow milk cookie i like... do you guys prefer this shadow milk cookie or a meaner version?

[houseofhyde]

⏤ another man, series masterlist.

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader

series synopsis. a wolf and a dragon. a queen and a prince. lady stark and aemond targaryen. a marriage should keep them apart. lust draws them together. when one agrees to tutor the other in the many ways of pleasure, a countdown towards their mutual downfall begins. ( each chapter features individual synopses. )

series warnings. canon divergence (the greens win the war), brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader (though there is no mention of her skin tone, hair colour, etc...) no use of y/n, slow burn, mutual pining, forbidden love, infidelity, sexually inexperienced reader, emotionally stunted aemond, themes of infertility/pregnancy, aegon is a shit husband, angst, fluff, & lots of smut. ( each chapter features individual warnings. )

series wordcount. 65.6k (so far )

a word from hyde. this series features my own reimagining of events pre, during, and post the dance of the dragons, along with my own interpretations of the characters. if you yourself do not like the featured canon divergence or find my portrayal of aemond (or any other canon character) to be ooc, please kindly skip over this series. this series does not have a taglist.

read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

i. another man’s feast. ( 3.5k )

chapter synopsis. aemond has only ever wanted to take care of you. too bad you’re married to his neglectful brother.

ii. another man’s comfort. ( 16.1k )

chapter synopsis. a wedding calls you north, your duty calls you to your husband, your heart calls you to aemond.

iii. another man’s pleasure. ( 13.6k )

chapter synopsis. a pregnancy, a nameday and a drunken evening make for a dangerous concoction between the one-eyed dragon and the royal wolf.

iv. another man’s pain. ( 19.4k )

chapter synopsis. a visit to dorne goes awry as an unexpected visitor arrives, tensions between in-laws come to ahead at last.

v. another man's legacy. ( 13k )

chapter synopsis. prince aemond calls all with fire in their blood forth to dragonstone with promise of a grand announcement, unawares of the king's own announcement.

vi. another man’s jealousy. ( coming october )

chapter synopsis. a vicious rumour spreads through the court, forcing the prince to prove just how green he can be.

vii. another man's promise. ( coming november )

chapter synopsis. in the warmth of summer, hope blooms. but how long until it wilts?

viii. another man’s wrath. ( coming december )

chapter synopsis. a bloodied gown, a funeral pyre, a pile of ashes. in his wrath, her mercy prevails.

ix. another man’s view. ( coming january )

chapter synopsis. aegon confronts the sin of his kin.

x. another man’s love. ( coming february)

chapter synopsis. lady stark learns that, sometimes, to love is to lose.

xi. another man’s exile. ( coming march )

chapter synopsis. the time has come where even a dragon must flee.

xii. another man’s wife. ( coming april )

chapter synopsis. the song of wolf and dragon comes to an end.

[slut4slytherinss]

These feelings

SEND REQUESTS!!

Summary: in which reader and Mattheo despise each other, until the moonflowers bloom.

1,767 words

Warnings: no mention of the Slytherin friend group, Tom is Mattheo’s dad in this, surprisingly I’ve managed to write no cursing so.. ooc Mattheo! Rushed and not proofread, a total cliffhanger.

2nd person pov

Gryffindor reader

Female reader

The air in the Potions classroom crackled with more than just the fumes of Bubotuber pus. Mattheo Riddle, the epitome of Slytherin arrogance, smirked across the cauldron at you, a Gryffindor simmering with righteous indignation. His obsidian eyes, a chilling reflection of his infamous father, held a challenge you couldn't resist.

"Looks like your concoction resembles swamp muck more than Veritaserum, Gryffindor," Mattheo drawled, his voice a silken threat.

You bristled, your retort sharp. "At least I haven't resorted to cheating, Riddle." You knew it was untrue, at least in this class, but the way he effortlessly manipulated his potion, his every movement oozing practiced superiority, grated on your nerves.

Professor Snape, his usual scowl deepening, swept between your cauldrons, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud. "Silence! Riddle, five points from Slytherin for your disruptive commentary. Y/n, another five from Gryffindor for accusations. Now, focus on your potions!"

The rest of the double Potions lesson crawled by, punctuated by stolen glances and silent barbs exchanged between you and Mattheo. You couldn't deny a strange pull towards him, a morbid fascination that warred with your Gryffindor loyalty. He was everything you loathed – a dark echo of the war that had ravaged the wizarding world – yet you couldn't tear your eyes away from his sharp features and the way his lips curled into a sardonic smile.

-

Days turned into weeks, the animosity between you a constant undercurrent. You'd clash in Defense Against the Dark Arts, your jinxes meeting his hexes in a flurry of sparks. In Herbology, you'd find his carefully tended Venomous Tentacula mysteriously wilting, a silent message that only you understood.

One blustery April evening, you were returning from the library, a stack of Transfiguration books threatening to topple over, when you bumped into someone. Books scattered across the wet cobblestones, a frustrated groan escaping your lips.

"Need a hand, Gryffindor?"

Looking up, you met Mattheo's gaze. The smirk was absent, replaced by a hint of amusement. You considered letting him wallow in your misfortune, but a flicker of something… kindness? in his eyes softened your resolve.

"Actually, yes," you admitted grudgingly.

Together, you gathered the books, a comfortable silence settling between you as you brushed dirt off the parchment. As you handed him a particularly heavy tome, your fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through you, making you gasp.

Mattheo's eyes widened for a fleeting moment before he masked his surprise. "Seems you're not immune to all Slytherin charms, Gryffindor," he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Heat flooded your cheeks. You snatched the book back, stammering, "It's nothing. Just… static." You turned to leave, desperate to escape the unexpected turn of events.

"Wait," Mattheo called out, his voice softer than you expected. He hesitated, then added, "The greenhouses are open tonight. The moonflowers are supposed to be blooming."

You stared at him, unsure of his motives. Was this another one of his games? Yet, the allure of the moonflowers, a rare and beautiful sight, was too strong to resist.

"Fine," you finally conceded, surprising yourself.

-

The walk to the greenhouses was filled with a tense silence. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile sharp under the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance.

Reaching the greenhouse dedicated to magical flora, you were greeted by the ethereal glow of moonflowers. Their petals, the color of moonlight itself, shimmered with an otherworldly beauty.

"They're… amazing," you whispered, mesmerized.

Mattheo stood beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. "They say they grant wishes," he said, his voice barely above a murmur.

You scoffed. "Wishes? Like childish fairy tales?"

He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the moonflowers. You felt a sudden urge to know him better, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a shadow.

"Tell me about your father," you blurted out, the words catching in your throat.

Mattheo's head snapped towards you, his eyes hardening. "Don't," he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Regret washed over you. You knew it was a forbidden topic, a raw nerve he wouldn't appreciate being prodded.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, turning away.

A tense silence stretched between you and Mattheo, broken only by the soft hum of nocturnal insects. The ethereal glow of the moonflowers seemed to mock the awkwardness, their delicate beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

"It's not that simple," Mattheo finally said, his voice low and strained. "He's powerful, yes, but there's more to him than just darkness. There's a reason some still follow him, a reason I can't entirely… disavow."

His words hung heavy in the air. You understood his hesitation. Voldemort, his father, was a symbol of pure evil, a name whispered in fear. Yet, a part of you couldn't help but feel a flicker of sympathy for Mattheo, burdened by the weight of such a legacy.

"Do you… fear him?" you asked softly, surprised by your own boldness.

Mattheo turned to you, his obsidian eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions you couldn't decipher. "Fear is a luxury I can't afford," he said finally. "But there's a constant… wariness. A knowledge that even the smallest misstep could have dire consequences."

You felt a pang of empathy for him. Despite his aloofness and occasional cruelty, Mattheo was just a boy, grappling with the burden of a monstrous father.

"You're not him, Mattheo," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You have a choice."

He flinched at your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze to where your hand rested on his arm. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent question hanging between you.

The heat radiating from his arm beneath your touch was unexpected, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night air. His fingers twitched, a silent battle raging within him between acknowledging the connection and maintaining his usual stoic facade.

"I know," Mattheo said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "And that's exactly what scares me." He turned away, his back ramrod straight, but you could see the vulnerability flickering in his tightly held posture.

"What scares you?" you asked softly, stepping closer. He remained silent, his jaw clenched, until you reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. His head snapped back, his gaze meeting yours, a storm of emotions brewing within.

"That this," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "this feeling… it weakens me." He gestured vaguely around the greenhouse, the unspoken implication clear - the vulnerability you represented put him at risk.

"Weakens you how?" you pressed, your voice a gentle challenge. "Makes you a target? Or makes you… feel something you haven't allowed yourself to feel before?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a grudging respect. He sighed, a tremor of vulnerability in the breath that escaped his lips. "Both," he admitted, his voice raw. "The truth is… I haven't allowed myself to feel anything for anyone other than myself in a long time."

His words hung in the air, a heavy confession. You understood. Growing up in the shadow of Voldemort, fear and suspicion were likely the only emotions he knew. The vulnerability he felt towards you was a foreign territory, something he didn't know how to navigate, something that scared him.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Maybe feeling something, even fear, is better than feeling nothing at all."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes. In that moment, the air vibrated with unspoken emotions – a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a spark of something else entirely.

"Maybe," he finally conceded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The tension started to dissipate, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

Suddenly, the harsh clanging of the castle curfew bell echoed through the night. Both of you jumped, startled by the sound.

"We should get back," Mattheo said, his voice regaining its usual composure. He offered you his hand, the gesture unexpectedly formal.

You hesitated for a beat, surprised by the formality of his outstretched hand. It was a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability he'd just revealed. Was he retreating back behind his Slytherin mask, the emotional connection a fleeting aberration?

Taking a deep breath, you slipped your hand into his. The warmth from his touch sent a jolt through you, a silent confirmation that the moment hadn't been entirely imagined.

"We should," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper.

-

The walk back to the castle was filled with a comfortable silence, a stark contrast to the charged tension that usually surrounded your interactions. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile etched sharp against the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance, a flicker of hope battling the ever-present wariness in his eyes.

As you approached the castle grounds, the imposing silhouette of the building a stark reminder of the rules and boundaries that separated Gryffindors and Slytherins, Mattheo stopped abruptly.

"Wait," he said, his voice low.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment, sending shivers down your spine.

"This…" he began, his voice husky, "this can't happen again, can it?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The danger of their connection, the weight of his family legacy, the very real possibility of getting hurt – all of it swirled in the space between you.

"I don't know," you admitted honestly. "But maybe…" you trailed off, searching his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't have to be like this. Maybe there's another way."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a slow, hesitant smile. "Another way?" he echoed, a hint of hope creeping into his voice.

You stepped even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we can find a way to be… more. Not enemies, not exactly friends, but something in between. Something real."

He stared at you for a long moment, the moonlight glinting off the unshed tears in his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached out and cupped your cheek with his hand.

"Maybe," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Maybe we can try."

The bell tolled once more, a harsh reminder of the world outside their bubble. With a final lingering look, Mattheo squeezed your hand gently before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the castle.

-

A/n: would you guys hate me if I ended it like that?

[thunder-opossum]

Woof. Okay guys. This is the rest of Sizzles story. I will still be drawing him, but I just want to tell his ending. Feel free to send asks and I will answer OOC.

So he leaves the shelter closest to the entrance of metroplis just as it closes, traping Artificer inside while he runs to warn the scavengers.

He jumps up the western wall, the one you'd usually leave the chieftains throne from. He gets pretty scraped up by narrowly avoiding spears and recklessly boosting into concrete. But he makes it.

Meanwhile, Artificer is exploding as much as she can to escape the shelter. This will leave her weekend but free.

Sizzle warns the chieftain. The chieftain's citizen ID drone labels Sizzle with the mark of the chieftain, adding to her understanding of Sizzle's situation. She is fully prepared to start sending elites tworads Artificer. However...

She's already here, much worse for wear, but burning with absolute fury. She doesn't even address Sizzle, charging straight for the chieftain, explosive spear in hand. Sizzle would most certainly end up with a new scar if Artificer had caught up to him earlier.

A fight ensues as Sizzle watches in horror, every second he is reminded of his life that lead him here. Every painful and joyful moment spent with Artificer or his tribe.

Artificer gets the best of the chieftain, splitting her mask in two, she raises a spear for one last blow...

And Sizzle tackles her to the ground. Rasing his own spear, his eyes tear up and his heart races. He stabs into Artificer's skull, killing her in an instant.

This scene is parallel to the one in this post where Sizzle kills a vulture to protect someone.

Sizzle is obviously left distraught. This was far from the hasty plan he made earlier. His mother was dead by his own hands. For all the pain she caused him, it was still difficult to come to terms with what he's done.

The chieftain comes to Sizzle's aid as he stumbles backwards. A karma flower blooms from Artificer's skull, quickly wilting, signifying permadeath. She was gone. Forever.

Sizzle is given one half of the chieftain's mast to signal his sacrifice. He lives among the chieftain, and her pup

Who bares a similar appearance and personality to Tangled Kelp.

Sizzle finds solace in this for the moment. So eventually, with his reputation restored, a key to Metropolis, and his freedom. He returns to Five Pebbles.

And that's really it. The rest of his days are spent hanging out with scavengers, helping deal with the damage Artificer left, and living his life. I'll do some stuff about who he meets (cannon characters) and how long he lives if you guys ask about it. It's not priority right now though.

Thanks for helping me through the motivation to finish this story, its been a blast to tell :3

Reminder that it's not the end of Sizzle content. I hope i gave you guys a good ending <3

[nhoirr]

SPRING CAME. | ALBUM BY g. satoru

[ GOJO SATORU X READER ]

LYRICS ✰ — Cherry blossoms in spring, the momentary beauty to behold. But black and blue paint your skin, and next spring comes in an endless rue, you wanted to ask — why were the most beautiful flowers, always the ones plucked from its roots? If spring was as blue as the reflection in his eyes, as tides turn like the changes of time; and flowers would wilt in time, like how you were what was left of his last year's spring. This time, came in blue hues, when you flowed like petals off cherry blossom blooms — and just like every other time, you were the last of his spring. and there were no next blooms.

#.angst #.death #.spoilers!ahead.jjkS2 #.ooc? #.smitten!gojo

.. 💿 ALBUM PLAYLIST

{SERIES CHAPTERS}

TRACK 01. — KEEP A PLACE FOR ME

“Summer, was a time of our lives.” childhood lovers. When the ocean meets with the shoreline.

TRACK 02. — NO PLACE OTHER THAN HOME

through the seasons of autumn. The next time the ocean waves met to ebb away at the sea shores, yet there was no longer any shoreline to meet.

For the ocean that seeked refuge in the place it abandoned long ago, longing for the times it wishes to relive once again.

TRACK 03. — TOO SOON, TOO LATE

For when winter had ended, spring came too soon, and summer came too late.

the love that bloomed too soon and realized only when the storm cleared, did the ocean finally see that the once tall mountain filled with bountiful life — was engulfed by the waves, buried in the eternal tides of the deep ocean.

©nhoirr — DO NOT COPY NOR PLAGIARIZE MY WORKS !

release date between 1/30~2/1. follow the tag — #.ALBUM? — 💽 : SPRING CAME - g. satoru. chapters will be posted under that tag!

[cnnmairoll]

Hello. I was wondering if you could you write a platonic angst story where the reader is Blade's child. I was thinking usually the only thing that could calm Blade down when the mara flared up was Kafka's spirit whisper but what if being around the reader was also able to calm Blade down for some reason because Blade barely spends any time with the reader unless it's during one of his harsh training sessions and one night the reader decides enough was enough and started packing their stuff but they left behind their lucky weapon (that's your choice) and Blade found it the next morning.

A Cup of Cold Tea

Character : Blade Genre : Angst Disclaimer : The relationship between the reader and Blade will be platonic as stated by the request. a/n : This was my first Request, but it didn't take long for me to find out about the anon sending the same request to most of the HSR writers despite their request was closed. I kept it in my drafts since it would be a waste if i just scrap it all out, not to mention my friend helped me out on this one, so I decided, why not just write the final paragraph and post? Things has been quite rough and busy for me so I'm not done with my hiatus, but I hope you enjoy p.s im sorry if he's ooc here, I don't know his chara well

His blade descends on you, striking downwards in a beautiful arc to cleave your skull.

You dodge within an inch of your life, the after image of his sword burning into your retinas as you fall into a clumsy heap on the floor. Still, you spare no moment for yourself as you scramble up, his sword drawing contact to where you lay as soon as you move.

The minutes blends into hours, time being a concept of little value in the face of Blade's viciousness. It takes everything you have to simply focus on the present, dodging and deflecting when you can. You always stay on the defensive in fights like these; any window you have to strike opens itself for only a millisecond before Blade runs it through clean with his sword.

It makes you wonder how you'd fare if Blade gave it his all. You've seen Blade fight on missions enough times to know that he is much deadlier when he is putting in active effort. In contrast, his movements here are much more sloppy and rabid, fueled only by the unadulterated desire to destroy. It is the madness of his mara in its purest form, though it doesn't make his attacks any less fatal, as proven by the countless wounds that litter your body.

Dead within the first minute, probably, comes the stray thought. It proves to cost you when you earn a gash on your arm, blood spilling freely from your left. You grit your teeth; you need to pay attention. There's never a guarantee for your life when Blade gets like this.

Red spider lilies bloom around you like a garden welcoming death. It sings of carnage, reeking of blood that it greedily consumes, begging for more even if it will eventually wilt away. It feels symbolic, in a way. Out of the two of you, only you are the one who is able to experience true death.

Still, you cannot help but find the blooming sea of red beautiful, even if it is always likely to be your final resting place.

There is a lull in Blade's movements, the manic in his eyes glazing into a dull scarlet as he catches his breath. Immortal he may be, but even he has a limit he will reach. It is a mercy; not only does it signify that his mara has not yet reached a point of no return, it also allows you time to recuperate. Had Blade been given unlimited stamina on top of his self-healing, you would surely have died a long time ago.

Now that the man has tired himself, it is time to bring him back.

"Father," you begin. It comes out as a feeble whisper, your lungs still burning from exertion. Still, you must press on. "Are you okay?"

Blade is silent for a beat, then two. This is fine; you can wait for as long as he needs for your words to reach him. You've gone through this routine enough times to memorize his mannerisms, all of which are currently saying that you are in the clear. So long as his grip on his weapon doesn't tighten again, then you have nothing to be afraid of.

Silence reigns within the room, until you recognize the clarity return to Blade's eyes.

"..You," he grunts, voice hoarse. It's scratchy from his manic screaming and laughter, and you make a mental note to add honey to his tea for his throat.

You nod approvingly. "Yes, Father. Are you okay?" You repeat the question, and this time, Blade manages a sharp nod.

You grin, happy at his answer. You open your mouth to speak again, but Blade cuts you to it. "What happened to your arm?"

The man stares hard at something, and you follow his gaze to find the gash on your left arm. The bleeding has mostly stopped from what you can tell, but it's still an ugly thing to look at. You'll have to wash it soon.

You hum, considering. "It's only a minor cut, Father. I can patch it by myself later."

His eyebrows twitch, his eyes narrowing. "Come," he says simply, walking towards the door.

You let your sword disperse into particles of light before following Blade out of the room. You know there is no arguing with him when he gets like this. Any attempt to reassure him that you can handle yourself will only end with him staring at you with unreadable eyes until you inevitably give in. You're not sure if he does this because he is aware of this fact. Blade doesn't strike you as the type to be attentive to such details, but it's worked every single time, so.

You are both silent as he tends to your wound, cleaning it thoroughly before dutifully bandaging it. Blade even add bandages to the smaller cuts you would've left alone, meticulous in making sure all your wounds are taken care of. You know it is his way to apologize, as he is a silent man who prefers actions in lieu of words. That, and that he's always been awkward when it comes emotions like remorse.

"Get some rest," he says, returning the equipment to the first-aid kit. Blade looks at you, expectant, and it is only when you nod does he leave you alone.

He never calls you by name. It's something that bothered you when you were younger, but it's something you've grown to accept. You're not even certain Blade can recall your name if asked. You know it is his way to cope, to always be prepared for the day when you, too, will leave him. Remembering names are a burden on his soul, so the least you can do is spare him from remembering yours.

Your patience reached its limit. In the dead of night, you quietly packed your belongings and left a note behind. It was brief but carried the weight of your feelings: "I need to find my own path for a while. I hope you understand." You didn't sign it, hoping that the absence itself would convey the message more powerfully.

The moon hung high in the sky as you walked away from the place you called home, your steps determined despite the uncertainty that gnawed at you. You had no plan, no destination in mind. You just knew that you needed time away.

The next morning, Blade woke up to find the room unusually quiet. The absence of the usual sounds—your soft footsteps, the steaming sound of the kettle pot when you made his morning tea—was like a deafening silence. He pushed himself up, his senses alert even before his eyes fully opened. His gaze darted around the room, searching for any sign of your presence.

The sight of your neatly made bed and the note left on the table struck him like a blow. For a moment, he stood frozen, his heart heavy with a mixture of regret and realization. He had been so consumed by his own pursuits that he hadn't noticed the growing distance between you.

His eyes shifted to a corner of the room, where a familiar object caught his attention. There, placed with careful intention, was your lucky weapon. The fiery red blade of the sword gleamed in the soft morning light, its hilt wrapped in supple black leather. The pommel, resembling the closed bud of a red spider lily, held a sense of elegance and balance that echoed the bond between you and Blade.

A pang of guilt and longing gripped Blade's chest as he picked up the sword. The weight of it felt familiar in his hand, a stark reminder of the times he had shared with you. The sword seemed to dance in the air, reflecting both its deadly capabilities and the beauty of its craftsmanship—a reflection of the connection he had with you, one he had been neglecting.

Blade's footsteps were heavy as he left the room, carrying the sword with him. As he went to sit down and process your absence, he noticed a cup of tea placed neatly on the table. The tea, once steaming and fragrant, now languished in its cup, forgotten and neglected. It had been carefully prepared by you before you left, a gesture of concern and care. The faint aroma of the blend, a comforting blend of herbs and warmth, with a hint of honey, still clung to the air around it, a lingering reminder of their intention.

But time had been unkind to the tea, its temperature steadily dropping as it sat abandoned on the table. The steam that had once risen from its surface in delicate tendrils, carrying with it the promise of comfort, had now dissipated into the air. The liquid's once-rich hue had faded slightly, a sign that its vitality was waning, much like the embers of a dying fire.

Blade's eyes fell upon the cup, his gaze drawn to the cold tea that had been left for him. His fingers, calloused from years of wielding the blade, reached out to touch the cup, and he felt the chill radiating from its surface. It was a stark contrast to the warmth he had felt earlier, a reminder of how quickly time could transform something from inviting to forgotten.

As he wrapped his fingers around the cup, he couldn't help but recall the hoarse quality of his voice that had consumed him during their training session. You noticed, as you always did, attuned to the subtleties of his state. The touch of honey they had added was a balm for his throat, a gesture that had been both practical and considerate.

Blade's throat tightened with an emotion he couldn't quite name. The cold tea before him held within it layers of meaning—your concern, your attempt to provide comfort, and a reminder of his own shortcomings.

Regret gnawed at his insides, twisting and churning with every breath he took. Guilt clawed at his conscience, tearing through the facade of indifference he had so carefully crafted. Loneliness engulfed him like a suffocating cloak, reminding him of the void left in your absence. And yet, beneath it all, there flickered a tiny ember of hope—a glimmer of redemption, a chance to right the wrongs he had committed.

Blade couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of despair that threatened to consume him whole. For in that moment, he realized that the hardest battle he would ever face was not against his enemies, but against the demons of his own making—the ones that whispered of his failures and shortcomings, echoing relentlessly in the caverns of his heart.

[etheries1015]

Hello Ethie!! How have you been?❤️

I just read those "overworking reader with Artem and Zhongli" and they were so sweet, and I was wondering - if your requests are open if you could write something on that topic but for Gepard Geppie and Welt?<3 Comfort fluff, sweet comfort, tooth rotting safety- hwjwdkfkka

Thank you so much for your time either way!❤️

I've definitely been better...haha. Thanks for asking<3

Comforting an overworked S/O

Featuring: Gepard, Welt

General warnings: Gender neutral reader, pet names such as "dear" "honey" and "Love" are used, maybe OOC? I haven't played star rail as much as I would like lately since i've been on a Genshin hyperfixation this past month. But I shall try my best <3 I am not very confident in writing for welt either lol.

TW: None! Let me know if I missed any, and I shall update this section accordingly~

Gepard

You never thought you'd see the day your boyfriend, the most hardworking silvermane guard you have ever laid eyes on, would be chastising YOU over your workload rather than vice versa. He was practically begging you to take a break, and you fervently disagreed.

"Geppie, please," You sighed, turning in your chair and facing the tall blonde male, "I really, really need to get this down...it could determine my entire FUTURE! Quite literally!" Gepard doesn't enjoy arguing with you, and doesn't want to force you to do anything you rather not do. However he couldn't help but purse his lips and sigh in (very rare) mild annoyance.

"I...understand your duties are important to you, and I believe that working hard will get you everywhere you need to be, but I also..." He blushed and moved his hand behind his head, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, "I also think breaks are important...and taking care of yourself. You're the one who taught me that," His cheeks were painted a rosy hue as you sighed and sat down your pencil, rubbing your temples before nodding in defeat.

"Yeah," You grumbled, "you're right. I'm sorry." Gepard, with a big smile scooped you up excitedly with his strong arms and began to walk out of the room you were religiously studying in. You gasped in surprise and quickly wrapped your arms around his neck, eyebrows lifted in shock at his sudden actions.

"What're you doing??" You asked with a smile playing at the corner of your lips, Gepard smiling back at you.

"A change of scenery is always good...let's cook dinner together, or we could...um.." Upon entering the kitchen you noticed a plant you had not seen before sitting atop the kitchen counter, the leaves were withered and the flower was browning at the top. Gepard put you down quickly to rush over to the plant's side, flustered and trying to hide it.

"N-no! Don't look, I um..." You looked at him with an amused raised brow, you walked up to your tall boyfriend and stared him in the eyes with a challenging stare.

"Geppie..." You chuckled, "What was that flower? I don't think i've seen it before." Grumbling in embarrassment, Gepard pulled the flower pot from behind him, showing a withering...ball peonies? You couldn't tell exactly what kind of flower it was, but it didn't matter.

"It was supposed to be...a present for you for working so hard, but I guess I forgot to put it back in its hiding spot after I watered it and now I spoiled the surprise...but, um, I guess it isn't turning out as good as I hoped, I thought maybe with a little more care, it would bloom properly," The way his head drooped reminded you of a sad little puppy. Still, you couldn't help but smile affectionately towards the wilting bloom. You grabbed hold of the flower before gently kissing your boyfriend's cheek and setting it aside, his arms engulfing you in a hug. You could really feel just how much he cared for you, and how much he wished you would care for yourself just the same.

"Let's get dinner started, shall we, my love?"

WELT

You could feel his eyes burning the back of your head, his hands folded upon the handle of his cane staring at you from the door way of your bedroom.

"And just how long do you plan on neglecting your crewmates?" The brown-haired male inquired, "You've been here for a rather long time. The others are starting to wonder if you're alive." you chuckled at his rare sarcasm, turning to face welt with bags apparent under your eyes and fatigue obvious upon your person. His eyes widened slightly at your disheveled state, taking notice of the pile of study materials behind you, your unkempt hair, and an outfit he was pretty sure he saw you in at least three days prior.

"You look worse for wear," Welt pursed his lips, the grip on his cane tightening, "Still studying?" You sighed and turned back to your mess of a desk, running your hands through your hair before plopping your head against the table. You heard him advance towards you with the door behind him closing, a hand soon making its way to the top of your head.

"It is important to...shower, once in a while," Welt noted as he stroked the top of your head lovingly before pulling up a second chair to sit next to you. You already felt guilty, you knew what he was going to say and how he was going to lecture you about your pitiful state. Instead, he left out a light sigh, picking up a pen and pulling your notebook towards him.

"Which part are you struggling on? I'm fairly knowledgeable about a variety of things, perhaps I can assist you," He insisted. You shook your head and pulled the notebook out of his grasp, sitting back against the chair.

"I appreciate the sentiment, but I need to do this on my own. How will I succeed if I don't learn these things on my own?"

"And how do you suppose you will succeed if you work yourself to death?" He rebutted bluntly, removing the notebook from your hands and setting it against the desk. Welt took his palms and placed them upon your own, squeezing lightly.

"If you will not allow me to help you with your studies, at the very least allow me to help you help yourself. Have dinner with me." You bit your bottom lip in contemplation, glancing between your caring boyfriend and the pile of study material you have spent days staring at. Using his slender hands Welt swiftly placed his fingers gently against your chin, forcing your gaze away from the dreadful work and into his brown orbs full of pure affection. With a blush and a defeated sigh, you gave him a slight nod in understanding, causing a smile to curl onto his lips.

"Good. And...let's draw you a bath too," Welt said, standing up and holding his hand out. You gave him a flirty chuckle and half-joked "Will you be joining me?" Turning his head away from you and leading you to the door, he let out a scoff of amusement.

"Of course I will. But let's take care of your sustenance first, dear."

~~~

Masterlist

[circus-complex]

Glass Mind | 8/?

Rating: Teen+

Relationship: Feng Xin/Mu Qing

Tags: feng xin falls ill, mu qing has to care for him, they may be ooc, Post-Canon, but the timeline is kinda all over the place, Does this count as a sickfic?, Temporary Amnesia, Feng Xin is dealing with grief and shoving it aside, Mu Qing doesn't know what he feels

Feng Xin falls ill, messing with his head. Mu Qing tasks himself with taking care of him, as well as finding a cure

Also on AO3

Full chapter under the cut

"What do you need for him to," Mu Qing gestured towards Feng Xin, "go back to normal?"

Hu Huanjue quirked his eyebrow before holding out a piece of parchment. Lazy words were scrawled on it:

Ginkgo biloba extract

Magnolia Bark

Bitter Orange

Salt

Rhubarb Root 

"Is this all?" Mu Qing asked.

Hu Huanjue shrugged, "Should be. Its pretty standard for this sort of thing."

"If it's 'standard', why did it take so long?" Agitation was starting to creep into Mu Qing's voice. He crossed his arms and started to tap an index finger against his forearm.

Hu Huanjue matched Mu Qing's posture.

"It's standard for the demon in Feng Xin's mind. But it wouldn't be standard if he simply was hallucinating."

Mu Qing huffed.

“Fine.” Mu Qing turned away from the fox spirit. His boots clicked against the floor as he left Feng Xin’s room.

“Where are you going?” Hu Huanjue ran after Mu Qing.

“The kitchens. They should have this there.”

Hu Huanjue didn’t say anything more. He followed Mu Qing’s footsteps. They echoed through the hallway, one that was only ever traveled by middle officials.

The kitchens were empty and clean. Gods do not need to eat — it only exists to mimic a mortal palace.

“Stand here,” Mu Qing’s voice bounced off the tan walls, leaving a lingering ringing.

Hu Huanjue shrugged. “Alright.”

The floor was riddled with broken glass. Vials that had never been opened were now smashed on the floor.

“Where is it,” he hissed, low. It was less of a snakes hiss, but a tigers growl.

“The salt?” Hu Huanjue piped up from the corner.

“Yes, the salt.” Mu Qing whipped around. He stood in the middle of the mess, eyes wide and fingers trembling. Hu Huanjue couldn’t tell if it was from anxiety or fury. Either way, he didn’t want to be inflicted with it.

“Catch.” Hu Huanjue threw another vial towards Mu Qing. Mu Qing’s snatched it from the air.

“Fuck you.”

“I think I was being helpful.”

Mu Qing crossed the room, glass crunching beneath his feet. He shoved the armful of vials into Hu Huanjue’s hands.

“There.”

Hu Huanjue smiled, a playful glint in his eye.

Feng Xin stroked the tiger curled around his torso. It’s silky, smooth fur brushed against his palm with each pass of his arm. He sat in a field of morning glory. Their delicate blooms were closed off from the harsh world.

A red apple sat beside him, untouched.

He hummed along with a song no one knows. He didn’t remember the last note that left his mouth, not did he know the next one. Feng Xin let is wash over his mind. The only thing that mattered was the now.

A bitter wave cascaded over his tongue. It carried on

and on

and on

and gone.

“Hold him steady,” Hu Huangjue said. Mu Qing nodded, moving two steps closer to Feng Xin’s side. “It should only be a moment.”

Hu Huanjue took a deep breath, letting himself fall into Feng Xin’s mind.

Lian Qing Mo was nowhere in sight.

Broken gold gleamed in front of him. He grabbed the vial of mixed herbs with his mouth, before shrugging of his human form.

Hu Huanjue set the vial gently on the ground. Before he could think twice, he smashed the vial to smithereens.

The glass didn’t shatter. It turned to smoke, winding up the gold. It encased it, clouding Hu Huanjue’s view.

But when it cleared, the gold was pristine. No cracks. No break.

There was no sound in this land. And yet, Hu Huangjue swore he could hear a soft whisper.

Thank you.

The tiger’s fur turned to silk, turned coarse, turned to nothing. Morning Glory wilted, buds dead before they could ever open up to the sunlight. The apple rotted, worms crawling within its core.

In front of him stood a man with a snake wrapped around his arm. A snake he knew all too well. Slick black scales and a smirking grin.

“Feng Xin,” The man spoke. His words weren’t washed out or blurred or sharp or brittle.

Feng Xin opened his mouth to reply. But how long had it been since he had spoken? His voice was a dead bird, no longer able to sing.

The snake leered.

It’s him, Feng Xin.

Feng Xin shook his head frantically.

“What-” The man opened his mouth. But the snake interjected, drowning out his soft words.

It’s real. He wanted me to leave. Let him.

“No. No. He wouldn’t see me. Not like this. I’m a disgrace.”

Just tell him, and I’ll leave you be.

“I won’t.”

Why, Feng Xin? The snake huffed.

“…”

Fine. I’ll do it for you.

The snake lunged, curling around Feng Xin’s neck and sinking its fangs in.

Speak.

“I-”

Mu Qing stared at Feng Xin. He was still speaking into the empty air, mumbled beneath his breath.

“I know he will never love me. He’s made that clear.”

Feng Xin was in love with somebody? How did Mu Qing not know? Had he been rejected?

…Had they cursed him?

Why won’t he love you? You never confessed, did you?

“Have you seen the way he looks at me?! He’s always glaring, even in the middle of meetings!”

So Feng Xin must see him often. Who, Pei Ming? But Pei Ming wouldn’t be the kind to hate a potential lover, and he certainly wouldn’t be so mean about it.

Xie Lian definitely didn’t hate Feng Xin, nor did Quan Yizhen or Shi Qingxuan.

Mu Qing had seen Shi Wudu and Feng Xin together, and they never seemed like more than friends — and friends was pushing it. They were both powerful gods but…it didn’t seem right. Besides, he’d been missing, Mu Qing couldn’t exactly ask him.

Which left Hua Cheng.

Xie Lian? Mu Qing’s voice rang through the communication array

Yes? Xie Lian replied.

Where’s Hua Cheng? I want to ask him about something.

He’s with me at Puqi shrine. Would you like to meet us here?

Sure.

Mu Qing descended from the heavens in a hurry. He left Hu Huanjue to watch Feng Xin.

“Mu Qing, what a pleasure to see you.” Hua Cheng was smiling, but there was nothing about his expression that implied his words were true. “Why’d you need to see me?”

“Is Feng Xin in love with you?” No point in wasting time.

Hua Cheng blinked once, twice. “I’m sorry?”

“He was murmuring about someone. He said they would never love him. You were the only one who fit all his criteria.”

Hua Cheng opened his mouth, closed it again. “I don’t think I’m the one you’re looking for.”

Xie Lian stepped out from behind the door. “Mu Qing, would you like to come in?”

“It’s fine, I’ll only be a minute more,” Mu Qing replied.

“If you aren’t the one, then who else is there?” Mu Qing was starting to get impatient.

“What was his criteria, again?” Hua Cheng asked.

“He ‘hates’ Feng Xin, he’s always glaring during meetings, he made it clear he doesn’t love Feng Xin.”

“Ah,” Hua Cheng nodded, “And why exactly do you need to know who he loves?”

Mu Qing froze, “I-, He-, It just seems important. Feng Xin hasn’t been this coherent for weeks. It’s the first thing he said.”

“Then I can only think of one person who would satisfy those conditions.”

Mu Qing scowled. Why was this one-eyed bitch gatekeeping?

“Who?” His voice lifted in irritation.

“You.”

[lephamquynhnhu]

Panacea

Chapter 3: The last remnant of epics (First Half)

Dan Feng x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS/ TAGS: The reader has a default name, OOC, mentioned blood, violence. (This is a work of fanfiction, events are not aligned or relevant to the original work)

Word count: ~1k7

Summary: He met you on a drizzling day when hydrangea fully bloomed on its field. Amidst the sea of mild pastel petals, Dan Feng never thought the flowery domain that intertwined your fate was the precise thing withered with you. They said he was a dragon, a hero, a sinner, but never a person with love, hatred, sorrow, or joy like everyone else in this world. However, it was a demi-truth. He committed the cardinal sin because of you.

Note: Do you like...pain?

"The patient has been in a coma for 72 hours from being discovered. Hemoptysis with unknown cause and her condition refuse all drugs even cloudhymn does not meet the treat's purpose ." 

Dawn breaks at the East horizon, shining fragile sunbeams on a nightingale at your window, where eglantine baths in the late-winter breezes. The bird tilts its head toward a man who closes the medical file to sit beside your headboard. Its black eyes shimmer at the sight of Dan Feng slowly stroking your hand to check the pulse in serene silence. He now understands why you wear gloves all the time, to conceal these wrinkles that dedicate the unrecoverable illness. His cloudhymn failed to cure because all your living circuits were damaged, and ADN is no longer to repair. Imbibitor Lunae always knows that mortals are frail and short-lived, including you, but he refuses to give up on you this early. 

Therefore, he gambles his last hope in this brewing dose. A thin stream of smoke from your china cup leisurely dissolves into the air that swirls off his mind as the High Elder found your limp body sprawled onto the garden with blood had already dried and a pale complexion. His immovable spirit wavered for the first time when he realized none of the treatments adapted to your status. Initially, the Long Scion intended to hospitalize you at the Alchemistry Commission, yet a mysterious veil shrouded your identity, causing him to change his mind since Dan Feng attempted to search for records or used medicine as a reference to develop an appropriate method. He spotted a polaroid dyed in time hue and a small glass jar that lay neatly in the last drawer, which led to another surprising event after analyzing those items. 

The stagnated content in that container was an inhibitor serum that does not register in any medical history. As for your polaroid, five people stand at an old ruin, and four of them wear cheerful smiles on their vague faces when a center girl gives two peace signs with her indifferent look. Dan Feng could not tell if she was you since a sandy filter tainted the photo's plane, and most of her broken features were faint. Besides, the line "Memento mori" was written in sea penmanship on the verso, which intrigued his curiosity no less because it means "Remember that you [have to] die" in the Latin language.

However, Imbibitor Lunae takes a respite temporarily from his unbelievable hypothesis to prioritize your current problem. He only simulates 70 percent from the unclear formula in two days since your condition is on edge. Judging at purple veins spread over your face like a spider web indicates that the High Elder's acupuncture is about not sustaining the ebbing circumstance. Just as Dan Feng distraughtly caresses your wilt hand, the convulsion symptom breakthroughs the limit and takes control of your body. Ignoring the heat that overwhelms his mind and burns down his tongue, the Long Scion immediately drinks the brewing herbs to drench you. No words can describe his elated expression when your eyelids flutter open, and all the dreadful symptoms withdraw promptly as the medicine kicks in, restoring your ruddy complexion. 

Winter passed, Spring came, and another circular cycle of linear time started as your pear blossoms halo underneath the silver moonlight. All corners of the Shangri-La immerse into argent moonlit, which creates a luxuriant spectacle as you and Dan Feng sit on the terrace together for flower viewing. The ambiance brims with the sweet aroma of Spring's breath while ethereal petals litter the ground densely, woven like a florid rug. Looking at his space-out figure with the sheen liquid that gleamed beneath those green eyes, you cannot help but inquire about his tangled thoughts. The High Elder merely inhales a long exhalation and shakes his head to gulp down the mild spice of apricot wine. 

"Nothing, I will bottom it up even if it is poisonous." - Unchanging his visage, Dan Feng's chiseled Adam's apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed it, earning your joyful giggle. Undeniably, the High Elder possesses an awful sense of humor.

Fireflies start lighting their green phosphor glims in the epiphyllum bush to attract your concentration. It is rare to see them at this time because fireflies usually appear in the Summer season, and no exception to the Shangri-La. As a result, you want to catch some and contemplate your new moon cactus at a close distance. Imbibitor Lunae still nonchalantly refills his cup with his eyes fixed on your animated silhouette before a dark cloud flies through, obscuring the shining moon. 

Three deafening sounds reverberate through the house that seethes the vicinity as soon as the surroundings drown in darkness. In brief seconds, an unreversed upheaval occurs to change everything upside down. After the noise of his broken cup was the metal collision, and the sound of sharp tool stabbing in the wood followed up. 

"So, is it you? Bai Lin the tyranny?" - Dan Feng is the first person to raise his voice, arousing the sedate blank. Combined with the silken peary light engraving dark and bright contrasting plates on the Long Scion's face, the cyan orbs glow like cat eyes under his shadowy bangs. However, there is no sliver of hostility in his gaze. A shallow cut on his cheekbone gradually emerges in a thin scarlet line when the black cloud leaves, rendering the full moon. 

On the opposite side, a glimpse of the familiar figure materializes from a cyclone made of thousands of heavenly petals who points her sword toward him with a decisive look. Gripping the conceptual blade manifested by winds is Wrath of Mandala, which was once a replica of Three Grand Divine Weapons that is eligible to kill immortals. You eventually discard the camouflage to reveal your true identity and vigilantly stand still.

Even though answering his question is the smoothing melody of your wind chime hanging on the porch, Imbibitor Lunae knows his hypothesis is correct. In millions of possibilities, the Long Scion never expected or believed that he would meet a phantom from the past who attempted to assassinate him like this. In brief moments, you took advantage of the darkness to fly daggers at his position, but Dan Feng neutralized the first one by throwing the cup and summoning his spear to counter the second one. Nevertheless, he failed to completely evade the last dagger due to the poison that affected his body. The High Elder wonders if you orchestrate this scheme from the beginning because this atropin agent originates from Datura Metel. Maybe he was the worm in your garden that you mentioned. Nonetheless, your apricot wine is innocent, but not his ceramic cup. 

"I ask of you, all of our memories are fake?" - Dan Feng exhales as blood cascades to his chin like a tear, feeling the paralysis sensation strike through to depress his central nervous system. 

"Whoever aware of Devourers of abominations...MUST DIE!" 

Avoiding to give him a direct answer, you hiss your carved motto and dash forward with the windy blade. Under the rousing battle of you and Imbibitor Lunae, pear blossom falling frenziedly as a downpour, those petals whirl around you two akin to a mad maelstrom when your masterful swordsmanship keeps tearing the air to pierce his defense. Like a death choreography under the flowery rain, sparklets flicker at your weapons crash underneath the bright moonlit, and the ground gets plowed every time your slashing form sweeps through. Staring into each other fiery eyes, you know the High Elder has reached his limit and is struggling to measure your intangible sword. Even in a weakened state, Dan Feng is still one of the most capable warriors, proving that the title Imbibitor Lunae is not a vainglory. Nevertheless, he cannot swing his spear as usual as the action slows down precisely 0.2 seconds due to the poison. Even with a small amount of poison, that condensed extraction is far enough to work well.

In finality, the balance battle skews to your side when you seize the opportunity to cast out his spear, causing it to fly aloft and implant into the mangled soil afterward. Imbibitor Lunae's irises squeeze to the limit when your sword tip awaits with the moon background.

"Those memories are real, and I rejoice to stay with the person named Dan Feng." - Your mind screams while darting forward, ready to bore a hole in his heart. Upon the force of the unparalleled wind that drives the High Elder's long locks thrown back when receiving a lethal strike with scattering petals disassociate. 

Amidst the poetic colonnade of pear blossom, time seems to stop flowing, and two people stand motionless as a long sword means to saber through the man's body, intending to strip him of permanent life. However, her sword tip barely grazes his chest. 

"Why...why you didn't dodge it when you were capable of?" - The voice nearly inaudible under your breath with the gaze downcast while Imbibitor Lunae remains silent with his solemn expression.

"If you dare not, I will lend you my strength." - Dan Feng abruptly grabs the conceptual weapon to stab it through. Flabbergasting at his decision, you pull back the blade instinctively, making the dripping blood from his hand follow the line to stagnate at your hilt. Finally, you unsummon the sword when you see a scarlet circle blooms on his attire. 

Kneeling on the ground, you blankly stare into the hollow voidness, and so does the High Elder, but he crunches down to pull you into an embrace. Biting your lips to prevent the honest desires from cascading like a waterfall, you want to resume staying by his side, and you also want to continue waking up by his side. 

"Your mission has ended for a long time, Bai Lin." - Dan Feng softly whispers behind and pats your head, his voice soothing the aching heart. It is a mystery why his hugging feels so gentle even after your death match. Although you are soon aware that this moment will come, tears compete to fall out of your eyes corners. An igniting sensation besieges the bridge nose when you helplessly cry on his shoulder. 

"Feng...please kill me or hand me over to the Yaoqing." - You weakly vocalize after a long serenity. Because life is sometimes tragic, we decide to sacrifice for something better. However, there are still shortcomings among his paragon virtues, and stubbornness is honorably one of them. 

"...You will die if you don't."

"A double coffin doesn't sound that bad."

"Fool." 

Ah, life is sometimes tragic.  

[straightlightyagami]

uhh poasting first chapter of the death note fic here I guess? (next chapter)

I have never written fanfiction before, but I wrote this by popular demand (aka 2 mutuals). I have basically not written any fiction in years, and I’ve never shared any of my fiction writing. Most of my writing experience is mathematical proofs, tumblr posts, and academic essays. I have no idea what I am doing, especially in terms of writing style. kind of scared of poasting it. Please be niceys but also I am open to feedback. 

This fic is basically just "Light is a leftist au." It will obviously contain political content. it's a "modern au" (as in, set in the 2020s) for technology reasons. Also somewhat ooc but on purpose (Light is a bit more… compassionate and social justice-oriented. But he is still his murder-y self). Light is trans bc trans rights and wrongs and it makes sense for some things but I'm not sure how major it will be in the story (lmk if you have a preference for how you want it to be treated). If I continue this, I am planning to focus more on all of the murder and politics and such, there will most likely be no ships or romantic content. I have a rough idea of where I want it to go, but please share any ideas you have, or what sort of stuff you'd be interested to see, etc.

Light Yagami was more than just what one would call a straight-A student. A better description would perhaps be a precocious child, a genius, a prodigy, any number of synonyms. He had been told as much ever since he could remember, reinforcing what he had always known to be true, that him being different from others was simply a matter of superiority. Any way he was different, then, must have been simply confirmation of the fact.

Bored out of his mind in classes he could have aced five years earlier, most of the contents of which he could recite if shaken awake at three in the morning, he often found his gaze drifting outside, to the world beyond the windows. Days blending together, seasons drifting by before his eyes, flowers blooming and wilting, a backdrop to his internal monologue. And so, on that afternoon in late November, an afternoon that could have been any other, Light tuned out the droning of the teacher and the gossiping of his classmates and absently surveyed the school courtyard, thinking about everything and also nothing in particular. Everything in the world was so wrong. There was nothing he could do about it. He was getting hungry. Class would be over in five minutes.

There was nothing to look at in the courtyard, really. All of the students were in class and it was deserted, save for the occasional bird perched on a bush. It was in this atmosphere of almost painful mundanity that a strange view caught his sight, of some kind of object falling through the boundary of the golden sunlight above and the shadow of the building and landing in the grass. Squinting, he saw it was a book. Could someone have dropped it from a window? But there was no way for it to have followed that trajectory then… Perhaps it fell from an airplane?

***

The school day was over, and he turned to head home when he noticed the book lying in the grass like a black shadow. He felt a strange relief at the fact that nobody had taken it, and headed to pick it up.

“Death Note? The human whose name is written in this note shall die…”

Like one of those chain letters that claim to foretell your death. A stupid prank, that’s all it was. Too stupid for a smart boy like him. But a free notebook is a free notebook. Besides the ominous instructions, all the pages were blank. Surely its owner saw no value in it if they threw it out. What harm could it do to take it, if no one would reclaim it anyway? He tucked it into his bag.

After saying goodbye to a few classmates, he walked unhurriedly from his school to the train station, watching cars pass below the overpass and shielding his eyes from the sunshine of late autumn, the kind that shines bright but does not warm much. He entertained himself by thinking, if such a book really was real and he could kill anyone with it, what would he do? Most people would probably judge him for even thinking about it, but they didn’t need to know. A thought experiment never hurt anyone.

Everything he had been thinking for years, how the greed of those in power leads to the deaths of thousands of innocents. War, poverty, violent crime… These problems could be eradicated if he could strike fear into the hearts of the right people. A power like that could even be used to influence government policy, to create a more just society. Perhaps the people would even take it as a signal that a higher power wants them to free themselves of their capitalist overlords, maybe then people would be brave enough to resist injustice of their own accord. It was a nice vision, but not a realistic one. There was no way to fix the world so easily.

Sighing, he opened the door of his house, greeted his mother, and grabbed a bag of potato chips before ascending the stairs to his room. He set his school bag on the floor beside his desk and stood by the window as he ate his chips. Then he sat at his desk and took the mystery notebook out, rereading the instructions once again. A name and face and the victim is dead? Clearly, it was a fake and he was the idiot to get duped into picking it up. He lay down on his bed to rest for a bit before going to evening prep classes.

But… What if it was real? A curious person by nature, Light knew he would not be able to stop thinking about it until he tested it and confirmed it could not kill anyone. It could not possibly work, so it would not hurt to try.

Feeling he had lost to whoever the prankster was, he sat down at his desk again and took out a pen. The main criteria for whoever he tested it on were that it was someone deserving of death, in case it actually worked, and that he would be able to find out right away if it worked. He turned on the news and saw that there was a live broadcast from an active hostage situation where a man who was a known criminal was holding some kids at gunpoint in a school. This was the perfect test subject. If the notebook worked, he would save eight people (of course, the suspect could have been identified incorrectly, but it was out of his control to do better than that). If it didn’t… Well, that was the expected outcome. Kurou Otoharada, read the name next to the picture of the suspect on the screen. He wrote it down, visualizing the man’s face. Then, he sat back and waited.

Forty seconds passed. Nothing happened. The notebook’s power was not real, and his boredom and dissatisfaction with the state of the world were leading him to indulge in some messed-up prank. He berated himself for allowing himself to develop such a propensity for magical thinking.

But as he stood to turn off the television and get ready to go to class, something appeared to happen on screen. The hostages were coming out. The newscaster was reporting that the criminal had collapsed dead. 

He killed a person. He saved eight. It must have been a coincidence. He would have to test it again, just to be sure. With a specified cause of death this time.

***

It worked! There was certainly no doubt now. The probability that this man had been hit by a truck, as he had specified in the Death Note, by sheer coincidence was near zero. Again, he felt a strange relief. So he hadn’t made a mockery of his own intelligence by trying it (there was no harm in trying). But he was now a murderer. He leaned against the wall and threw up. 

The full gravity of what he had done only hit him then. He had not killed out of malice, but that changed nothing. Intention did not matter.

The reflections of the city in the rain mixed into his tears until all he could see was shining light. Somehow, he found his way back home. He took a minute to compose himself, then entered, gave his practice test scores into his mother’s outstretched hands, and calmly excused himself, saying he was tired and wanted to sleep early.

***

He wrapped the blankets around himself and burrowed his face into the pillow to stifle his sobs. There was no doubt in his mind that what he had done was right. No doubt that continuing to do it would be the only right thing to do. Could he do it? It would be impossible to kill and remain the same. Doing the right thing would mean sacrificing parts of himself. 

On the other hand, what was the other option? Doing anything else would be turning his back on pain and suffering that he was fully capable of preventing. He would be complicit in the evils he did not prevent because of his own selfish motives. Besides, who knew where the notebook came from? For all he knew, it could belong to some otherworldly creature that would appear at any moment and kill him for using a power that did not belong to him. He could not afford to waste time moping around.

[f0rgotten-memories]

❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈

"There's something in the static, I think I've been having revelations"

❈ A canon-divergent Memory Egg(s) duo roleplay account. A part of the Yaoiverse, one run by @nightmareentertainment, the other run by @q-fooriana,

❈ There's two eggs/kids on this account, in place of the concept of the Memory Egg. They're both five years old. Twins

❈ Hope was a writer. They write, begging, aching to be known; they didn't want to be forgotten. They wanted to grow, leaving the lasts of their words and thoughts into a letter that begged to be read, holding tight to the cold, unmoving hand of their twin even in their last moments. Now a ghost, they trail behind the steps of the living with the hopes of one day being seen once more, hoping one day their book would be found, and both them and their beloved twin would be brought to the eyes of those still full of life.

❈ Myo was nothing. All they had was their flower crown, and their twin, and only one followed them to death. They died softly, in the dusty nest they and hope called home, in an abandoned nursery. As a ghost, they run around happily in ways they couldn't while alive; in death they are finally content- but not happy. They wish to be known, to be remembered, and to be loved.

❈ Myo uses they/any, Hope uses they/bloom/any.

Tags.

#crushed forget-me-nots + blue text- myo’s in-character posts

#wilted white clovers + purple text - Hope’s in-character posts

#searching. Searching.- In character reblogs

#everything stays. - Interactions outside of tumblr

#a memory long gone - Flashback tag

#hello? can you hear us? - Asks

#bursts of color + ooc - Out of character

#yaoiverse - Regular universe tag

#yuriverse - non canon tag

#straightverse - Angst Tag

Myo's people tags

@daddestboyhalo - #tiger 'dult :)

Hope's people tags

"Skip the exit to our old street and go home"

❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈𝄌❈

[dailhia]

DAHLIA  WANG        —        an     original    witch     based   in     original   urban   fantasy   lore.     adapted   for   a   variety   of   verses.   a   story   of   :   sisterhood   is magic,   hell is a woman, blooming and wilting.   as   written   by   ruba ( she/her, 28 ). affiliated with @rch-wtch, @jenelain, @fablelike, @bunnybiter

ABOUT.           PINTEREST.           PROMPTS.           VERSES. 

* rules below cut; temp info linked.

RULES

¹. all information and lore here is entirely original, please do not take any inspiration from it. all creative rights to myself and the affiliated group.

². when i say activity on this blog will be slow i genuinely mean it. due to life the activity here will be wildly sporadic. i don't expect quick responses from my writing partners and so i hope for the same considerations. feel free to ask for my discord for brain rotting but that may be just as slow as writing is sometimes. tl;dr is my speed =/= my interest in our plots!!

³. due to the above rule and how often i can be here this blog is mutuals only and will be highly selective. i will softblock if i don't expect to follow back, personal blogs will be blocked. mutuals may approach at anytime (and please do!)

⁴. no ns/fw content will be present on this blog and i will not follow blogs with heavy mat/ure content. however, triggering content may be present on this blog and i will do my best to tag. that being said, minors will not be followed on this blog either due to personal comfort.

⁵. formatting on this blog will be minimal. some spacing, some bolding, italics, etc small sized font and no special text asides from blog aesthetics. please let me know if any formatting needs to be adjusted, happy to accomodate.

⁶. i love a good ship but shipping is definitely not my priority. an actual ship will require thorough plotting and some form of ooc friendship/understanding.

⁷. typical rp and human etiquette applies. don't be a pos and we're good.

[pillarsxofxdreams]

((Tag Time~!

Because I have to and I realized some tags aren’t popping up...))

[deathbled]

@lunaetis​    /    sumayl

❛    look around how lucky we are to be alive right now    ❜

there’s a heavy silence in the air, though whether it was of own incapability in not making things awkward or because of ... previous statements,   he wasn’t able to decipher. a heartbeat goes by, then another & then another but he doesn’t double back, doesn’t scramble to take back words spoken so sincerely. i grew these for you.  it’s an odd statement, less a grand gesture than he’d like it to be. but it’s all he can offer. he wasn’t a noble, wasn’t a rich man. truth be told, sometimes he’d felt like little more than a simple fool following orders,   and perhaps there wasn’t much more to him; he wouldn’t mind. not if the people he followed were the ones he’d gladly give his life for. so instead he turns towards the little garden filled with flowers of all kinds; it had taken over a year to grow them, a task he’d been ready to give up on given the war raging. and yet he’s managed, burying his nose in old books about flowers& how to grow them just to know how to properly care for them

❛   i ... apologize for burdening you with my emotions.   ❜     he finally does say,  voice quiet, sheepish. there’s an uncertainty evident in even his movements, from the little fidgets of his fingers to the soft frown adorning scarred features. & yet he doesn’t have it in him to feel the entire extent of his words;      guilt has long since  been a companion   he’d grown accustomed to,   so to not feel it’s weight ‘pon his  shoulders increase was ... a relief, surprisingly enough. at least it meant everything he did came from the depths of his heart. ❛   but i would despise myself if i were to remain silent forever.   ❜  despite the heaviness of his words there’s a fondness in his tone that manages to break  through somber expression  with a tender smile. ❛   i hope you can forgive my selfishness.   ❜       he finishes, patiently waiting for  any sort of response. there is little he expects, only to finally get out what has been plaguing his mind for a good while now, so when he finds himself absent-mindedly plucking one of his rarest plants from it’s stem to gently place it behind byleths hair he surprises himself to the point of a soft exclamation, and yet finds himself unable to stop his hand from lingering close to her for just a bit longer.    ❛   it suits you.   ❜

[acstas-blog]

// tag dump!

[crystalflowerd-archive]

tag blast ;;