#Protector

[undead-knick-knack]

That's his mom 😭

[marejadilla]

Allison Reimold, "Protector Of The Small", 2024, oil on Gessobord. American, b. 1987, L.A. native, pop surrealist painter and illustrator.

[thesunnyowl]

King, Leader, Chief and Father of the Gods and Humans.

God of the Sky, Lightning, Thunder, Rain, Storms, Fate, Law, Order and Moral Conduct.

Protector of People, Cities and Homes.

The All-powerful Overseer of Earthly Events and Human Destiny.

[dreamycove]

Knight

a protector in a system who feels as if their role is comparable to that of a knight in any way. they could feel responsible for protecting a "royal" figure, a city, their people, etc.

Sword (or Swordknight) (left)

a knight who is primarily offensive or active in their role as a protector; the blade that wards off incoming harm from the system.

Shield (or Shieldknight) (center)

a knight who is primarily defensive or passive in their role as a protector; the shield that blocks the system from incoming harm.

Dark Knight (right)

a knight who aligns more with the image of a "dark knight" than a traditional knight. this may be a knight in dark armor, or any other personal interpretations.

[theweightofdivinity]

Wolf-blooded.

Moon-tempered. Bone-loyal. Wolf-hearted.

[maenad-of-marriage]

Being dedicated to Hera is not for the faint of heart because idk how many times I’ve heard “Wow, she’s such a [insert slur that women are often called], I could never work with her” 🥲🥲🥲

[imaginal-ai]

"On Lookout"

[thegreeks]

A Fevered Return

Warnings: illness, fever

Synopsis: Mr. Darcy returns home to Pemberley to find his wife has taken sickly

The fog lingered in the cool morning air as Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy rode his sturdy steed through the grand gates of Pemberley. The woodlands around him, vibrant with the deep hues of autumn, seemed to welcome him back with a warm embrace. Yet, an unwelcome tension was woven into the very fabric of the day.

Mr. Darcy had spent the last fortnight in London on business matters that had been pressing for some time. Though he had enjoyed the company of his sister, Georgiana, and the vibrant world of the city, his thoughts were perpetually preoccupied with one person: you, his beloved wife.

Darcy found himself straining to catch a glimpse of the familiar figures on the lawn, but he saw only a few servants going about their evening chores. As he dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting stable hand, he noticed something amiss.

The usual peaceful atmosphere was disturbed by a murmur of anxious whispers among the household staff, their glances flicking toward the upper windows. Darcy’s chest tightened as he approached the house, and his suspicions deepened when Mrs. Reynolds, his trusted housekeeper, met him at the door, her face drawn with worry.

“Mrs. Reynolds,” he greeted, trying to keep his voice steady, though unease was rising within him, “is all well at Pemberley?”

The older woman hesitated, her hands clasping and unclasping as she searched for the right words.

“Is my wife in? Where is she?” His voice was steadier than he felt, but inside, the worry clawed at him.

“Master Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds began hesitantly, “It is Mistress Darcy, sir. She was taken ill quite suddenly… I am afraid she has been confined to her chamber since."

Darcy’s blood ran cold, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. “And the doctor?” he demanded, his voice sharper than intended. He saw her wince slightly but couldn’t bring himself to apologize. The mere thought of you suffering was unbearable.

"We sent for the physician at first light, but he has not yet arrived. Her fever...it has worsened,” a tremor in her usually steady voice.

Without another moment’s delay, he rushed upstairs, the echo of his footsteps reverberating through the elegant corridors of Pemberley. He moved swiftly, his mind solely focused on reaching you.

When he entered your chamber, the sight that met him struck a blow deep within. He was met with the sight of you lying upon the bed, pale and frail beneath a thick layer of blankets, your hair fanned around you like a halo. Your usually rosy cheeks were flushed with fever, and your soft, closed eyelids showed no sign of the gentle awareness that always warmed his soul. He stopped just short of your bedside, his own heart shattering at the sight. The sight was more than he could bear.

The maid, who had been dutifully tending to you, dipped into a curtsy. “Master Darcy, sir.”

He waved her off with a brief nod. “Thank you. I will watch over her myself now.”

The maid slipped away, leaving Darcy alone with you in the quiet, the faint flicker of a candle illuminating a face that was all at once beloved and fragile. Without a thought, Darcy crossed to your side, pulling a chair closer as he knelt beside you.

His usually calm, controlled demeanor was then replaced by a fierce protectiveness he could barely contain. Gently, he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your fevered brow. The sight of you—his dear, precious wife, the love of his life—lying helplessly ill stirred a deep sorrow within him.

“Dearest,” he murmured, barely recognizing his own voice. His thumb traced along the delicate line of your cheek, his touch featherlight for fear of disturbing you, heart lurching at how cold you felt against his skin.

He sat with you in a vigil of silence, his heart aching as he watched the slight rise and fall of your chest, praying it would steady and strengthen. He could recall every laugh, every quiet word you had ever shared with him, and the way your presence alone brought peace to his restless heart. The thought of losing you, of being without that comfort, was unfathomable.

As the hours passed, Darcy’s gaze never wavered from you, his fingers entwined gently with yours. He found himself murmuring softly, words of love and reassurances that you could not hear, yet he could not help but hope would reach you somehow. “You must fight this, my love,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Pemberley is no home without you. I am no man without you.”

With every passing hour, his protectiveness only deepened. The responsibilities he bore for Pemberley, the Darcy lineage, and the family name had always been heavy, but tonight they were nothing compared to the weight of his love for you. If he could have taken your illness upon himself, he would have done so without hesitation.

As dawn broke, a soft light filled the room, casting a warm glow over your face. With it came a slight change—your breathing, still labored, grew a touch stronger. You stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering open, your expression softened with the gentleness he had fallen so deeply in love with.

The moment your gaze met his, a faint smile curved your lips as recognition dawned in your fever-brightened eyes, though nonetheless overshadowed by weariness. “Fitzwilliam,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper but unmistakably filled with affection. “You are home.”

Relief washed over him as Darcy swallowed hard, his heart nearly bursting at the sound of his name on your lips. “Yes, my love,” he murmured, bringing your hand to his lips. “Rest. I am here.”

In an instant, it was replaced by an overwhelming need to protect you. He moved quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing your forehead to check for fever. He looked to Mrs. Reynolds, who hovered nearby, her face shadowed with concern. “Where is the doctor?” he called out, his voice strained, “has he not yet arrived?

Mrs. Reynolds shook her head, an apology in her expression. “He was delayed, sir, though I have sent word again. I expect he shall arrive soon.”

Darcy nodded tersely, suppressing his mounting frustration. To think that the well-being of his wife, her very life, might be vulnerable to the fickleness of fate was more than he could bear. Turning back to her, he leaned close, his thumb tracing soft circles over the back of her hand. “We must call once more. Is there anything at all you need?” he said, his voice low, as if speaking the words to her alone might fortify her. “I cannot—” His voice faltered. “I cannot imagine a world without you.”

You shook your head gently, stifling a cough that had begun to rise in your throat. “It’s but a fever,” you managed. “I will be well, in time." Your gaze softening despite the fever which clouded your eyes. “Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I am sorry to worry you so.”

Darcy’s heart broke at your courage. “No,” he retorted, his expression turning fierce with determination. “Do not speak of such things, I cannot allow you to suffer, my love. If the doctor is not here, we shall fetch the finest in Derbyshire. I cannot see you in this state.”

You looked at him, the strength of his presence overwhelming in the room. “Fitzwilliam, please. It is only the flu.”

“Only the flu?” The incredulity in his voice made your brow knit together. “You do not understand. I cannot bear to see you like this. You are everything to me.”

Your heart swelled at his passionate declaration. You reached for his hand with a newfound determination. “And you are my everything. But I promise, I shall recover. You have returned, and that is what I needed most.”

With a heavy sigh, Darcy surveyed your delicate form, every instinct screaming at him to do whatever it took to get you well again. “I cannot relinquish my worry. I must care for you.”

As if sensing his turmoil, you squeezed his hand with what little strength you had. “Then stay with me. Just stay.”

The sincerity in your plea made everything else fade away. Darcy nodded, his worries lingering but overridden by the need to be near you. “I shall not leave your side,” he vowed, a protective resolve building within him.

Through the night, he remained there, propped in that chair beside you, reading passages from his favorite novels to you, weaving stories of adventure and love that enveloped the room. He watched you closely, wiping your brow, and coaxing you to take sips of water, as the nurse had instructed, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breathing a rhythm that calmed him. He remained steady and resolute, each moment strengthening his resolve to guard your happiness, to cherish you, to protect you for as long as he drew breath.

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the physician finally entered, his face lined with the haste of his journey. Darcy stood, his gaze steely as he turned to the man. “You are here to ensure her recovery,” he said quietly, his tone resolute. “Do whatever is necessary.”

The doctor nodded, moving to examine you as Darcy hovered nearby, his every muscle taut with tension. He watched, his heart in his throat, as the doctor murmured assurances, checked your pulse, and began the necessary ministrations. Time seemed to stretch unbearably, each passing second fraught with his own mounting dread.

“Mr. Darcy,” the doctor said at last, “have no cause for undue alarm. A nip of this fever you have contracted will take time, but with good care, I expect a swift recovery with rest and proper care.”

Though relieved, Darcy felt the weight of his fear only begin to lift. He knew he would not rest until he saw the color return to your cheeks, the light return to her eyes. “Thank you, Doctor,” he replied, his voice tempered, though the tension remained in his stance.

When the doctor had left, Darcy returned to your side, settling into a chair by the bed. He kept hold of your hand, kissing your knuckles softly. “You see? I will ensure you receive the best treatment, my love.”

You smiled faintly, your heart warmed by his fierce protectiveness. “You are a steadfast soul, Fitzwilliam.”

“Always for you,” he whispered, gazing into your eyes with an intensity that promised no matter the trial ahead, he would remain your unwavering partner, your shield against anything life might bring.

By evening, your fever began to break, and with it, Darcy allowed himself to exhale, a weight lifting from his shoulders as he watched the color slowly return to your cheeks. He felt an overwhelming gratitude fill his heart, knowing that you were strong, resilient, and, most importantly, still his.

As you drifted back into a peaceful slumber, he brushed a tender kiss upon your forehead. “Rest well, my love,” he whispered. “For as long as I am able, I shall be your strength.”

And so, in the heart of Pemberley, amidst the echoes of love and devotion, you began to recover, surrounded by the man who cherished you above all things—a reminder that even in the darkest of times, love would always light the way home.

[mystery-aberration]

System roles do not have to be your entire identity. You do not have to conform to the stereotypes of them, and you do not have to hold your role alone or without help. You do not need to keep them forever, either. They may be what you were placed into the system to help with, and they may be something you are good at--but it does not have to be you forever.

I am a persecutor, and that does not mean I should be treated differently or harmed. Being a persecutor does not mean that everyone should be scared of you by default either.

Protectors should not be expected to be strong and emotionless walls to put in front of everything all the time. They do not need to be tools.

Comforters might need a break to unload their own stress and need comfort in turn. They do not need to give all of themselves to everyone else and never expect help back.

Littles may not be littles forever, and should not be devalued just because they are children. They are just as real and alive as any other system member and should be taken into account.

Trauma/memory holders might need help to cope with the things they hold, and sometimes when the time is right it means sharing that burden. Maybe there is no right time, but they deserve support whether they can share those memories or not.

Gatekeepers may need a break from controlling switches or access to front, and should be allowed one if needed. Gatekeeping can be a lot of work.

Hosts do not need to do everything for the body or system all the time. Sometimes, being the host of a system can be hard, and support and breaks are deserved.

Systems often put a lot of weight on roles, and it can impact the way that those who have them can feel about their role. It is okay to fit into your role, but it is also okay to not fit, or to end up not fitting your role over time. Some headmates can feel like a failure if they do not uphold their role, some can feel like they have no other choice even if they wanted to not perform it. But a role is a description, it is not an essence of who you are and will forever be. This may be non-traditional but we use roles exclusively as self descriptors so that we do not get wrapped up in what we "should be". If the label no longer fits, or if you need help more than you might have in the past, that is okay.

Be kind to yourselves, and be kind to your other headmates.

[aventurineswife]

Running in the Shadows

Summary: Caught in a chase under the moonlit sky, you believe you can outrun Moze, the elusive Shadow Guard of the Yaoqing. But Moze quickly catches up, only to surprise you.

Tags: Moze x Reader(can be read as platonically) Chase scene, Hurt/Comfort, Protector, Slow Burn, Tension, Fluff with Angst, Emotional Vulnerability, Barefoot Running.

Warnings: Mentions of panic and fear during the chase, Slight physical restraint, Mild emotional tension.

Feel free to send in your requests!

Original Idea

The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the deserted streets of the city. You sprinted down the narrow alleyways, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you glanced back over your shoulder. The sound of footsteps echoed ominously behind you, but you believed you could outpace your pursuer. After all, you were nimble and fast, and this was your territory.

You turned sharply, weaving through the shadows, your breath quickening as you picked up speed. However, the footsteps only grew louder, each step punctuating the air with an unsettling promise. Who was chasing you? You didn’t have time to think about it; you needed to escape.

As you rounded another corner, the alley widened, and you felt a rush of hope. Perhaps you could find a place to hide, a chance to lose whoever was behind you. You pushed your legs harder, ignoring the sting of your bare feet against the cold pavement, the gravel digging into your soles. You were almost there—just a few more steps.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed ahead of you, and instinct kicked in. You turned to run the other way, but in an instant, the figure emerged from the darkness—a tall, muscular silhouette with gray hair cascading over one shoulder. You recognized him instantly.

“Moze...” you gasped, feeling a mix of fear and an inexplicable thrill.

He moved with a predatory grace, closing the distance between you with ease. Panic surged through you, and you quickened your pace again, but it was futile. With a swift motion, he reached out and grabbed your waist, effortlessly lifting you off your feet.

“Got you.” he said, his voice low and steady, but there was no malice in his tone—only an unsettling calm.

Before you could react, he lowered you gently onto something soft. Confused, you looked down to find your shoes—waiting for you. The act was so unexpected, so disarming, that you almost forgot about your fear.

“Why were you running?” Moze asked, his violet-blue eyes locking onto yours, a hint of concern flickering beneath his stoic demeanor.

You stammered, “I… I thought you were after me.”

“I was,” he admitted, a faint smirk teasing the corner of his lips. “But not in the way you think.”

His hands remained on your, grounding, you as you tried to catch your breath. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a flicker of something deeper beneath the surface—a connection that transcended the chase.

“Put your shoes on,” he said, his voice softening. “You’ll hurt yourself running around barefoot.”

The warmth of his hands lingered on your skin, and you nodded, slipping your feet into the shoes. The fit offered a sense of security, a reminder that despite the shadows surrounding you, there was someone watching over you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, looking up at him. “I didn’t expect you to… uh help me?”

“Neither did I,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “But you shouldn’t have to run alone.”

In that moment, as the city around you buzzed with the life of the night, the world felt a little less chaotic. Moze, the enigmatic Shadow Guard, had pulled you from the edge of fear, reminding you that sometimes, the shadows held more than just danger; they held unexpected allies.

Just then, a distant siren blared, cutting through the stillness of the night. Moze’s expression hardened, the vulnerability replaced by a shadow of tension.

“We need to move.” he said, suddenly alert.

“Where?” you asked, glancing around nervously.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes scanning the dark alley as if he could sense something looming just beyond the edge of the shadows. “Anywhere but here.” he replied, a cryptic urgency lacing his tone.

Before you could question him further, he reached for your hand, pulling you toward the darkest recess of the alley. The grip was firm, yet the moment felt surreal, as if the very air around you was thickening with unspoken truths.

As you ran, the weight of uncertainty hung heavily in the air. Just ahead, you spotted a narrow doorway that led to the unknown. With a fleeting glance over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of movement—a flicker of shadows beyond the light.

Just as you reached the door, the echo of hurried footsteps filled the alley behind you—voices, angry and demanding. Moze’s grip tightened, and in one swift motion, he yanked open the door, revealing an inky darkness that swallowed you whole.

“What’s back there?” you asked, your heart racing.

“I don’t know,” Moze replied, glancing back at you, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. “But we don’t have time to find out.”

You hesitated at the threshold, the fear of the unknown clashing with the urgency of the moment. “Moze, wait—”

He turned, his violet-blue eyes piercing through the dark. “Trust me,” he urged, an intensity in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine. “We can’t let them catch us.”

And in that moment, as the door creaked open wider, you were faced with a choice. You could step into the darkness with him, leaving everything behind, or retreat to the light where you might be safe but alone.

As you weighed your options, the footsteps grew louder, and the shadows began to close in around you. The last thing you heard before the door swung shut was Moze’s voice, a whisper that echoed in your mind: “Sometimes, the darkest paths lead to the brightest futures…”

The door slammed shut, and the world around you faded to black, leaving you to wonder what awaited in the unknown and whether you would ever find your way back.

[anretoga]

Destined to lay down their lives for those they cherish in this isolated world.

[chillhypocrite]

Magic protects Arthur Pendragon

[tuliptruth]

Hot take but I don’t think when a system is asked to take accountability it’s always the systems fault. First of alters are always there for a reason they form from when we are in a stressful situation or need care/protect/gatekeep etc etc. a lot of the times I’ve been called out for my system “acting out” was whenever my “interact with caution” alter would be fronting or the ones that you’re not allowed to talk to at all. But despite this boundary people would still provoke or try to talk to that specific alter despite us as a system recommending not to do that for that exact reason. Now I don’t say what my alter did www right (insulted my friends threatened and harassed people) but if our boundaries could’ve just been respected and you wouldn’t of have provoked such an aggressive alter this whole thing could’ve been avoided. See,now I don’t say it’s an excuse but it’s rare that alters act out for no reason. Most of the time it’s because they feel threatened or scared so they behave strangely or act out. For me personally our alters like that can be normal as long as you treat them normally or are very cautious with them. Whenever people tell me “x alter did —-“ my first question is on what happened. I doubt my avenger alter would’ve harassed someone for fun! I mean their whole role is being an avenger. Besides they are normal to people outside the system if they don’t feel scared so whenever I get reports like that I honestly can’t feel like I am in the wrong for it. You provoked, talked, scared and aggressive/sensitive alter and they responded badly. What did you expect honestly?

No matter what if my system caused serious damage for no reason (which has never happened there was always a reason as to why my alters did “bad stuff”) I will take accountability and even if they did bad stuff for good reasons I will take accountability but I won’t ever feel sympathy for you if you know alters like that act out and still enable them.then get mad that they react like they do. That’s your fault. Fuck around find out

[vorueg]

Protector of the wild 🌲🌲🌲 Alternate mtg card

[sys-protector-culture]

Protector culture is having to shut down emotions every time the Host goes to look at something he knows will hurt him.

I’d follow him to Hell and back but I just wish he’d stop going there. /ref