#Runes for Fates and Death

[kentnaturaltribrid]

Just finished these. They’re small enough to read but also very much so not easy to figure out, let alone complete.

They’re just small Alkirian runes or Alkonirian Sand Runes, used in magic seasonally for things like Savkots and other holidays amongst them, The Day of Red Or as it stands in most of the rest of the places where the veil be thin, it’s known as Dragon’s Blood Day or Day of Dragons or Seven Dragons Day or Depending on the season it’s known as Fellkorian or Day of the Dragon’s Death. Most of the time it’s just either a stone or a giving of a new dragon, or a passage of dragon from one of those before and to the next one the same dragon gets passed down into another part of the general generations of the Clans, or the next leaders. Most of the other time, it is also a finding of a dragon or dragon initiation day. Therefore not much activity on the forefronts of some locations. It also includes a passage of teeth amongst many other things, which is at most 1-5 teeth per members of clan. Also I got bored a bit, so had to start doing some little detailed piece on the stones and all I could come up with was the Dragon Runes/Sand Runes themselves. That being said, not much else to go off of. Except for that I had to include the background on one of them. Beyond that, not much else to go within reasonable size of the pieces.

[tricks-n-illusions]

(@ask-diane) Sammy @Silas: "North.. and a ghost... Peculiar... So who are you exactly? I mean- Are you a thief of the sorts? You did say something about stealing from a North, person and a ghost??"

Silas's laughing and amusement however quickly melted away, it seemed the little zorua was quite serious. He looked almost offended by their comment when he realized it wasn't a joke.

"Am I really supposed to believe a GHOST TYPE in EAST MOUTH doesn't know me?" "Look. Every ghost knows who the fuck I am. Every ghost runs in the other direction when they see me."

"I'm the Zoroark everyone fears so greatly. THE SPECTER that haunts this town's past. You wanna know what I did to earn that fear?" He gave a smug look.

"And you know what? She fuckin' deserved it. 𝐖𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐚 was a massive bitch that stole everything from me. She stole 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐬 love, she stole my life." He huffed in anger. "So I just returned the favour. She was a dumb ghost."

"Ugh. I didn't realize that thing would come back after a while." "If I knew that I would have destroyed her soul completely. I was hoping... I don't fuckin' know 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲 would just fucking eat her or something. Of course, my own Deity would spite me." "So, no, I'm not just some fuckin' petty thief that steals things, I did much more than some childs pastime crime. Single handily,"

"She made it painfully clear she didn't want a zorua son when she ditched me in another universe with a batshit crazy Braixen."

"Maybe she'll actually do it this time. She never learns, Peace isn't always an option. I'm not going to make it an option." "It's not like she's a pacifist. I've seen her kill in cold blood before. She should have no problem with it, she's just stalling."

-> Relationships page has been added and updated.

[Ask from @ask-diane]

[magicruned]

i love being normal about characters who are forced to grow into their futures too fast. characters who don't get time to process their grief and mourn healthily. characters who have only known war and loss. characters who look at the people around them and see their failures. characters who smile but underneath there is only grief.

[omniscient3teabag]

billy batson au/scenario where billy gets caught up in an incident as billy himself and his only way to not literally BLEED OUT and DIE is to transform back as captain marvel (And chooses to stay as him. how will he survive if he detransforms back anyways? he can't risk it yet,)

So. times go by, captain marvel hasn't detransformed in maybe a month or two and it's sorta? starting to affect billys own body for some reason. But not enough for the kid to die,, And then , in one of the missions that most of the main justice league members have to join in, a magical rune/spell/whatever is casted onto them to show the day all of them will individually die (with diana and superman probably having the most amount of time out of everyone, and with batman surprisingly having 31:19:03 years, hours and minutes to his name left(yeah, even batman himself was rather surprised at that)) for the thrill of it.

but, it isn't fate, they could still survive if they change any little thing. if they get help or not. it's not set in stone!!

and so to show that one of the timers could go off at any moment. Like. some of the timers just cut to zero even if there were a few more years to its name and they'll immediately kick the bucket. or like their heads explode. and their lives r on a gamble to hope that their own timers won't get chosen to be the next to be resetted. so all of their timers start ticking, as they fight their way through the battle they're fighting in

even after they win, the timers don't go away , so they're up in the watchtower, the annoying tick of each minute getting louder and louder in their ears, and having a meeting until they realize

captains timer is only ones that isn't ticking? so they look over to cm's timer and see,

00:00:04. Four minutes left. what? why is he literally almost on deaths door? metaphorically. I mean

but thats not all, it's not even going down. minute after minute, it's like it's stuck in stasis which is .. weird???? and like captain is sorta sweating bullets because like oooooh crumbs. Oh gods

also. accompanying art hshsssfjgdf

(he thought if he stayed still no one would notice his odd ass death timer)

[pears-palette]

"A Tale as Old as Time..."

[ID in Alt]

This piece took me forever, but finally the Beauty and the Beast inspired Faricille stained glass is complete! And it only took like 21 hours lol. RIP my hands- remember to stretch, kids!

I feel like the symbolism is kind of obvious (for the most part at least), but I will go ahead and explain it.

MANGA SPOILERS AHEAD

Falin and Marcille are depicted in the unfortunate fate the dungeon led them to- Falin as a chimera and Marcille as an unwilling dungeon lord. Their expressions morose yet they interlock their fingers like in the bath scene. The design between them is the summoning circle Marcille stood in while resurrecting Falin. I did my best to copy the runes as closely as I could.

The golden feathers of the wing lion embrace the scene, and his symbol is also displayed at the bottom. Specifically, it is made to look like Kensuke's guard, a subtle nod to Laios, who is such an important person for both of these women. Thistle frames it with his ties to the lion, the dungeon, and his role, intentionally (with Falin's) or unintentionally (with Marcille's) unfortunate fates.

In the background, two scenes are specific to each character, and two have shared meanings for the characters. On the right, Falin's staff is lit up with magic, like the kind that teleported her party out and martyred herself. On the left is Marcille's mindscape library- the scene split in half between the black and gray of a nightmare and the color of a dream. Both symbolize driving forces in their lives- Falin's to protect those she loves no matter what, and Marcille's to escape her fears (and her own way of trying to protect those she cares about). At the bottom is the beginning- the raspberries they shared as girls that signified the start of their friendship. At the top, it wasn't the final ending but an ending nonetheless. The rabbits are tied to Falin because the rabbit stew is the catalyst to have her die for another time, a meal when one is starving, feeling like salvation despite death (Can't death be considered salvation on its own?). The rabbits also signal an extremely traumatic event for Marcille as she watched all her friends die because of them- once again, either actively in the case of her party or as the result of in the case of Falin.

[suevi-if]

Suevi is an interactive fiction WIP - Chapter 1 out now!

This story is about finding love and surviving in Ancient Rome... as a Germanic slave.

[Demo Link]

Prologue - 5.5k words (without code)

Chapter 1 - 21.5k words (without code) - added June 8th 2025

[genres: romance, historical fiction, low fantasy, dark]

This book is for mature audience only (18+). It's currently still in early development and everything released is subject to possible change. The book will contain mature themes like slavery, abuse of any kind, sexual content (mostly optional), death of people and animals (the latter for food and sacrificial purposes), diseases, suicidal ideations, homophobia, transphobia, body dysmorphia, possible self mutilation, swearing, attempted non consensual intercourse (this is not a definitive list of triggers!).

There will be trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter.

This is a work of fiction. Wherever possible and plausible, I incorporate information that is available about how Germanic tribes lived, how Germanic slaves were treated, what life in a Roman city looked like etc.

However, especially about the Germanic tribes, and about the timeframe I chose, there is only very little information. They did have runes but only used them for ritualistic purposes, never to write anything down; they had no written languages. Because of that, actual legitimate information is extremely scarce, and the information that we have is mostly written from an "enemy" point of view - the Romans.

I might somewhat substitute with things we know about the vikings, which technically also were Germanic tribes, but they lived quite some hundred years after the timespan I aim for the main story of this IF to be set in (which is essentially shortly after/around 14 CE).

Other choices and possible changes of actual facts/information about the historical times and people are made for flavour and for the readers' comfort.

Because some people don't seem to understand:

I am not a historian. I am merely one person researching and writing this as a hobby. It will not be 100% historically accurate. It is still a work of fiction and I take creative liberties.

Movies with massive budgets and several research assistants have historical inaccuracies in them. Please let me also have some.

After a skirmish close to the Roman border, you are captured and transported to a city. Your capturer forces you into slavery and sells you off to a patrician family — wealthy Romans, in social and political standings only underneath the Emperor.

Desperately you try to adapt to these new circumstances — you don't even speak their language, know nothing about their culture... It's a whole different world for you. At first, you struggle to even communicate with the people that call themselves your "familia". Will you manage to live amongst them, or will you refuse to obey the rules and orders you are unfamiliar with?

What will your fate be? Will you stay with your new family, will you try to escape to your old family, or will you look for a better future elsewhere?

Will you try to abandon old beliefs and adapt to new ones? Or is the hold of the old Gods too strong on you to let go?

And what role does the person who enslaved you really play in all of this?

Customize your own Suevi — choose your sex, gender, sexuality, looks, the God you mainly pray to and your former occupation (depending on the tribe you are from).

Pick one of five love interests (includes one poly option):

Ing (Ingunn/Ingram), the quiet and angry Cherusci servant (f/m) [Tropes: Friends (to Enemies) to Lovers // Clueless Love // REDACTED]

Aquila (always named Aquila), the cheerful, friendly Roman artist (m/f/nb) [Trope: Sex first, feelings later — Fast burn fling, Slow burn romance]

D (Dewognata/Dagomaros), the Gaul weaver with a tragic backstory (f/m) [Tropes: Rescue Romance // (Not so) Secret Admirer]

Nefer (Nefertari/Neferkare), the chronically tired, sarcastic Nubian merchant (f/m) [Trope: Secret identity/Dark secret]

Xen (Xeno/Xenon), the gentle and wise Greek teacher (f/m) [Tropes: Single Parent // Child as matchmaker // Age gap]

Poly option: MC x Ing x Aquila

Find love, have a good time with no strings attached (flings!) or just do your own thing (and hopefully escape slavery).

FAQ

Support me on Patreon (extra content and early access!)

Support me on Ko-Fi (extra content and early access!)

Buy me a coffee (and have my eternal gratitude <3)

Popular tags (for each RO, RO reactions etc.)

Physical description RO's

RO Moodboards

Play the demo here!

Immersive playlist (Youtube Music)

Also, this is my first IF and I haven't written anything major really for the past 10 years — so I might be somewhat rusty in some parts and completely new to other parts (namely, ChoiceScript). If you have tips, tricks, resources to learn/get better and constructive criticism, or you found any bugs or mistakes in my demo, I'd love to hear from you!

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you'll enjoy my story!

[riddlesrizzler]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙮

summary: please, i've been on my knees. change the prophecy. characters: mattheo riddle, reader warnings: none word count: 1.1k a/n- week three of festival of aus!!!

The silence in the bridal chamber was suffocating.

Thick velvet curtains blocked out the morning sun, drowning the room in muted blue light. An enchanted fire crackled in the hearth, more for appearance than warmth. You stood before the gilded mirror, motionless, watching the rise and fall of your chest as though your reflection belonged to someone else.

The gown was beautiful-ivory silk stitched with ancient runes, delicate lace climbing up your collarbones like frost. It fit like it had been made for you, because it had been. You were dressed like a queen, but you felt like a lamb draped in finery, led toward a fate carved out centuries before you were born.

The stylists had left hours ago, but their perfume still lingered in the air. Lilac, rosewater, smoke. You hated it. You hated the stillness, the silence, the spellwork sealed into every fold of fabric.

You hadn’t cried. Not yet.

Because crying would mean accepting it.

You heard the door open behind you-a soft creak, followed by the measured sound of his boots against the polished stone floor. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. His presence filled the room like shadow curling at the edges of candlelight.

Mattheo.

He moved slowly, as if unsure of his place in this room, in this moment. In your life.

He didn’t speak right away. You could see him in the mirror’s reflection-dark hair tousled, black robes sharp against his pale skin. His tie hung untied around his neck like a noose that hadn’t been pulled tight yet.

“You look…” he began, his voice low, rough, and a little hoarse. “Like you’ve made peace with dying.”

You held his gaze in the mirror, face unreadable. “Funny,” you murmured. “I was going to say the same about you.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. He looked tired-too tired for someone about to be wed. His hands stayed in his pockets as he leaned against the wall, watching you like he was trying to figure out if this version of you was real, or just another illusion.

“They’re waiting,” he said after a long pause. “Best not to keep the gods bored.”

You turned away from the mirror, your fingers brushing the embroidery at your waist. Tiny runes hummed beneath your touch-protection, union, permanence.

No escape.

You walked past him without a word. The smell of clove smoke and something darker-ancient magic, maybe-clung to him like a second skin. You didn’t look back.

The ceremony was held at dusk, beneath the carved stone archways of the Riddle ancestral estate. The air tasted like old magic and colder promises.

They’d draped the space in deep greens and silvers, woven with floating candles that hovered like stars caught mid-fall. Guests watched with wide eyes and polite smiles, draped in their own silk chains of duty and legacy.

You stood across from Mattheo, your hand in his, your pulse thudding behind your ribs like a caged bird.

A priestess recited the binding spell in a language older than death. Your names echoed through the hall like thunder on glass. You repeated the vows like you’d practiced-each word a stitch in a seam you could no longer rip.

Mattheo said his lines without flinching, but there was a tightness in his jaw. His fingers were warm but unmoving in yours.

Then came the kiss.

Brief. Pressed lips, nothing more. No spark, no fire, no tenderness.

A formality.

They applauded. You smiled.

You drowned.

That night, the manor was too quiet. Too clean. You padded through its endless halls like a child in a stranger’s home, every candle flickering with spells you didn’t know.

You found him in the drawing room, sitting in the high-backed leather chair by the fire, a crystal tumbler of firewhisky in his hand. He didn’t look up when you entered, but he gestured silently to the bottle on the table.

You poured yourself a glass and sat across from him. The chair was too big, the fire too hot. The glass too full.

You stared into the flames for a while, the silence stretching between you like a spell with no end.

Then, barely above a whisper, the words escaped your lips like a prayer:

“Please. I’ve been on my knees. Change the prophecy.”

His head turned slightly. You felt his gaze even before you saw it.

“You think I wanted this?” he said, voice soft, but sharp enough to cut.

You didn’t look at him. “Does it matter?”

A long pause. Then he drained his glass and set it down with a gentle thud.

“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t.”

Sleep didn’t come easily after that.

You roamed the manor like a ghost in a cursed painting-bare feet against stone, fingers tracing the cracks in ancient wallpaper. You found the west wing at dawn, the ceiling a dome of enchanted glass showing the sky above, clouds drifting slow like forgotten dreams.

You tilted your face upward, eyes stinging.

“Just someone who wants my company,” you whispered to the stars. “Let it once be me.”

Days passed like pages being turned too quickly.

You and Mattheo shared meals in silence. Attended functions together. Stood close in public, careful to smile, to brush hands as though it meant something.

But at night, your hands remained still.

He was never cruel. Never touched you without consent. He didn’t mock, or threaten, or lash out. He simply existed near you-close, but impossibly distant. Like a moon circling a planet it could never touch.

You caught him once in the study, sitting by the window, a letter clutched in one hand. His other rested on the arm of the chair, fingers twitching like he’d been gripping a wand or a knife or maybe just an old memory.

He looked up when he noticed you.

For a moment, the mask slipped. You saw something raw flicker in his eyes-pain, maybe. Or guilt.

You said nothing.

You simply left.

You dreamed of him sometimes.

Not the man with the cold hands and sharp eyes, but someone softer. Someone who might have read poetry in secret, or loved the wind on his face, or kissed someone because he wanted to.

In those dreams, he reached for you.

And in the morning, your pillow was damp with tears you never let fall while awake.

They said soulmates were real.

But no one told you they could be arranged.

You laid awake that night beside him, both of you staring up at the canopy ceiling like it held the answers.

No words.

No touch.

No warmth.

Only silence, and the sound of fate laughing in the dark.

And as your eyes drifted closed, you realized the truth of it, carved into your ribcage like a spell you never asked for:

We were strangers in matching rings.

[drenched-in-sunlight]

one thing that i find interesting is that even though we never get to interact with Marika directly, only knowing her via obscure cutscenes and other characters' dialogue... she actually displays a wide range of emotions as much as any other NPCs.

her statues depict her as having a warm, gentle smile:

the Mimic veil description points to her playful, mischievous side:

(it's a popular theory in the JP/Asian side of the fandom that it's sth from her childhood - hence the "Marika's Mischief", not "Queen Marika's", and she used it to escape the grisly fate befalling her family.

additionally, its equivalence in Dark Souls is also something described as "the mischief of a young girl who sought relief from the solitude of the woods at dusk", aka Princess Dusk who hails from "Oolacile, land of ancient golden sorceries", but i digress)

her portrait, the story trailer's "Queen Marika was driven to the brink" and Gideon's dialogue after the player defeated Malenia pointed out her sorrow:

(back when i first played the base game, this is the portrait that drove my eyes most in Roundtable Hold. i kept gazing at her - the Queen with permanently lowered eyes, and thought "there is a girl in there")

The bat lady's song, Messmer's entire Crusade, all those conflicts to establish the Erdtree, shows her anger, and the cruelty she's capable of:

Then there's Shaman's village, the clinic underneath Shadow Keep, the golden braid, the Minor Erdtree, the sealing of Death - that points to grief, trauma, survivor guilt, kindness, and the ruinous drive for revenge that results in the above path down hell:

(there's also a theory for the Crusade's headless statue being a reminder for the Hornsent of what they put Marika's mother through, but it's not concrete canon so here is the link if you want to check it out)

The fact that all of Erdtree's incantations are heal and protection spells (with only one exception of Wrath of Gold spell which was found after the Elden Ring was shattered), the Capitol's Perfumers originally being blessed healers, and that all Erdtree blessings come in the shape of tears give the picture of Marika's gentle wish at the beginning: to heal everything and everyone.

(and to me personally, there's a kind of vulnerability and honesty in showing your tears to the world and let it be your power to heal at the same time.)

the eye she blessed Messmer with (i do think the Eng translation at some part lost the sentiment of the JP text - that the eye is always referred to as a blessing)

the blessing flask that - unlike its Dark Souls equivalent (which ranges from 6-13 flasks), only have 4 available to us player, heal all ailments and status effect, and specified as sth made for Messmer.

the Marika's soreseal in the Haligtree + the waterfall near Godwyn's final resting place

the Regal Omen Bairn (that was fashioned after the Jizo statue - sth made by grieving parents wishing for protection for their deceased child in the afterlife)

the blessing, gifts, equipment that Messmer and Godwyn's personal knights all get

the fact that Marika's bedchamber and the Impaler's Catacomb (which is the only catacomb in the base game to have the spike trap mechanic used in catacombs in the DLC) remain the proof of Messmer's existence in the base game

how Godwyn's ending is the only ending where the mending rune is placed on the position of Marika's womb (the lower arc or the Elden Ring - also referred to as the basin in which its blessings pool)

that's a whole barrage of motherhood. the love, the fear, the postpartum depression, the guilt and anxiety, (the occasional scheming for revenge with her son). and despite how flawed and tragic that love ends up being for all of them, it is there.

(there's a whole subplot about how Messmer is the only demigod to be called ugly in-game (Hornsent npc dialogue) while Boc's questline is about how his mother being the only one to always assure him he's beautiful, despite everyone else calling him ugly. and how each NPCs questline does reflect a wider theme seen in Marika and her children. but again, i digress)

every time i think of her, Marika is a constantly shifting kaleidoscope, holding everything from within (the beauty and the malign, light and dark, birth and death, she's warm and gentle, she's cruel and unjust, she's strong and kind, she's weak and resentful, she's sweet and she's bitterness made flesh)... and i could only stand there and admire it all.

[heliosunny]

Hi hi! I really like your fanfiction style and plots!!

Can you write fanfic with a magician!reader and a crown prince!Phainon? Like, in their world, wizards are feared because they wield great power because of magic and can become a serious threat, and therefore they are wanted.

Phainon and his guards get into trouble and the prince is seriously injured. Reader finds them and, despite all the risks, brings them to their shelter and treats them. They intrigued Phainon, because he expected the reader to leave them to die. He was not going to leave, but he had to, because his guards did not want to be near the reader for more time.

After a while, when his wound has completely healed, he returns to the reader's house, but discovers that reader has left it. However, this did not prevent him from finding a reader and bringing him to the palace as his partner, to the horror of his parents and the nobles.

And no pressure! Take as much time as you need!

Yandere!Crown Prince Phainon x Wizard!Reader

The night was thick with mist, curling between the skeletal trees like ghostly fingers. The moon hung high, its silver light barely piercing through the dense canopy. You had learned to tread these woods without a sound, a necessity, really, for a wizard like you.

Magic was danger. Magic was hunted.

You kept to yourself, a mere phantom in a world that would sooner see you burned than thanked. Yet tonight, fate had different plans.

A low groan shattered the silence. The sound was close, just beyond the brambles lining your hidden path. Carefully, you stepped forward, parting the branches to reveal a scene of carnage.

A group of armored men lay scattered like fallen statues, their gleaming armor dulled with dirt and blood. Some still breathed, but your attention snapped to him, the figure at the center of it all.

The crown prince beloved by his people.

Even wounded, he was an imposing sight. A gash split across his side, the crimson staining his once-pristine attire. His grip on his sword was weak, yet his expression promised death to any who dared approach.

His men were conscious enough to move, barely, but none had the strength to rise. A group of assassins, perhaps? Or a botched ambush? Whatever had happened, Phainon had fought like a beast to keep them alive.

And now, he was dying.

You should leave.

But you hesitated.

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of it all. The prince, the future ruler of this land, bleeding out in the dirt like a wounded animal.

With a whispered incantation, the shadows thickened around you, concealing your presence from prying eyes. You stepped closer.

One of his guards stirred, his gaze sluggishly finding you through the haze of pain.

“W-Who…” he rasped, struggling to raise his weapon.

You lifted a hand and muttered a single word. His eyes rolled back, body sagging as unconsciousness took him. A simple sleep spell—one that drained you more than it should, given how careful you had to be. The others were too far gone to notice.

That left only him.

Phainon’s head snapped up at your approach. Even on the brink of death, his presence was suffocating. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, but sharp. “You are not one of mine.”

“No” you murmured. “I am not.”

His fingers twitched around his blade, but you had no intention of giving him the chance to use it. With a swift motion, you knelt beside him, already pressing your palm against his wound. His body tensed like a bowstring, every muscle coiled.

“What—”

Warm light pulsed beneath your touch, the air thrumming with unseen power.

Realization dawned in his blue eyes.

Magic.

The fear did not come, not like it did with most. No, Phainon did not fear you.

He was intrigued.

“Why?” he demanded, voice laced with something between suspicion and fascination. “You could let me die.”

“Because I choose not to.”

The warmth of your magic pulsed beneath your fingers, light seeping into the torn flesh at Phainon’s side. Golden runes flickered to life, weaving over his wound like threads of starlight, sealing torn skin and knitting muscle together.

“You wield powerful magic”

You ignored him, focusing instead on the lingering damage. It was deep, and healing him entirely would drain you too much. This would have to do.

The final rune faded, leaving behind only smooth, unbroken skin. You pulled back sharply, wiping your blood-slicked fingers against your cloak.

“You’ll live” you muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Phainon exhaled, shifting experimentally. The pain was gone.

Time to go. You stood, already murmuring the incantation beneath your breath. The ground trembled softly as a gust of wind whipped around you. Shadows curled, lifting you gently off your feet as your broom shot into your waiting grip.

His men stirred, one of them blinking awake with a strangled gasp. “P-Prince—”

But Phainon wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at you.

You didn’t give him the chance to speak.

With a sharp kick, you soared into the night sky, the forest shrinking beneath you as the wind carried you higher. The chill bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight that lifted from your chest.

You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

You didn’t have to look back to know.

He was following.

You cursed under your breath. What was he thinking? His men were below, weak and vulnerable, calling out for him. He had a kingdom to return to. A duty to fulfill. And yet—he pursued you.

You spun midair, broom jerking to a halt. Your voice rang out.

“Go back.”

Phainon didn’t falter. His silver hair glowed under the moonlight, his eyes burning like ice set aflame.

“Why?”

“Because your men need you. Because your people do. Because I do not want to be followed.”

Below, his guards called for him again, their voices frantic.

A flicker of something crossed his expression—annoyance, reluctant acknowledgment.

For a moment, you feared he would refuse.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled and shifted away.

“Very well” he said. “For now.”

The last two words unsettled you.

But you didn’t wait to decipher them.

With a final, sharp glare, you turned and vanished into the night.

The temporary spell had done its work. Phainon had survived, but his wound still required proper treatment once he returned to the kingdom. His men had been too relieved to question how their prince had been saved, too eager to leave the forest and return to safety.

But Phainon had not forgotten.

Even as he lay in his gilded chambers, the finest physicians tending to him, his thoughts drifted back to you. To the warmth of your magic. The sharpness in your voice. The way you had looked at him—not with fear, not with awe, but with annoyance.

Once his wounds had fully healed, Phainon wasted no time. He demanded his parents search for you. The king and queen only exchanged weary glances before shaking their heads.

“You ask us to reward a wizard?” his father scoffed. “You should be grateful we do not send hunters after them.”

“Grateful?” He leaned forward, fingers tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his chair. “You would prefer I let the one who saved your heir vanish without a trace?”

“They did not save you out of loyalty” his mother interjected, her tone gentler, but no less firm. “They helped you and left. Be grateful for that.”

He heard the unspoken words beneath her breath.

Be grateful they did not finish you off.

But Phainon had never been one to accept things so easily.

The moment he was able, he searched for your hidden home.

Only to find it abandoned.

No trace of you remained. No remnants of the magic that had once lingered in the air. It was as if you had never been there at all.

That should have been the end of it.

But for Phainon, it was only the beginning.

He would find you.

---

Life in the shadows suited you.

After leaving your old home, you settled in a new place—far from the reach of the kingdom, hidden among the wild forests where few dared to tread. Your days were spent in quiet solitude, gathering herbs, tending to your spells, and ensuring your presence remained unnoticed. You moved often, never staying too long in one place. It was safer that way.

You had no interest in the affairs of royals. But even in the most remote corners of the land, rumors had a way of finding you.

Whispers of the crown prince’s survival had spread like wildfire. People spoke of it with reverence, how their beloved prince had returned from the brink of death, stronger than ever. How even the finest physicians had been baffled by his miraculous recovery.

Some said it was divine intervention. Others claimed it was his sheer will to live.

But one rumor, in particular, made your blood run cold.

The prince was searching for someone.

At first, the stories were vague. He had taken an interest in an unknown savior. A healer, perhaps, or a skilled mage who had vanished without a trace.

Then, the details sharpened.

He sought someone who wielded forbidden magic. Someone who had left him when he was too weak to follow. Someone who had defied him.

You stiffened when you first heard it, your fingers tightening around the basket of herbs you had been gathering. You had always known the risk of saving him, but you had thought that once he returned to his kingdom, he would forget you.

Clearly, you had been wrong.

----

The gathering was always held in secret, deep within the wilderness where only those attuned to magic could find it. It was a rare chance for wizards to convene without fear—a fleeting moment of safety in a world that sought to burn them.

You had never attended before. Too many eyes, too much risk. But this time, you had a reason.

You needed ingredients for a new spell.

The air buzzed with magic as you moved through the market stalls draped in enchanted fabrics and glowing sigils. Wizards of all kinds were here—some veiled, some bold enough to show their faces, all of them powerful in their own way. Incense and dried herbs filled the air with an earthy scent as you carefully examined a bundle of moonshade petals, their silver glow faint under your touch.

You didn’t notice the presence behind you.

Not at first.

A sharp inhale.

A breath against your hair.

Your muscles locked. No one got this close. Your first instinct was to lash out, to summon the wind and shove the intruder away. But before you could react, a voice brushed against your ear.

“I’ve finally found you.”

Stiffly, you turned your head.

The man standing behind you was different from the one you had last seen bleeding in the dirt. The pristine prince, dressed in silver and royal blue, was gone. This version of Phainon was something else entirely.

His white-silver hair had grown longer, strands falling over his forehead. His usual noble attire was replaced with something more discreet; a dark cloak, simple leather armor, a sword at his hip. But no disguise could ever hide him.

And as he leaned in ever so slightly, drinking in your scent once more, his lips curled into something between a smirk and a sigh.

“Did you think you could run from me?”

The moment Phainon reached for you, whether to grab your wrist or simply to keep you from fleeing, you moved. A sharp pulse of magic burst from your body, the force of it sending Phainon staggering back. The nearest stalls rattled violently, enchanted trinkets shattering upon impact. Gasps rippled through the gathering as wizards turned to watch, their whispers sharp with unease.

The scent of scorched air filled your lungs as you raised your hands, power thrumming at your fingertips. You should run. But something in you rebelled at the thought of simply letting him take you.

Phainon chuckled, his stance shifting as he caught himself. His blue eyes gleamed with something unnervingly fond.

“You’re still as breathtaking as I remember” he murmured, brushing off his cloak as if you hadn’t just blasted him. “But surely you knew this was pointless.”

“Stay away from me.”

He tilted his head, considering you. Then—he lunged.

You barely had time to react. You shot your hand forward, magic crackling in the air as a gust of wind slammed into his side, knocking him off course. He grunted, boots skidding across the dirt. The ground trembled beneath you as you pulled more power into your grasp, ready to strike again—

But he was fast.

The moment you blinked, he was upon you again, forcing you to jerk back just in time to avoid his outstretched hand. But he wasn’t trying to strike. No—his fingers curled, reaching for your waist.

You twisted away, fury igniting in your veins. Fine. If he wanted a fight, he’d get one.

The air around you shimmered as you sent another pulse of energy directly at him. This time, he wasn’t fast enough.

The spell struck him square in the chest, sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, coughing as dust billowed around him. A thin trail of blood dripped from the corner of his lips.

The gathered wizards scattered. Whatever curiosity they had harbored was now outweighed by the risk. A prince—a royal—fighting a wizard was dangerous. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

Within moments, the ceremonial grounds were nearly empty. Only you and Phainon remained.

“You hurt me” he murmured. Not with anger. Not with resentment.

With delight.

Your fingers twitched, and the air around you shifted. With a whispered incantation, your broom shot into your grip, magic thrumming beneath your palms. You were ready to leave.

But so was he.

Phainon moved just as you did, his speed forcing you to take an extra step back, your heartbeat spiking. He was injured, yet still too fast.

You scowled, gripping your broom tightly. “What do you even want from this?”

His eyes never left yours. “You.”

“You should be grateful” you snapped. “I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? Ruining my work?” You gestured to the ruined ingredients scattered across the dirt. The delicate petals, the crushed herbs—all useless now.

“I’ll find more for you.”

You gritted your teeth. “I don’t want you to.”

You were done with this.

Without another word, you gripped your broom and prepared to take off again, but—

A glint of light. A flicker of magic.

Phainon lifted a stone between his fingers.

The sight of it made you pause.

Dark veins of power ran through its surface, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A rare artifact, used only for temporary enchantments—but at what cost?

“Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?”

It did. He must have taken it from someone—or worse.

But Phainon only watched you, waiting.

The moment the stone’s power wrapped around you, you knew something was wrong.

It was subtle at first—a numbness in your fingertips, a sudden silence where your magic should have been. Then, the realization hit.

Your magic was gone.

Temporarily, maybe, but it didn’t matter. That was all he needed.

Phainon wasted no time. He moved swiftly, catching you in his grip before you could even attempt to fight back. Without your magic, your broom was useless. Your strength alone was nothing against him.

The next thing you knew, you were here. Locked in the prince’s chambers, high above the kingdom you had spent your whole life avoiding.

You had tested the door the moment he left—locked, of course. The windows, too, were secured with enchanted glass. Even if you could break them, the fall would be too great. You were trapped.

And Phainon?

He was preparing.

You could hear the water running from the adjoining room, the faint splash of movement as he bathed. You didn’t have to see him to know what he was doing—cutting his hair, washing away the dirt of travel, shedding the rugged disguise he had worn just to find you.

You had to try.

Even if your magic wasn’t back yet. Even if the fall could kill you.

You pressed against the window, fingers searching for a weak point in the enchanted glass. It wouldn’t budge.

But he had underestimated desperation.

With a sharp inhale, you struck. A hard blow against the glass, then another, until finally—a crack. A surge of hope rushed through you. You struck again, harder this time. The glass shattered.

The wind howled against your skin as you gripped the windowsill. This was it. You would have to jump before Phainon—

A hand clamped onto your wrist.

Pain. A sharp gasp. A warm drop of something splattered against your skin.

Blood.

Phainon’s grip was ironclad, but his other hand—the one he had used to catch you—was cut deep, a jagged shard of glass slicing into his palm.

He didn’t seem to care.

With one fierce yank, he pulled you back into the room, his breath hot with frustration as he slammed you against his chest.

“Are you out of your mind?!”

You barely registered his words—because suddenly, you felt it.

A spark. Like a fire reigniting after being smothered for too long.

Your magic was back.

Instinct took over before you could think. Your hands, still trembling from the shock, moved over his bleeding one. A soft glow pulsed from your fingertips as the wound began to mend, closing rapidly as though it had never been there.

It was then that you noticed—the damp heat of his skin, the lingering scent of soap.

And the fact that he was only wearing a towel.

The sound of your struggle hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Footsteps—several of them. Voices murmuring outside the door, uncertain but growing louder.

“Your Highness?” a man called. “Is everything—”

The door cracked open, and you caught a glimpse of not one, but three men peering inside. Soldiers, perhaps attendants, all of them pausing in shock at the sight before them.

Phainon—barely covered.

You—flushed and breathless.

It took them less than a second to misunderstand.

For a long, agonizing moment, no one spoke.

Then, unable to help yourself, you raised an eyebrow. “Are you holding a bath model contest or what?”

One of the men choked.

Deciding you had more than enough of this, you snapped your fingers, letting your magic slam the door shut in their faces. A flick of your wrist and a rush of energy later, Phainon was fully clothed, his usual regal attire appearing in place of the towel.

Your work here was done.

“Right” you muttered, dusting off your hands. “This has been an experience. But now that my magic’s back, I think I’ll take my leave—”

A hand caught your wrist.

Again.

But this time, Phainon didn’t try to pull you closer. He just… held on.

“Don’t go.”

“…Why?”

He swallowed. “I need you to cure my sister.”

You hadn’t even known he had a sister. You crossed your arms, giving Phainon a skeptical look. “I’m not a healer.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s not an illness. She was cursed.”

That made you pause. Curses were a different matter entirely. If that was true, then perhaps—

“…Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll take a look.”

Phainon exhaled, as if relieved, and led you through the palace halls. He stayed close, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the task ahead.

Soon, you arrived at a dimly lit chamber. A woman lay motionless on the grand bed, her breathing faint, her complexion pale. Even from the entrance, you could feel it—lingering magic.

A real curse.

You stepped forward, examining her carefully. The energy clinging to her skin was thick, unnatural—a spell cast with intent, not by accident.

Phainon hovered behind you, silent, watching.

Minutes passed as you traced the curse’s signature, considering your options. Then, with a sigh, you straightened. “I can break it” you said simply. “But I’ll need time to prepare the spell.”

Phainon gave a slow nod, as if he had already expected that answer.

You left, mind already racing with the components you’d need.

Meanwhile, in the chamber you had just departed—

Phainon remained. Alone, save for the girl.

His expression shifted. The moment you were gone, the warmth vanished from his gaze, replaced by something else—something cold.

He stepped closer to the bed, his voice a low murmur.

“Make sure to play your role well.”

The girl flinched, unable to move much under the weight of the curse. Fear flickered in her wide eyes.

Because she wasn’t his sister.

She wasn’t anyone.

Just an unfortunate soul he had plucked from the streets. Just another piece in his carefully laid plan.

And you, his true goal, still had no idea.

The days that followed were suffocating.

Despite being assigned a maid, Anna, and a knight, Brant, to check on you and provide whatever you needed, Phainon was always there.

Even now, as you prepared the spell to lift the curse, he sat beside you, idly crushing the herbs you had handed him. His presence was oppressive, his knee brushing yours far too often to be accidental.

“…Why are you still sitting here?” you asked, side-eyeing him.

Phainon didn’t even look up. “I just love the warmth of people.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Is that so?” you muttered.

Fine. You’d test that.

You glanced toward Anna, who was tidying up nearby. “Anna, come here. Stand next to the prince for a bit.”

Anna blinked in surprise but obeyed, stepping closer. You moved away.

Phainon frowned. His hands, previously steady, hesitated over the herbs.

But just to be sure—

“Brant,” you called, turning to the knight. “Your turn. Stand beside the prince.”

Brant, ever dutiful, wordlessly approached. You took another step back.

Phainon’s entire expression darkened.

He barely glanced at Brant before abandoning the herbs altogether and standing—immediately closing the distance between you.

You exhaled, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You sure you like the warmth of people?”

“I do.” His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. “But you’re the only one that matters.”

At this point, you were convinced that Phainon would literally do anything you said.

No hesitation. No complaints.

So, naturally, you decided to push it.

You plucked a random leaf from your ingredients and shoved it into his mouth.

"Chew" you ordered.

Phainon, without a second thought, did. His jaw moved, grinding the leaf to pulp, his blue eyes fixed only on you.

You narrowed your eyes. "That could be poison, you know."

He kept chewing. Unbothered.

It wasn’t poison, but he didn’t know that. And yet, there he was, completely unfazed, still obediently chewing like it was some kind of sacred duty.

"Spit it out" you snapped, reaching forward.

Phainon tilted his head slightly, waiting until your fingers were inside his mouth—

Then he shut his lips around them.

What.

You glared at him. "Let go."

He just stared at you, mouth stubbornly shut.

You tried pulling your fingers free. No luck.

You pressed his jaw. Nothing.

He wasn’t biting down, but he wasn’t letting go either.

Oh, for the love of—

Fine. Desperate times.

You took a deep breath, reached forward—and tickled his sides.

Eventually, pinching his side finally did the trick.

Phainon flinched, jaw loosening just enough for you to yank your fingers free. You scowled, wiping them on your sleeve before storming off to wash your hands.

“Handle the rest yourself” you muttered over your shoulder.

He just sat there, utterly unbothered, still chewing the remnants of the leaf like some devoted fool.

You exhaled, tired beyond belief. “I’m going to sleep.”

Phainon perked up.

“I want to stay here and sleep too” he said easily, like it was a completely normal request.

You turned to him slowly. “No way in hell.”

You had changed your mind. Without another word, you grabbed your broom, fully intending to take off and leave him behind.

Phainon, undeterred, followed. “Let me on too.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “It won’t hold us both.”

But before he could start another argument, you sighed and flicked your fingers, casting a spell to summon a second broom.

“There. Now go away.”

Phainon examined the broom for a moment, then climbed on.

Watching him struggle to stay balanced was the most satisfying thing you’d seen all day.

The two of you eventually landed on a tall tree, its thick branches sturdy enough to sit on. From here, the kingdom stretched out beneath you, its golden rooftops glimmering under the moonlight.

Phainon sat beside you, his usual cloying presence somehow softer in the night air.

“The kingdom has always feared wizards” he murmured, gaze fixed on the city below. “Power that can’t be controlled terrifies them.”

You stayed silent, listening.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, turning to look at you, “I want to change that.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “You don’t believe it’s possible?”

“I don’t care.” You leaned back against the trunk, stretching your legs. “I’m only here for one thing. When I’m done, I’m out.”

Phainon’s hands curled into fists, but he said nothing.

Satisfied, you pushed off the branch, summoning your broom with a flick of your wrist.

Without another glance at him, you flew back to your room.

Morning came too soon.

You were still half-asleep when Phainon dragged you out of bed.

Dazed and irritated, you barely managed to register your surroundings before you found yourself standing in an ornate hall—filled with too many people.

It didn’t take long to piece it together.

Phainon stood beside you, grinning. His parents—the king and queen—sat before you, their expressions frozen in shock. Nobles lined the room, their whispers filling the space.

He was presenting you.

To his parents.

To the nobles.

As his partner.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You should have just stayed asleep.

The king was the first to recover. His sharp gaze narrowed on Phainon.

“Phainon,” he said, voice cold with disbelief, “what is the meaning of this?”

Phainon didn’t hesitate. “I’m introducing my partner.”

The room erupted into murmurs. Some nobles looked scandalized. Others glanced at you like you were a wild beast about to attack.

You? You barely cared.

The queen’s lips parted slightly, her grip on the armrest tightening. “This is sudden. You never mentioned—”

“I didn’t need to,” Phainon interrupted smoothly. “It was only a matter of time before we stood here.”

A noblewoman to the side scoffed. “A wizard? You cannot be serious.”

Your gaze flickered toward her—briefly. She flinched, looking away.

The king exhaled sharply. “This is absurd. You expect us to simply accept this?”

“I expect you to respect it.”

The tension was thick. The nobles muttered amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from outrage to uneasy calculation.

You, meanwhile, were just waiting for this nonsense to end.

A nobleman sneered, crossing his arms. “A wizard in the royal family. How ridiculous. Who’s to say they won’t curse us all in our sleep?”

Your patience was already thin.

You turned to him, “Watch your mouth.”

He tensed.

“You should feel lucky,” you continued, smirking. “I’m not a grumpy wizard, or you’d already be a pile of ashes.”

The room fell silent. Some nobles stiffened, others shifted uncomfortably.

Not wanting to waste another second in this mess, you turned on your heel and strode toward the exit.

If only Phainon had found someone else to obsess over instead.

That thought lingered.

Fine. If he wouldn’t let go, you’d make him.

You’d craft a love potion and set him up with someone else.

Back in your room, you wasted no time.

You gathered your ingredients—rose petals, moonlit water,.... Carefully, you mixed them in your cauldron, stirring with precise intent. The potion had to be subtle. Strong enough to shift his affections, but not suspicious.

The thought of finally being free from his overbearing presence fueled your work.

A few hours later, the potion was ready.

A single vial of shimmering, rosy liquid.

Now, all you needed was a target.

Phainon was constantly surrounded by nobles, maids, attendants—surely, one of them could do. Someone beautiful, someone obedient enough to make him lose interest in you.

After some observation, you set your sights on a noblewoman—Lady Elnora. Sweet, well-mannered, and conveniently harboring a quiet admiration for Phainon.

The plan was simple: slip the potion into his drink, then let nature take its course.

You prepared everything, waiting for the perfect moment.

But as you would soon learn—nothing ever went as planned when it came to Phainon.

Slipping the potion into his drink was the easy part.

A gathering had been arranged that evening—a small banquet among the nobles. Phainon, of course, had dragged you along, refusing to let you out of his sight.

You’d use it to your advantage.

While he was distracted speaking to his father, you subtly poured the shimmering liquid into his goblet. It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.

Now, all you had to do was steer him toward Lady Elnora.

As planned, you struck up a conversation with her, making sure Phainon was close enough to notice.

She was warm, polite, charming. Exactly the type he should fall for.

And then—he turned toward her. His blue eyes softened.

It was working.

You let out a slow breath, feeling something close to relief. Finally, freedom.

But just as quickly, that relief vanished.

Because instead of stepping closer to Elnora—he turned back to you.

With the same, unwavering obsession in his gaze.

He reached out, his fingers grazing yours with sickening devotion.

"You look beautiful tonight" he murmured, voice softer than it had ever been.

The potion had worked.

But not on Elnora.

It had made him fall even harder for you.

Panic shot through you like lightning.

Without thinking, you shoved Phainon away.

His eyes widened slightly, but he barely stumbled. Before he could react further, you turned on your heel and ran.

You needed space. Distance. Sanity.

Your feet carried you through the halls, past startled nobles and confused servants. You didn't stop until you reached the room of the cursed girl.

The air inside was thick with lingering magic, but her condition was nearly resolved. The spell you had been working on was almost done.

Good. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could leave.

You didn’t dare return to your room.

Not when Phainon was undoubtedly searching for you.

So, for the next few days, you did your best to avoid him entirely.

You switched locations frequently, using whatever magic you could to mask your presence. The palace was vast, but not vast enough when the crown prince himself was actively hunting you down.

Every time you turned a corner, you half-expected him to be there—waiting.

The potion would wear off eventually. It had to.

Until then, you just had to stay hidden.

When the effects of the potion finally faded, you cautiously emerged from hiding.

You expected Phainon to come storming after you the moment his mind cleared. Maybe demand an explanation, maybe double down on his obsession.

But what you didn’t expect—

Was to find him collapsed in the bath.

His silver-white hair floated in the water, his breathing uneven. His usually sharp, possessive gaze was absent, unfocused.

With a sigh, you pulled him out of the bath, his body unnervingly cold.

Dragging him to a nearby chair, you grabbed a towel and started drying his hair with little patience. "You really don’t make things easy, do you?"

Phainon didn’t respond right away.

Once you were sure he wasn’t about to collapse again, you leaned back. "The curse is nearly lifted. A few finishing touches, and I’m done."

His blue eyes, now clearer, met yours.

"And once that’s over, I’m leaving."

Phainon blinked slowly, as if his mind was still catching up.

Then, he exhaled sharply. “...Leaving?”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a firm look. “Yes. That was always the plan.”

His grip on the towel tightened. “And if I say I won’t allow it?”

You scoffed. “Then I’d say that’s not your choice to make.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t engage further.

Instead, you turned to leave.

You had work to finish. And if he wanted to fight you on this?

Let him try.

----

You didn’t expect the cursed girl to bolt the moment she was free.

But the second the last traces of magic dissolved, she barely spared you a glance before sprinting out the door, fear in her eyes.

Weird. But not your problem anymore.

What was your problem, however, was what happened later.

You had been watching from a distance, blending into the crowd as Phainon stood before the entire kingdom.

Then, he spoke. Loudly. Boldly.

"I declare myself the right-hand man of the wizard!" His voice echoed through the square. "And with their power beside me, I shall take over the kingdom!"

You went full mode: WHAT.

The crowd erupted into chaos. Nobles paled. The king and queen looked moments away from passing out.

And Phainon? Phainon looked entirely too pleased.

Without thinking, you stormed forward, pushing through the gasping spectators.

You reached him just as he lifted his sword—probably seconds away from actually beheading someone.

“NOPE.”

You grabbed him, yanking him back before he could do something irreversible.

Because clearly—this man had lost his mind.

The teleportation spell worked—kind of.

Instead of your current home, you landed in your old one.

Dust floated in the air, untouched furniture sitting exactly as you had left it. Clearly, something had gone wrong with the spell, but that didn’t matter right now.

What did matter was the crazy man in front of you.

Phainon stumbled slightly from the sudden shift, but instead of looking confused or angry—

He grinned.

“Running away with me?” he mused, tilting his head. “How romantic.”

“You absolute lunatic.”

The fight had been explosive.

"You have no idea what you just did!" you had shouted.

Phainon, still ridiculously pleased with himself, had only smirked. "On the contrary, I knew exactly—"

You had silenced him with a spell, shoved a leaf in his mouth, tied him up, and gagged him with another cloth for good measure. Then, with a deep breath, you transformed into him.

The plan? Fix this mess.

You returned to the kingdom, adopting his mannerisms, his voice, his smirk. Before the stunned court, you apologized, claiming you had been forced under a spell.

It was going smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

His parents, their expressions unreadable, finally spoke. "We have no such son."

Oh.

Then came the swords. The arrows.

Instinct kicked in—you cast a defensive spell without thinking.

The room gasped.

And just like that, Phainon had magic in their eyes.

Now the kingdom believed their once-beloved prince was a wizard.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

So, you did the only logical thing.

You ran.

Back to where you had left the real Phainon.

You yanked the cloth away and retrieved the leaf from his mouth.

Before you could step back, he bit your ring finger.

You hissed, but before you could retaliate, he simply smirked.

“That’s like a wedding ring” he mused, tone infuriatingly casual. “For you.”

You nearly punched him.

Instead, you shook your hand free. "No. Absolutely not. And you are not coming with me, either."

He tilted his head. "Unless—" he dragged out the word, voice full of mock innocence.

"Unless you want me to return to the palace," he continued smoothly. "Start a little wizard hunt. Maybe collect a few as slaves."

Your jaw tightened.

"They’ll blame you, not me," he added, watching you. "You did impersonate me, after all."

He was baiting you. And worse—he wasn’t bluffing.

You barely had time to react when the door slammed open.

A ragged figure stumbled inside, looking around like a starving beggar.

You froze. “Princess?”

She barked a laugh. “Hell no.”

Your stomach dropped as she grinned, eyes glinting with something wild.

“Ahh, Prince Phainon” she drawled, turning to him. “Lemme tell you a secret. I ain’t no princess.”

Then she spilled everything.

Phainon. The curse. His plan.

You turned to him, “Is that true?”

Before he could answer, the girl suddenly lunged, a dagger flashing in her hand.

Snap

Her body slumped to the floor.

Phainon flexed his fingers, watching her lifeless form. Then, he turned to you with an easy, unbothered smile.

“Oops,” he said. “Sorry to let you witness that.”

You shoved Phainon aside, heart pounding as you crouched beside the girl.

No pulse. Dead.

Phainon stretched, completely unfazed. “Well,” he mused, “you can kill me, if you’d like. As long as it’s you, I don’t mind.”

You barely processed his words before—footsteps.

People. Coming closer.

You forced yourself to stand, hands trembling as you muttered the teleportation spell. The air around you twisted—

Then, darkness.

You woke up days later.

The scent of food. Soft sheets. A familiar ceiling.

Your house.

And Phainon, sitting comfortably nearby—completely at home.

You blinked blearily as Phainon extended a plate of food toward you. “You should eat,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You were out for days.”

You took the plate, but your gaze narrowed. “You’re still here.”

He smiled, completely unashamed. “Of course. You’re here.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up. “I should just use you as a specimen” you muttered. “A homeless like you would be perfect for wizard experiments.”

His eyes lit up. “Gladly.”

Fine. You’d call his bluff.

With a flick of your fingers, a dagger flew from a nearby table into your grasp. You grabbed his hand. “Alright,” you said coolly. “I’ll cut your finger off for a potion. Deal?”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“That would be amazing,” he murmured, leaning his finger in closer. “As long as I can stay by your side.”

Without hesitation, you brought the dagger down.

A sharp slice.

His ring finger hit the floor.

Phainon barely flinched. His breathing hitched—eyes widening in thrill rather than pain—but he didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy chuckle.

"Ah…" He stared at his bleeding hand, then at you, voice soft with awe. "You really did it."

You ignored him. Carefully, you picked up the severed finger.

But instead of using it for a potion, you placed it in a jar, sealing it tight.

"You're keeping it?"

"If you ever turn your back on me" you murmured, "I’ll make you suffer in the worst way possible."

He exhaled, almost giddy. "That just makes me want to stay by your side even more."

You sighed, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing it against his bleeding hand.

Phainon didn’t flinch.

“You really are kind”

You scoffed, tying the cloth tighter just to make him wince. “Don’t mistake this for kindness.”

He only laughed.

The room fell into silence as you finished dressing his wound. When you finally let go of his hand, he didn’t move away.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling.

“You can stay.”

His eyes brightened.

Whatever this scenario was—whatever twisted bond had formed between you and Phainon—you knew one thing.

It wouldn’t end anytime soon.

[blasphemousclaw]

Ranni has every reason to hate Marika. She is the figurehead of an order that has caused her and her family so much misery… and yet, in the Age of the Stars ending cutscene, Ranni holds Marika’s head with such gentleness. It feels less like Ranni is putting down a tyrant, and more like she’s laying her to rest, after many long years of torment. 

Ranni could have been Marika’s successor, but she rejected the guidance of the Two Fingers, slaying her own flesh in order to be rid of their influence: 

“But I would not acquiesce to the Two Fingers. I stole the Rune of Death, slew mine own Empyrean flesh, casting it away. I would not be controlled by that thing.”

Ranni goes to such drastic lengths because the most intolerable thing possible to her is to be a pawn; her will not being her own, but being at the mercy of a higher power. Ranni’s quest is above all about free will – it culminates with Ranni using the Fingerslayer Blade to tear her Two Fingers into bloody ribbons, at long last giving her full control over her own destiny.

Marika in the present day is a prisoner held in perpetual torment. According to Enia and the Two Fingers,

"Queen Marika is the vessel of the Elden Ring, carrier of its vision. A god, in truth. But after the Elden Ring's shattering, she was imprisoned in the Erdtree. A grim punishment for shattering the Order, despite her godhood. The Fingers speak... "Marika's trespass demanded a heavy sentence. But even in shackles, she remains a god, and the vision's vessel.”

Marika shattered the Order, going against the will of the Two Fingers, and was punished for it gravely. In many ways, Marika’s fate is Ranni’s absolute worst nightmare. This is exactly the fate she took such drastic lengths to escape… serving a higher power with her entire being, her will not her own, but the will of the Fingers, with any attempt at change met with violent suppression, her body essentially being used as a puppet to defend the last vestiges of the Order.

“I would not be controlled by that thing.”

I think that Ranni, seeing Marika’s broken body at the end of it all, felt nothing but pity for her in that moment, despite everything she’d done. To me, the act of Ranni holding Marika’s head in her hands feels like she’s saying, “you were my enemy. But there is no worse fate in this world than what you suffered. Now, you can be truly free."

[shizuturnspages]

Genshin impact yandere.

About A Love That Won't Wake, and if the reader is in a vegetative state or brain dead, what if she is pregnant?? This kind of drama would be interesting

Can you also add more characters? :D

Thanks

A Love That Won’t Wake: Mother of a Future That Never Was

Synopsis: You are gone. At least, in the way that matters. Brain-dead. Your body remains warm, but your soul—the part that laughed, cried, and fought—no longer stirs. And yet… you are still carrying life within you. A child. The baby of one of them. Or perhaps more than one. None of them know for sure. But it doesn't matter. Because every one of them believes it should be theirs. Now they stand over your motionless form with twisted hope, their love for you consuming everything: sanity, morality, even the future of the child who never asked to be born into obsession. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Dainsleif, Dottore, Cyno, Scaramouche, Wriothesley, Zhongli, Alhaitham, Kaveh, Ayato x Brain-dead Reader

Diluc – Grief Beneath the Hearth

He sits beside your hospital bed every night, reading to you.

He reads children’s books now. His hand gently rubs your belly, fingers trembling. “It’s ours,” he murmurs to himself, “I know it is.”

No test was ever run. He refused it. He refused to let anyone near you.

His hatred of your stillness is silent, suffocating, and it burns like embers under snow. He swears that when the child is born, he'll raise them in the light you'd never see again—and that he’ll never let them feel the emptiness he now lives with.

Except… he has a plan.

He’s building a home in the mountains. One no one can reach.

Just him.

The child.

And your silent body forever preserved.

Kaeya – The Perfect Family Fantasy

Kaeya laughs when he hears the news. Not because he finds it funny—but because fate is so cruel, it almost feels like a joke.

“A baby?” he whispers to your body. “Are you giving me a second chance…?”

He talks to your stomach like it’s the only one who still listens. The only one who might still love him someday. He says things like:

“You’ll look just like her. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll dress you in blue and tell you stories about the moon.”

But he’s not sane anymore.

Kaeya has dolls made that look like you. He dresses them in nursing clothes. He teaches the dolls how to “hold the baby.”

To him, it’s not a baby.

It’s you, reborn.

And he won’t let them take either of you away.

Childe – Father by Force

He swore he wasn’t ready for kids.

But the moment he found out, everything changed.

Now he’s a father. A widower. A lover robbed of his wife.

“You’re not dead,” he snarls to the doctors. “You’re just… sleeping. She’ll wake up. She has to.”

Childe's convinced your condition is temporary. He builds a nursery beside your bed. He trains every day, vowing to become strong enough to destroy fate itself if that’s what it takes to bring you back.

And if he can’t?

Then your child will be his legacy.

A little warrior.

A little killer.

Just like their parents.

Dainsleif – Hope as Rotting Memory

Dainsleif speaks to your stomach more than he does your face.

“You were light,” he whispers, stroking your hand. “And now… your light still lingers. In them.”

His obsession is quiet. Methodical. He keeps you hidden far from civilisation, deep beneath the earth where time itself is forgotten.

He sings lullabies from a nation that no longer exists. He carves lullaby runes into your walls.

He tells the child inside you:

“You’ll never know pain. You’ll never see death. I will build a kingdom for you.”

But your body is fading.

He knows it.

He watches for signs of decay, panicking each time your heartbeat wavers.

He will raise your child, even if he must turn them into a vessel that wears your face.

Dottore – The Birth of a Second You

He’s already started cloning the fetus. Just in case something happens.

He keeps your body hooked to life-support machines. He replaced your heartbeat with an artificial one. He created a synthetic womb that mimics yours. There are multiple fetuses now.

He’s experimenting with which one resembles you the most.

He’s already chosen names.

He sometimes lies beside your motionless form, holding your belly and whispering:

“This time, I’ll raise you right.”

And when the child is born?

He won’t know whether it’s your child or his experiment.

And he won’t care.

Cyno – The Law Can't Touch Him

Cyno carries your picture in a locket and guards your room like a priest at a temple.

The child is proof—proof you loved someone, even if you never said who. That unknown eats him alive.

He interrogated every man you were close to.

None survived.

“I’ll find out,” he mutters. “If not in this life… then the next.”

He keeps your pregnancy secret from the world. If Sumeru knew, they'd take you from him.

But no one will.

Because he is the law.

And you are his sentence.

Scaramouche – The Puppet's Broken Family

He never wanted children.

Until now.

Now he thinks maybe, just maybe, if the child is born, you’ll be reborn too.

“I’ll rip myself open if it means giving you breath again.”

He talks to the child as if you can hear him.

“If you’re mine, I’ll love you. If you’re not… I’ll love you harder. Because that’s what she would’ve wanted. Right?”

He paces constantly. He hasn’t left the room in months.

And he won’t.

Not until you wake.

Or until the child cries and you don’t.

Wriothesley – The Prison of Love

He pulled strings to get your body moved to a sealed medical wing beneath the Fortress of Meropide.

There, no one can interfere.

He sits beside your bed, talking to you as if you're asleep.

“We’ll be a family. Even if you're not awake for it. Even if you never hold them.”

He tries not to cry. He fails.

Sometimes, he rests his head on your stomach and pretends he can feel the child kick.

He calls it his second chance.

But he’s terrified.

Terrified that when the baby comes, it’ll cry… and you still won’t open your eyes.

Zhongli – Memory’s Gentle Tyrant

Zhongli mourns with poise. He weeps like a statue might weep—quietly and without motion.

But the child changes something.

“They’ll carry your legacy,” he tells you.

“They’ll be an Archon in their own right.”

He’s already begun preparing a shrine.

But it’s not for you.

It’s for the child you left behind.

Alhaitham – Cold Logic, Heated Grief

He refuses to believe it at first.

Then he spirals.

He isolates the hospital. Blocks access. Analyses DNA behind locked doors.

“Logically, the baby should be mine,” he tells your silent body. “But logic doesn’t matter to a corpse.”

Still, he never leaves your side.

Your last breath, your last creation—he won’t let anyone else take it.

Kaveh – A Crumbling Father-to-Be

He cries more than anyone.

He can’t even look at the baby bump without sobbing.

“I didn’t… I never got to tell you how much I loved you.”

He starts building a crib. Then burns it. Then builds it again.

He wants to protect the child.

But he also wants to scream at it for surviving when you didn’t.

Ayato – The Strategic Widower

He files papers. Prepares the nursery. Calls it a “calculated tragedy.”

But it’s not.

He broke the day you did.

Now all that’s left is the child. The heir to your legacy.

His obsession turns political. He names the child after you.

Then makes laws in your name.

Maybe you’ll never wake.

But your legacy will never die.

[bodhiscurls]

the look of love. ( bodhi durran ) pt. 1

the day your brother liam died, a part of you died with him. you couldn't bare to look at the people you used to call family and that included letting go of bodhi durran. except now they're all back asking for your help to find a rune your late brother and mother may have known that could be the key to repairing the wards. its all business and after this you'll head back to the life of loneliness you live except that even after all this time, bodhi durran still looks at you with the look of love. (takes place after the battle of resson- may not be 100% factual or making sense soz love ya xoxo)

main pairing: bodhi durran x mairi reader (liam's older sister), xaden riorson x violet sorrengail

themes: angst, mentions of death, grieving, swearing

soft knuckles wrap against the door in gentle taps and then a groan- a shove you guess and the same tattering rocks the wooden door harder, more urgently.

the lack of sleep threatens to hang your eyelids close and you're tempted for a moment to just roll back under the covers and let the worries find you in the morning light. however, it's audibly apparent that the knocking will not stop.

a stomp of your bare feet fizzles anger into the earth and you fight the snarl edging at the corner of your mouth.

"what," you hiss and rip the door open, standing face to face with the same riders you used to call family. until, well, protecting one of them tore your own real brother from you. that day on the battlefield, something had died along with him. love from the mairi bloodline had been locked away deep into your soul, guarded by soldiers of grief and wrath that moulded your new armour of loneliness.

"good to know you're still a bundle of sunshine when you wake," a deep voice rumbles from the back.

"oh fuck you tavis," you fight off the sleep with an eye roll and steel a stony glare to his brown eyes that recoil instantly. good to know you still had that effect on him, a small devious smile threatens to play on your lips.

"what do you want?" your voice lowers an octave and the air shifts around you. gone were the days you'd smile with these riders, dine with them, train with laughter till your muscles tired sore. gone were the days you felt anything but disdain for them.

they say people grieve in different ways yet it felt that when they all had moved on and forewards, it was only you that felt the screams in the still of the night, the deep blue of his eyes that softened with every last breath he took. that he died for the people he loved - the same fate as your mother took.

you carried that grief constantly in every minute and every breath you took. how could you laugh and carry on knowing he was meant to exist in the same moment as you if it weren't for the pair of idiots standing at the front of your door. forgiveness was something they'd asked for repeatedly and yet, it didn't feel right. they didn't feel deserving of anything from you, not when they had taken everything from you.

"can we come in?" the traitor's voice is gentle, so soft it almost wasn't there. except it was- like the stark silver that contrasted against the darkness of hair tied into a pretty little braid as always.

"you can certainly try," you take a step back, fighting the empty laughter when her head pulls back in whiplash at the warded door. "don't be so fucking ridiculous," you scoff. "you both have some nerve coming here," and you shift your stony glare onto the man beside violent sorrengail.

"believe me, wingleader mairi," he softens, "yn," he tries again and by the furrow in your brows its clearly the wrong appraoch "i wouldn't be here disrupting our peace if i didn't deem in necessary."

"peace," you spit, "i wouldn't mistake a forced recognition of a power position in need of mutual respect as peace wingleader riorson and neither should any of you," you go to turn (or rather slam) the door at the cadets interrupting your night when her voice calls out again.

"wait! please," she begs, "please." she tries again and you almost remember what it was like before liam's death- who you were before it all unraveled and the you before would have dropped everything for the girl infront of you. though now, you would not make the same mistake your younger brother fatefully had.

"you're out past curfew cadet," and she is met with the dark oak on the other side in finality.

you settle and rest your back against the door, breaths shallow and slow as you pace yourself. you haven't had to confront any of them in a long time and you forgot how ugly the loneliness could make you turn.

stormy one, you feel your dragon vaelith's silky tone sooth the worries folded in your mind. one more awaits at the door.

you know who it is already. the softness carried in his deathly stance is often missed by many. however, years of being his soulmate meant you had memorised every fibre etched into his being.

you open the door gently before his knuckles could meet the wood again with the first soft tap.

"hey," he whispers, slowly lowering his hand and meeting your somber gaze. you nod tightly in return, biting your lip down as you struggle to find the right words.

"hey," you settle for. the strain is evident in your voice and its clear that in holding a simple conversation with no malice and no spite. god, why was it so hard to not be a bitch.

as if testing the struggling waters, he reaches out. not a touch to your arm or a soft embrace but a steady hand holding the door open as if he was worried you'd let it slip and close it on him forever.

"look," he starts nervously, "i don't mean to crowd your space like this, i know things are different now-" your heart stops because you know he really means to say that you are different now. you've caused this imbalance, this awkwardness, this liam sized hole you'd never be able to fill.

"but what xaden said earlier," and at the mention of the wingleader who posed the protection order of your brother, sentencing him to death you still and bodhi immediately detects the shift, moving closer to you on instinct. "we wouldn't be here if we didn't desperately need your help on this."

"and what more could you possibly need from me?" your voice threatens with a crack and bodhi's heart lurches in two. liam's death had hardened you in ways that you hadn't imagined; given you an edge to rival xaden riorson's as you climbed to the ranks of wingleader within no time. you didn't let yourself stop and breathe his life; that would only slow you down. instead his death existed as a weighted blanket that covered you in the nights you spent alone wishing it had been you taken instead, wishing if only you had been as quicker and stronger as you are now that you couldve gotten to him in time.

quickly the blame of your brothers death shifted to xaden to violet to you, and there was nothing you could do to make this easier.

"please," he whispers. he takes a lock of your blonde hair and wraps it around his fingers before tucking it behind your ear. "if there's any part of you willing to move on from the past then meet me in the garden. i'll be waiting for fifteen minutes," he murmurs softly. "there's no way we could do this without you."

he disappears into the corridor, his form in tandem with the creeping shadows and you turn to face the clock. each tick haunted you and if only you could just close your eyes and dream a little longer of home. of blue eyes and carefree laughter, of tyrrish walls and your younger sister sloane.

sloane, you breathe.

it would be a lie if you didn't admit that in the midst of wallowing in your own grief you momentarily forgot about your baby sister- who like you would be mourning alone. you didn't have liam but you swore you would die protecting her- the same mistake could not occur again.

stupid sloane, you breathe again fourteen minutes later as you step foot onto the soft willows of grass ready to speak to the boy who once held your heart and promised you eternity.

. . .

i think it's the right move, vaelith lulls your mind into serenity. she's always been a mother hen, comforting you and not letting you face the darkness alone. but if you would like me to, i would scorch the earth where each of them stand and banish them into an eternity of misery.

a soft snort escapes your lips and you wave her off, tempting, you whisper back along the bond. though, i think tonight is a night where i'll just have to be brave enough to face them before i decide to do anything rash.

you've always been brave, it's why i chose you, she chastises and your warm regard is cut short when you recognise the three figures immediately.

"she's not coming," you recognise the deep timbers of xaden riorson's voice first.

"she will," his cousin returns with a confident finality and the conversation immediately stops when they spot you in line of sight.

bodhi speaks first hesitantly as garrick offers a smile of truce. "hey," he starts up an echo of earlier nerves. it makes you soften realising youre not the only one on unfamiliar territory.

"hey," you nod at garrick in greeting too, purposefully ignoring the wingleader at the end.

"you came," bodhi takes a step closer to you.

"you called," your brows furrowing in confusion. "what is so important you need my help?" and the three of them stare at each other.

"when liam passed," bodhi swallows. "there were some journals he kept about runes. knowledge your mother would have passed."

" i see," you stare upwards into his soft chocolate eyes. you will yourself to stay as still as possible, grateful for the height he has on you that way the tears would not be able to escape your glistening eyes.

"only you would be able to decipher the meaning of it and locate the missing protection rune," he finishes. but you don't focus on the last sentence. you focus on the fact that liam having journals was not uncommon knowledge to you, you kept a few of them in secret after having to clear out his room months ago. journals from your mother? that was not what you were expecting.

"and where are these journals?" you ask with a deathly stillness.

"i have them," xaden riorson finally speaks up. "and you may see them if you wish."

"if i wish," you seethe immediately, fire bursting within your veins. "that is mairi property and i will fucking kill you if you do not return them to my bloodline." a casual shrug of defiance from xaden is all it takes before you're lunging for him, hand and dagger wrapped around his throat.

as if expecting you, xaden lets his shadows wrap around you in turn and lifts you away from him and into the air. your dagger clatters to the ground and you hear a stern "no" errupt from bodhi.

"xaden, if you don't put your fucking shadows away then i will," his voice is menacingly quiet that xaden raises a brow at his cousin.

you use the element of surprise whilst the two cousins are engaged in a silent combat and use your signet of harvesting to grow vines from the ground and wrap around the elder riorsons throat. its caught him off guard for sure and a smirk settles its way onto your lips as his shadows scramble and you fall to the ground with a satisfactory thud. he wheezes and the tan of his golden kissed skin borders a terrible blue before your vines vanish entirely.

fucking bodhi, you grumble. you turn to him, arms crossed unimpressed with his countering. "you never let me have any fucking fun," you mumble but his gaze does not waver from his cousin.

"she is not to be touched," he swears and its eerie how with no words he is able to get his point across within seconds. xaden touches at his throat and nods, taking a step closer to you.

except bodhi is quicker and stands in the middle of you two- a year ago you would have never imagined being nemeses with one of your best friends yet fate has a funny way of showing its cards.

"please," he whispers and its so desperate- so unlike him. begging was beneath xaden riorson, surely.

"violet thinks that the runs are the key to strengthening the wards and liam may have been able to locate one of them," he looks up to meet your eyes. "please, i'm begging you to help us."

"she shouldn't be expecting anything more from him- she already took his life," you shove a finger at his chest, except it doesnt meet xaden but stabs at bodhi in the middle instead. if it hurts him in any way, hes as stoic as a brick and refuses to show it.

"you keep punishing us and if that's what it takes for you to grieve then fine," he grits his teeth. "i am asking you nicely before it becomes an order."

" you're talking to a wingleader fuckass," you almost spit in his face. "there is no order."

"as duke to the tyrrish throne, i order you to do your part in protecting your people," his voice is stern as it is low, as if he could be any louder it would be all of your lives on the line.

you stumble over your words, heart skipping its usual steady rhythm and something in you stirrs. an order from the tyrrish throne, an order you cannot refuse. you're stunned into silence, a gentle fuck slipping onto your mind.

"liam died with honour, the least you could do is try to live with some," xaden bitterly commands and you meet his eyes.

"living with honour is not granting you two the mercy of death," you heave through shaky breaths. "if this is to be done, it is done on my terms," the silence of the bagsiath air swallows the four of you whole. "but i want it to be a known fact, my help is not because of any of you or that treacherous bitch," and xaden's brow arches in retaliation, ready to strike again but bodhi places a hand across his chest, willing you the silence to finish. "it is for liam and whatever i find, it is up to me on how we proceed."

"this is violet's plan," xaden emphasises, stubborness radiating from him.

"those are my terms," you don't grant him the grace of meeting his eyes but settle on the man in the middle of you two. "accept or deny whatever the fuck you want, it's not me who needs any of you."

bodhi tenses at the last sentence but somberly nods. he shares a look with his cousin and best friend before settling on you again for a lot longer than the moment needed.

"we accept your terms."

"all of them?"

"all of them," he swears and you bid him a nod farewell before you disappear back to your safe haven of loneliness where the memories of your younger brother and sister carry you whole.

note: idk how many parts this will be im thinking maybe four ?????? but lowk was inspired by that clip from monkey man where kid and sita are both bloodied and she hands him something and just for a second their hands almost touch and THE YEARNING!!! the yearning my god anyways hope u enjoy 💘

[bleedingichorhearts]

𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: I wanted to do something with just the Tarnished. Would this be considered Teratophilia? They are not entirely human, are they?

𝕬𝖉𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖘: The Tarnished is a completely imaginable character. You create the Tarnished yourself. This can be considered true or not. “They/Them/Their” will be used to describe a singular Tarnished.

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Smut & Normal headcanons for the Tarnished.

TW // Smut, Teratophilia.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°|

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝

"An unbearable fate for those who are a Tarnished. Their golden hue of their eyes leaving them. Their souls unable to rest, have lost the grace of the Erdtree, banished and are... maidenless."

𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜/𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜:

Stright up, and of course, they do not speak. Actions tell more words type of Tarnished. They will speak to you with their body language, or maybe with a stick drawing into the ground. It's a bit confusing at first. It just seemed like squiggles to you until you realized 1: they might have lost some brain cells each time they die or 2: they could be so old they are writing ancient tongue, but you get a hang of it after (quite) a while. Their ability to just spawn back from the dead becoming really handy for their dedication to 'talk' to you.

On the subject of their dedication. These Tarnished are the most determined in the The Lands Between and out, considering their life is just full of rebirth; trial and error: over and over and over and over again. You have to honestly question their dedication when you keep seeing them after their death so many times. The first time they had died and reappeared actually scared you, but you suppose it was alright considering they have given you a gift when they did...

Gifting, it's one of their strong suits... in a way. Their gifts could range from: Stormhawk Feather's, Erdleaf Flower, Bloodrose, all the way to Sliver of meat and Crab eggs. It's not the best for the last two, but hey. If you have a cookbook for them, and you're hungry, maybe it's actually a great gift? Plus, you can feed them as repayment. However, if they are really dedicated and you return such an interest to them. They gift you a Rune, more or so a Rune Arc, but who knows if you're lucky enough for them to show their... true devotion to you with a Great Rune. They do not give those up easily; if not ever.

With gifting Sliver of meat and crab eggs. You might find more than you bargained for if you accept those foods. They can be like a cat bring back its kill to show you how well they did. Plopping a Eagel, Ram, or a damn Giant Land Octopus down at your feet: ripping a part off of them and offering it to you. You reject? Sad li’ knight, they will not gift you another body for a while. You accept? They’ll go hunt some more things for you, no matter how hard it is. For you to use as trophies, as evidence of their hard, devoted work.

Oh, they love your approval. From being banished and loosing everything they had… It’s reasonable they want your approval, attention and may have developed abandonment issues. They want nothing more to stay close to you, but at the same time. Their goal of having to become an Elden Lord and wanting to be near you; wanting your approval. It messes them up a bit. With the abandonment part? They won’t “say” anything about it, but you can tell they have it by how dedicated they stand by you. Having their full faith in you to not betray them; banish them like they have been before.

They would fight, defend or even act upon vengeance for you. Those lesser knights annoying you? Trying to beckon you closer? You don’t have to say nothing and they are killing them off, whether if it’s in front of you or not. Arrow incoming? They pull you in a roll with them or block it with their shield, their body covering yours. If they found out you have been forced to rest 6 feet under soil of the so called gods? It’s safe to consider them enraged and will go on a spree. How dare they take the only thing that was kind to them?

Despite the more dark end. They like following you around like a lost puppy of a Monstrous Dog. Fully capable of killing, but really until they or you are provoked. They may have lost their grace, their guide and maiden, but they believe you can replace that. That you can become a grace to them. A guide and perhaps… even their maiden. A real, true maiden to them. If you know what I mean.

Can be really possessive. They are not willing to share, nor are they willing to let you go. They have found their grace, their guide, their maiden. You think they are going to let that go so easily? They have been banished, and you are the only one that has blessed them of what should not be. You may not be powerful as themselves, but they can always provide, it’s what they are supposed to do, no? What do you mean no? Have the creatures of The Lands Between lost their senses? Did they gift you something that unknowingly makes you delusional? They will however, give you independency if that’s what you want; expect them to teach you too. They have be alone before…

They do have a bit chivalry blood in them, but it doesn’t mean they will use it for occasions. The enemies they face? Consider it a war crime with how vivid their actions can be when taking down an enemy, especially in front of you if they are trying to impress you. Honestly, the only times you seem them without blood staining their stolen armor is when they are next to you, wanting a good image and reputation with you in order to dazzle you. Regardless of what the rumors spread and what you have seen with your own eyes. They don’t care for what they have done. The gods abandoned them. Now? They will abandon them. A taste of their own medicine.

I’d like to say they have been trying to court you, in a way, since they have seen you and offered you their gifts. You wouldn’t know it at the beginning, but as time goes past and you learn about their social cues of growls, huffs grunts, and body cues? It becomes more apparent they are trying to court you, ever slowly too. You’re not sure if you should be smitten with it or not… One hand they are really dedicated on being by your side, but on the other hand? The drive to become Elden Lord can be a bit more powerful…

𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥/𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭:

They definitely have a praise kink, and combine that with your voice too? Consider them nearly at your mercy. Nearly, because they like to be alert when having heated times with you. That said, they are more of the dominant type, but to have you saying praises in their ear, whispering it? Perhaps they can be swayed of being a bottom. Just keep those praises up while your tone is gentle; cooing and they’ll be a puddle in no time, and ready to take you.

I believe they will get excited about what you wear. Whether it would be dress, a maids outfit or even a set of armor yourself. They definitely get excited when they see you with clothing, or no clothing. Surprised them at first when they saw you without clothing, but they are not complaining. To see your skin is like another blessing that has been bestowed upon them as you are allowing them to see you at your most vulnerable.

Will take you anywhere, doesn’t matter where it is. They will take you anywhere they please. It’s could be in front of a shrine, a church and possibly in front of an enemy if they magically didn’t kill them all off. One of the locations was on a sacrificial stone top, and by god did they made sure to make you feel like a pleasured sacrifice to them.

Blood Play. They definitely have to have a kink for blood. Not one of hurting you, but just smearing it over your skin. They would simply return back from battle: drenched in their enemies blood and just- swipe the blood spattered on their armor and put it on you as if they shared the battle with you too. (Or just to annoy you as they like your attention.) Though, this can come in as a way of marking. If they are the one injured, and you’re patching them up? Except to be smashed up against them with their hands to be a bit… wandering.

Sit on their face. That’s a death they are so willing to take from you. It’s a battle they want to conquer, and they do it excellently too. Their tongue either short or long. Lapping, twisting and sucking on you, very explorative. Let them be embraced with the grace of your juices. Let only you to conquer them in such a filthy way. It’s a loss they would be proud of.

Surprisingly vanilla, likes to lay you down in the safety of your quarters. Watching as the sheets/comforter waves a little bit when they place you down. Their hands wandering over your body: from the sides of your body all the way up and down from your thighs and collarbone. Taking it slow as they prepare you, massaging you before taking you like you should be taken. Taking you as their spouse, their counter part, as their maiden.

Loves to make you weak. Loves to raw you until you can’t walk the next week without them. Loves to see your blissed face as they would overstimulate you. To see drool lob off your tongue. They are filthy, and continue to be when they are taking you when they please. Their hands keeping you in place by your hips. They like to see how well they are treating their cute, handsome maiden.

Would breed you like no tomorrow, and that is …false for them. They can breed you everyday. They are reborn and ready to come back to you to show you just how much they can provide. Ready to pin your knees to your shoulder and absolutely take you over and over. They certainly got the infinite time to try and produce their heir’s with you.

Oh, I would be careful however. Whenever they are reborn as their frustration can become… hate sex. There was plenty of times where they have been reborn and have ripped you of your clothing to relieve their frustrations. You can try and hide, but with them having… dead, aged experience. It a bit hard to do so. They do like the chase and challenge you give them though. A bit silly you are, hiding from them.

There’s gotta be a thing in The Lands Between with something similar to sex pollen. You can’t tell me there isn’t in there, and the Tanrnished to be affected by it? It could last long. They would try and play it off at first, but as it gets more obvious it’s affecting them greatly… They can’t resist the sudden pull to you. The sudden call to claim and take you again and again until all is satisfied. It definitely makes you numb for at least a couple+ weeks, and that’s okay because you are lovingly pleasured, claimed by your lover and get great aftercare afterwards for their rather… rabid behavior.

[karaswnee]

Loki’s headcanons

(Live action version)

[ NSFW Alphabet ]

Personality & Emotional Core

1. Deeply lonely, but terrified of intimacy

He aches to be understood, but the moment anyone gets close, he pulls away—mocking them or pushing them back to protect his own heart.

2. Weaponizes charm as a defense mechanism

The wit, the smirk, the confident strut—it’s all a carefully curated mask.

Loki knows how to be irresistible and unreadable at the same time.

3. Craves recognition, not power

He wants to be seen, not necessarily to rule.

Power was just the language he thought people would respect him in.

What he really wanted was to stop being “the other son.”

4. Speaks dozens of languages

Including obscure dialects, dead tongues, and even coded symbology.

He picked them up over time both for magical purposes and to read things no one else could.

5. Sleeps lightly and rarely

Nightmares—of Asgard’s destruction, Odin’s coldness, Thor falling, and his own death(s)—keep him from ever truly resting.

He paces instead of sleeps.

Powers & Magic

6. His magic is tied to emotion

Loki’s illusions are sharper when he’s angry, while his shapeshifting is easier when he’s calm or playful.

His most destructive magic comes from grief.

7. He stores hidden enchantments on his person

His jewelry, rings, and even the embroidery of his clothes sometimes bear hidden runes—emergency spells, illusions, or even literal failsafes in case he’s captured.

8. He could teleport freely—but often chooses to walk

He prefers a dramatic entrance.

He likes people watching him walk into a room.

Family & Identity

9. Still calls Frigga “Mother” in his head

Even after her death.

Her voice is the only one that calms his panic.

Sometimes when he’s overwhelmed, he “talks” to her in his mind.

10. He both resents and misses Thor

Loki thinks Thor is reckless and dim-witted—but he misses him, painfully.

No one’s ever loved him as unconditionally as Thor did, and that’s why it hurts so much.

11. His Frost Giant form is a source of shame

He hides it not out of pride—but fear.

Fear that people will see him as monstrous, even though he sometimes longs to reclaim that identity on his own terms.

12. He has multiple versions of himself in his mind

Not just in the multiverse.

Even in one timeline, Loki is fractured: The angry child.

The broken son, the charming liar.

The villain, the would-be hero.

They argue in his head when he’s quiet.

Love, Intimacy & Vulnerability

13. He doesn’t believe he deserves love

Not romantic, not familial, not platonic.

So when someone does love him, he’s suspicious, then self-sabotaging.

It terrifies him.

14. Has never had a truly consensual romantic relationship

He’s seduced and been seduced—but always as a means to an end.

He doesn’t trust love unless it comes from someone who sees through all his masks.

15. Touch-starved, but hides it well

He acts like he doesn’t care—flicking off a hand on his arm, rolling his eyes when hugged.

But even the lightest, genuine touch makes him go utterly still.

Identity & Growth

16. Genderfluid, quietly

He’s never needed labels, but when he shapeshifts into a woman, it isn’t a “disguise”—it’s just another true self.

Sylvie isn’t an anomaly to him; she’s recognition.

17. He envies mortals

For their ability to change.

To die, and to forgive.

He’s bitter and fascinated that their lives are short but meaningful.

It makes him feel stagnant by contrast.

18. He wants to be free, not good

Redemption is less important to him than choice.

What matters most is being the author of his own life, not a pawn in the hands of fate, gods, or TVA agents.

19. He sees time as a prison

Ever since his encounter with the TVA, time has become a trauma trigger.

It’s not linear or comforting to him—it’s a trap, a punishment, a cage.

20. He’s tired of being “the villain”

Loki knows he’s done terrible things, but he no longer wants to play the archetype others wrote for him.

The villain, the traitor, the liar.

He just wants a chance to be.

ㅤㅤ

[contentloadingandstuff]

Rip And Tear - Xilonen & Chasca x Male!Doom!Reader

A/N: Alright, here's something inspired by Doom. It doesn't include specific references, and is based on the human version of Doomguy (pre DOOM 2016). If you like it and want to see more of this idea, the asks are open. Enjoy! CW: Violence, established relationship, some made up lore to flesh out the Reader. I'm honestly not sure what genre this is.

“They are rage, brutal, without mercy. But you… You will be worse. Rip and tear, until it is done.” - Xbalanque, The First Pyro Archon

“In the first age, in the first battle, when the shadows first lengthened, one stood. Burned by the embers of war, his soul blistered by the fires of Abyss and tainted beyond ascension, he chose the path of perpetual torment. In his ravenous hatred he found no peace; and with boiling blood he scoured the Abyssal Void seeking vengeance against the dark lords who had wronged him. He bore the ancient name of Natlan, and those that tasted the bite of his sword named him Askari. Though his body fell, consumed by the eternal fires of conflict, he rages on through each that bears his name.” - Tablet of Tona, Third Cycle, Passage CLXXIV

Xilonen

Every time the nation of Pyro goes to war, a new Askari is selected from the tribes by the unified will of all six Wayob. The legends say that this man, worthy of carrying the name, will not seek it or desire it, but will bear it until his role is done. He shall never grow old, they say, as he will meet a glorious death. Then, his successor will be selected should the need arise. 

As for Xilonen? She is not happy with it, by any meaning of the word. Of course it is her husband that happens to be the tormented, death-destined slayer. That’s just how life is going to treat her, huh?

First it was the massive abyssal invasion, one unlike any other in the previous century. She was one of the first to be evacuated from the Children of the Echoes, as her skills - no matter her combat prowess - were too valuable to put on the line. As such, she spent most of the conflict in the Stadium’s forge, crafting weapons at inhuman speeds for the ever dwindling defenders. The moments when she was allowed to leave its safety were anything but a break, as were her nights. She tossed and turned restlessly in the empty bed, worrying about you. Her family was safe, but you were not. There was no news of your fate. But Xilonen never assumed you were dead - you were strong, yes, you couldn’t have died so easily. If she only wasn’t so crucial to everything! She swore, looking out the window towards her overran home, that she would turn the world upside down to find you when it was all over. But fate had other plans. 

The war wasn’t over yet when she was taking a breather near the entrance, subconsciously scanning for any familiar faces amongst the constant inwards flow of ragged, scared refugees. At some point, the crowd started parting to make way for someone. Curious, Xilonen peeked out - only to see you. You, her beloved, her second half, covered in black blood and corrupted goo. Head to toe in armor unfamiliar to her, in one hand you carried your helmet and in the other, much to her horror… the obsidian shard with ASKR inscribed in runes. 

She froze. This was not happening. It took an entire day and a terrible hangover afterwards to come to terms with what just occurred. In one moment, you were fine. You were back. In the very next second, you were dead. Your fate was sealed by the name you were given. No matter how hard she would try, you wouldn’t be able to grow old with her. Before a single hair grayed on your head, you would scamper off to some dank hole and throw yourself at some gross monster just to die and leave her a broken-hearted widow, and your children fatherless orphans. For the first time in a long while, Xilonen was at a loss for words. The only things she could do, after countless rounds and hours of anger at the gods, she could only curl up and cry. 

Once the emotions passed, and alongside with them the war, the mood was bittersweet when she embraced you. You were alright. You wouldn’t die just yet. Then, she promised that no matter what the world was to throw at you, you wouldn’t shed a drop of blood until the prophecy demanded it of you. And she intends to hold that word to this very day. 

Now that the war is over, Xilonen is your primary arms dealer. No matter how tired she is, she puts even a little work into a new weapon or a new equipment piece for you every day. She has the freedom to do so, as Mauvika is obliged to foot the bill for the Warrior’s needs. Xilonen made sure to analyse your armor, finding that it was the same exact set worn by one of the ancient Askari - his spirit led you to it, no doubt about that. Though it’s mostly alien to her, a remnant of draconic technology of old, she does try to not only fix it, but improve it as well. So far, she is quite successful. Whenever you go out, expect to have your equipment fixed up, cleaned, sharpened and polished to perfection. 

Even if you find that too much, Xilonen will turn your refusal down. It’s not only her job as the Name Forger to care for the Askari’s gear, but she is also obliged to look out for you as your wife. It’s the least she can do for you. 

She can’t help you on your quest, as most of it is secretly planned by Mauvika so the information remains clandestine, and she absolutely cannot match you in combat. Xilonen is a good fighter, as every name bearer in Natlan, but you are several grades above her. Hell, you could even go head to head with Mauvika should the need arise - after all, one of the Askaris is famous for killing a Pyro Archon when he turned malevolent and embarked on a path of oppression. She saw you wield both blade and gun with repulsive efficiency…

Repulsive, as Xilonen dislikes gore. Yes, she is aware that it lies amongst the methods of Askari, and yes, she knows that it is very efficient at routing monsters, but it’s so spine chilling to watch you rip your enemies apart. She read about the terrible strength of your predecessors, she saw the murals, but nothing could compare to the sight and the sheer brutal efficiency of your massacres. Because that is the only word to describe most of your encounters with both monsters and humans. After a few brief moments, all that is left of them is a pile of mangled bodies and the sickening stench of iron in the air. 

Luckily, she sees it quite rarely. Nobody sane in Natlan dares to stand in your way - after all, no man or woman would like to have their head skewered with their broken radius, so it's clueless and arrogant Fatui that end up on the wrong end of your weapon. Hilichurls, especially stronger ones, are often too limited in their minds to appreciate just what will happen to them if they come too close to you.

Xilonen thanks Xbalanque each day that your Ancient Name does not corrupt your mind. With just how coldly ruthless you are in combat, you would think an Askari unable to feel or love. But you are still the same man she fell for - just with a tougher look and more blood on his hands. 

Your wife feels incredibly safe in your arms. She knows that you would never raise a hand on somebody undeserving of retribution. Your divine muscles, gained thanks to the supernatural power of the Name, makes you a perfect pillow. Be ready to be her headrest - Xilonen has limited time with you, and she aims to make the most of it. She already started preparing a children’s room for your heirs. It’s best to start as soon as possible so they get many fond memories with their father before he inevitably gives his life for her, them and all of Natlan. 

Chasca

Her role as a peacekeeper didn’t really exist as a separate profession in the ancient times. Most of it was done by the chiefs and their loyal entourage of warriors, but when the population grew and the tribes expanded into more complex structures, that wasn’t sufficient. In recent years, it has been even harder to maintain order as a long period of peace, and the absence of an Askari to be wary of, brough the people of Natlan further apart from each other. But not anymore.

It happened in the middle of the invasion. Buildings of the Flower Feather Clan were burning with unnatural, purple flames. Dark ooze was leaking from several Abyss portals, constantly spewing new monsters. Her fellow defenders were fighting bravely, but at that point corrosion and simple, human exhaustion started to set it. She watched as they dwindled in number, falling to blows of clubs and axes, others being torn to pieces by jagged, corrupted fangs of Rifthounds. You have long vanished from her sight, and in the midst of combat, she assumed you died as well, and realized that she was soon to follow. In her mind, it was the end. The end of her tribe, her family and herself. Her human parents, Chuychu, you, maybe even Chimpu and Coya.

Her ammunition ran out, and it was down to just her Vision. Exhaustion was slowly robbing her of strength to fight on. A lapse in concentration and she found herself knocked to the ground by a corroded Mitachurl. It raised its axe, ready to kill her. But then, a roar - no, a battle cry, coming from the skies. Both she and the monster looked up, its last sight being the underside of your boot. Chasca watched as it came crashing down, its head splattering against the wooden platform under the force of your attack. You were bleeding, wounded, wielding the remnants of your weapon like a short knife. But on your face was an expression of hate. Rage. Combat fury that she hasn’t seen either in a human or a saurian. Hilichurls approached you, only to be met with a barrage of cuts, fists and knees. You broke one’s arm like it was a twig, breaking its face alongside its mask on your fist. Another was cut open, the broken blade passing through muscle and bone as if it was butter. One was unfortunate to stumble after a kick; you stomped on its leg and, holding onto the monster’s shoulder, pulled the head alongside the spine out of its body like it was a weed. Chasca could only watch as the foes were killed, one by one in a torrent of blood and guts. Eventually, they just… broke. They fled, leaving you standing alone amidst the bodies of your comrades and whatever was left of theirs.

Before she could even speak a word, you hoisted her by her collar and, without a word, carried her to the chief’s hut where survivors were gathered. When she came to her senses, she didn’t ask any questions - it wasn’t the time for that. Both of you led whatever was left of the tribe to the Stadium. Only on the way back did Chasca notice that it wasn’t a broken sword you were wielding. It was an obsidian sigil mounted on a handle. A sigil with nothing else but the letters ASKR carved into the obsidian. Once you got to your destination, you wandered off and she saw you again only after the invasion

You weren’t there to comfort her when Chuychu succumbed to corrosion. She knew, however, that you couldn’t. Your new name, just like hers, came with duties that had to be attended to.   

Who would have thought that Chasca would be the one to witness the cursed name, the mark of the beast, be granted to a chosen Warrior? And her husband no less? That was one of the only two good things to come out of the invasion. The latter being that, even if it’s a bit cynical to admit, only one of her loved ones died. There were many among the tribe who lost everyone they held dear. But you were still here, stronger and… cooler than ever. 

Every Askari has similar traits of character, you being no exception. Calm, laconic in speech and dutiful… How could she have not expected you to be this generation’s Warrior? Perhaps it was the part of her that hoped you wouldn’t be marked for death. But alas, the will of the Wayob comes from their wisdom and strives for the good of all Natlan - it would be selfish to try and resist it. 

On top of that, you didn’t seem opposed to your new destiny. You wore the armor and wielded the weapons with a grim determination and hatred boiling in your veins as you tore your enemies into pieces. While you weren’t eager to voluntarily put yourself in danger before, now you were the first to go in, and soon your given name became a synonym for victory. The remaining nests of the Abyss and the monsters lurking around dark corners were stomped into the mud, the survivors too scared of you to come out and threaten the people ever again. Then, riding on your Qucusaurus, you took to the ruins of Ochkanatlan to clean the corrosion. Although the Traveler got to the dragon first, you still had lots of things to kill. 

And when all was said and done, you looked around at all the bodies and scoffed, for there were no more monster necks to snap, no more skulls to pulverise under your boots. So you returned home. 

Chasca was with you all the way. Temporarily, there was a smaller need to keep the peace since everybody was still united and wary of a possible counterattack. She observed as you purged the monsters, and couldn’t tear her eyes away from you. The way an Askari fought was described in legends, but the retellings were nothing when compared to seeing you in the flesh. You were fearless. You brushed off any injury they could inflict on you, your body quickly regenerating as soon as you wet your blade with another monster’s blood. Your newly enhanced size and musculature let you snap necks and crush heads with spine-chilling ease. She is more than perfectly aware of why you fight this way - fear is the only way to get through to the primal minds of the monstrosities you fight. And it is effective, for they fear only one thing - you. 

While she was very intimidating before, it’s an entirely different matter now. Just a mention of her getting involved creates an instant link to you in the minds of the troublemakers. If they pull her into this, she could definitely ask you for a hand and render them into nothing but ground meat. And although you don’t usually fight humans, she saw you drive back Fatui and similar criminals before. And the rest of Natlan has heard about it too. Now very few dare to rob caravans or poach saurians, fearing that they might land in the center of your attention. And nobody wants that. 

Even if you made her role a bit less necessary, you do make up for it by being an absolute piece of cinema. Chasca could watch you train and fight for hours on end, seeing every muscle flex as you deliver well-earned retribution.

And when there are no monsters in urgent need of a proper beatdown, she can… enjoy your strength in greater detail, so to speak. But you don’t mind that, do you?

Thanks for reading!

[jonathanspenguinboxers]

PLS TALK ABOUT CLARY AND VALENTINE’S PARALLELS AND PERPENDICULARS I BEG YOU

Sorry for answering so late, but I didn't want to half-ass this because I genuinely love their dynamic. They are perfect foils. That being said, this is really long and I still could keep going 😓Also, I only did the parallels because it just got way too long to do both, so I'll do another post on perpendiculars and tag you! Also! This is NOT Clary Slander. I adore Clary, but she has flaws and I love them. I also recognize that she grows a lot, so a lot of their parallels are going to be towards the beginning of TMI, before she undergoes more growth. Lets begin!

A need for control. At the root, Valentine is very much ruled by his need for control and his fear of powerlessness. That is why he is so obsessed with the 'stronger race' and eradicating downworlders (who are stronger and faster, that he's explicitly questioned why they, nephilim, would be made to be weaker), it is based in his need to impose order in a world that he sees as dangerous and chaotic. Clary's instinct to control appears when her friends are in danger, like him, she cannot feel helpless and that is why she will do anything, create new runes, run into a vampire nest, jump through a portal by herself, defy authority, act completely recklessly- because that recklessness is her sense of control when it is out of her reach. She refuses to wait, refuses to listen to reason, because she will do what she believes she has to, she takes control and will not let anyone derail her from her path, even if it means putting herself or others in danger. Neither abide by what they perceive as injustice, and radically defy it as a way of controlling something they cannot change.

Isolation. Valentine, while surrounded always by followers, is eternally and profoundly alone. He trusts no one, not even his wife or parabatai and it emotionally isolates him from everyone. A quote that embodies him so much for me is when he talks to Jace and says "You're right, it is [your fault for hurting everyone around you]...The harm is not deliberate of course. But you are like me. We poison and destroy everything we love. There is a reason for that...We are meant for a higher purpose, you and I. The distractions of the world are just that, distractions. If we allow ourselves to be turned aside from our course by them, we are duly punished." The fact that he believes he cannot, by divine fate, love or trust anyone but himself, essentially correlating it to punishment and death. He lives only in self imposed isolation. Clary has always had loneliness in her connections. Simon and Jace both at some point remark that they "wish they could follow [her] inside of [her] head." That she is absent, even with her closest people. She has never fit inside the mundane world and even in the shadowhunter one she is an anomaly and Valentine's daughter. Also the whole thing about loving her brother and accepting of it in that she didn't expect for love to be easy for her. That she would be punished for it and this was just that, a punishment for love because she has always operated independently. She often acts with the underlying idea that she is a burden, such as running off on her own, or taking on danger by herself. They both create distance between the people around them because of their beliefs that they must shoulder their burdens alone.

Their identities are shaped by what they hate, not what they want to be. Valentine is shaped by his direct opposition and hatred to what he views as corruption, weakness from the clave, and of downworlders. His sense of self is firmly rooted in being against downworlders and the clave. He thinks this makes him right, rather than figuring out what right is and abiding by that, he abides only be not being. That is why he is such a hypocrite. Clary defines herself very much the same, that she is against Valentine and therefore a good guy, without looking to see what she even thinks is good, believing that being against bad automatically puts her there. Their identities are shaped by rebellion, by dissent to what they fervently hate, and as so they are very reactive and view the world in black and white terms. (Luke having to call out Clary when she had just been putting down downworlders and Luke for being in the circle, thinking her understanding of Valentine's bigotry automatically makes her superior and morally right, despite just spewing the same bigotry.)

Righteous and convicted. Clary sees things in very black and white terms, proclaiming people as 'evil' or 'good' the same way Valentine does. Clary sees him/the circle as absolutely evil, with no allowable reason or humanization. She shuts down Jocelyn, she questions and reprimands Luke, demeaning everything else they have done for the sake of moral highground and that unwavering conviction against evil. She deals in absolutes. Obviously, Valentine is exemplary in absolutes, wanting the eradication of all downworlders as well as anyone and everyone who defies him. He is convicted in his cause. To the point that he stood in front of an angel. They are righteous in the very definition of it, and have a limited black and white mindset that makes them focused and single-minded. Both of them believe they know what is best, whats most moral, that they are exemplary of these things, whilst being hypocritical of their own convictions. They are blinded by their vision to fix everything outside of them, seeing problems and projecting onto others while never looking within. That is, that Clary had people to turn it back on her, whilst Valentine was encouraged and enabled.

Next, rebellion. This is not surprising, and their most blatant similarity. Valentine rebelled during the academy, he skipped class, he had an inclination anywhere he went to defy authority, and obviously, the Clave. Clary is the same way, defying every and anything she deems unjust. She turned on Jocelyn after she found out she had lied, she spat on Valentine's shoes and bites back at every turn despite him typically having an upper hand, she defies adults regularly and consistently, such as the time she defied everyone by creating a portal by herself against better reason and Luke had to follow her and drag her out of Lake lyn. They do not yield. It took the wrath of an angel to take down Valentine, and I can't imagine what could take Clary. They are both predisposed to dissent, to standing up against who they perceive as the unjust and do not back down.

Charisma. Valentine was extremely charismatic and persuasive, I mean, he had the entire circle wrapped around his fingers. Clary, while not as directly and intentionally, is extremely magnetic and people are inclined to follow and to listen. My biggest example being during the alliance scene between shadowhunters and downwolrders. She commanded an entire room, brought together two very opposing sides alone. It's a beautiful mirror, that Valentine had been in the accords hall commanding all of the shadowhunters, and later on so was Clary. They are forces of nature. They both have presence and when they are in a room they are listened to. The TMI gang would go anywhere with Clary, even edom, because they have full faith and loyalty to her.

Perpendiculars coming soon! Thanks for getting all the way to the end of this if you did, let me know what you think, if you agree, or if you have things to add on!