#Shaped By Human Frailty

[wickedzeevyln]

Apple Seed

The fox appeared first as a flicker of movement beneath the brambles. Old twigs beneath his legs snapped and the grass snipped as he skittered from view. Its coat now hung in matted clumps, the gray of concrete sludge. Patches of fur stuck out at impossible angles, crusted with swathes of dried mud, decaying leaves, and what might have been week-old carrion. It stepped lightly into the clearing,…

[tired-truffle]

Even the Gods Cry For Us

A Viktorxfem!reader fic

Chapter Word Count: 6.9k

Part 17/17

Tag list: @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @potatointhedirt @dedicated2viktor (if anyone else would like to be tagged with future updates let me know!)

“You have me. Until every last star in the galaxy dies. You have me.” - Amie Kaufman

Masterlist

Burning and shredding, you felt yourself being torn apart and remade, your mind split and shattered only to be pieced back together again.

You were everywhere and everywhen at once. Threads, intersecting and glimmering spread out before you, like a hundred violins smashed together, strings overlapping as they cried a haunting tune. Your hand reached out, brushing against the gossamer strands, and visions unlike any other flooded your mind.

You stood atop the ruins of Piltover, your hand intertwined with Viktor's. His mask was gone, revealing a face covered in glowing Hextech augmentations. You wore a crown of twisted metal and crackling energy, your eyes ablaze with power. The city below was a spectacle of gleaming chrome and pulsing light, every citizen augmented and connected to a vast network. You had remade the world in Viktor’s image, free from the tyranny of emotion and human frailty. But as you looked upon your perfect creation, a hollowness echoed within your chest where your heart used to be.

Another thread pulled you in, and you were beset by rage and grief. Piltover burned around you, great plumes of smoke rising into the blood-red sky. Your magic, fueled by anguish, tore through the city like a hurricane. Buildings crumbled, bridges collapsed, and the screams of the dying filled the air. You kneeled at the epicentre of the destruction, tears streaming down your ash-covered face as you cradled Viktor's broken body. Sobs heaved from your chest, strings of spit strung between your teeth as you cried, open-mouthed and feral. He had died trying to stop you, and in your madness, you had struck him down. As the last remnants of the city fell, you realized too late the cost of your vengeance.

Tossed again like a doll held by a rambunctious little girl, you were thrown into a jarringly different scene. Piltover was saved, but at a terrible price. You stood before a cheering crowd, hailed as part of the city's saviours. Jayce stood beside you, his face grim but grateful. But Viktor was gone. You had stopped his plan, prevented the destruction he would have wrought, but in doing so, you had lost him forever. As the crowd's adulation washed over you, you felt nothing but a numbing emptiness, a black hole in your chest that sucked in everything that made you, you.

You pulled back, gasping, overwhelmed by the intensity of the visions. But they kept coming, each one more vivid than the last.

In one, you and Viktor worked together, using your combined powers to heal the rift between Piltover and Zaun. You saw yourself mediating disputes, your empathy tempering Viktor's logic, your magic able to give him his emotions back and keep him level. The two cities flourished, technology and humanity in perfect balance. But the constant struggle wore on you both, and you saw the light in Viktor's eyes dim with each passing year, slowly becoming more machine than human, going too far for even your magic to reach.

Another showed you alone, wandering the world as an immortal being of pure magic. You had absorbed so much power that your human form had burned away entirely. Centuries passed in the blink of an eye as you drifted, searching for meaning, for connection, for anything to fill the Viktor-shaped void in your heart.

Thread after thread, timeline after timeline unfolded before you - for that was what they were, all possible futures. In some, you ruled. In others, you destroyed. In a few, you saved the world. But in none of them did you truly have Viktor - the man you loved, whole and happy and by your side.

Ethereal and serene as freshly fallen snow, Soraka's voice echoed through the swirling chaos of timelines, gentle yet insistent. "You must choose a path," she urged.

You hadn’t expected to hear her again, and though you couldn’t see her through the haze of the shimmering strands, you found an odd comfort that she was there with you, at the end. She had made this all possible in the first place, hadn’t she? It seemed only fitting.

But you had suffered enough and you refused to accept a future without Viktor, without the love and happiness you both deserved. With grim determination, you reached out, not to grasp a single thread, but to gather them all in your hands. The timelines thrummed with power, vibrating against your skin like living things.

"I will make my own path," you declared, your voice resonating with newfound purpose and the lost dreams of those who should have lived to see them come to fruition. "I'll carve it from the bedrock and brimstone if I have to."

The how was yet to make itself clear, but you could feel the immense power that ran through the threads, magic calling to magic, begging to be used.

Soraka appeared by your side, but she was no longer the same as when you last saw her. Her once violet skin and warrior's attire had been replaced with an otherworldly form, one that radiated with divine power - one that befitted a goddess.

Her skin, pale as the morning sky, glowed with soft moonlight from within. Robes of the finest silks in shades of gold, azure, and white adorned her slender frame, her large sleeves giving her a royal air. A horn crafted from emerald stone sat atop her forehead, framed by an ornate crown and the soft tresses of pure white hair. Her gown cascaded down to cover her legs, the skirt shimmering as though it was made of gently flowing water.

Her eyes, filled with infinite compassion, met yours. "You walk a dangerous path, little one," she said softly. "But I cannot deny the strength of your love."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, glowing with celestial light. As it fell, she caught it, holding it out to you. "You will need this," she said, her voice tinged with both sorrow and hope. "A fragment of divine essence, freely given. May it provide the last piece that you require."

You took the tear, feeling its warmth pulse against your palm. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick and trembling.

Soraka smiled. "Good luck," she said simply, before fading away, leaving you alone with your monumental task.

You clutched the threads and the tear, feeling their power buzzing against your skin like a heartbeat. With a deep breath, you closed your eyes and let yourself fall into the cosmic tapestry.

The threads wrapped around you, a story of infinite possibilities. Soraka's tear dissolved, seeping into your soul. Power surged through you, raw and primal. It was like swallowing a star, your body incandescent with energy.

You were the eye of a hurricane, the calm center as madness swirled around you. Memories and futures crashed together like tectonic plates, grinding and reshaping reality. Your mind expanded, consciousness stretching across time and space.

You were the stars, the inky vast expanse of nothingness that cradled them in its hands. You were the sun, the moon, the wishes that children made when light streaked across the sky. Your hair blended with the cosmos, your eyes alight with their eternal shine. Hope and love and dreams made real. 

This was what you were meant to be; a bringer of comfort, a being of protection. 

Colours you'd never seen before painted your vision. Sounds beyond human comprehension filled your ears. You tasted stardust and felt the birth of galaxies in your bones.

Souls burned like small golden balls of flame all around you. Everywhere you looked you saw them, drifting, floating, winking out as others took their space. Your teeth rattled with their rage, their terror, your lips tingling with their joy and love and laughter. Curiosity plucked at your ribs, grief squeezed at your heart. It was chaos and confusion, a little boy lost in a bustling city, crying for his father, a young woman navigating her new school campus, afraid of being away from home for the first time in her life. It was the warmth of putting one’s feet up by the fire after a long day out in the snow, a cat curling up in their owner's lap, digging their nails into soft flesh as they purred their satisfaction - even as it hurt. 

It was everything, and by the gods it was beautiful. 

Like floating down a trickling stream, you turned, seeking, searching, reaching out with the love that tangled like vines around your heart, grown into the steady beat until it became one. 

And the flow of your love was met with its reflection, the love that was given so freely to you - once lost, but found again. You would have sobbed your relief, made rivers form from mountains as you eroded the weathered rock with your salty tears, but contentment took its place. 

Swooping towards the pull of your mirrored heart like a bird fluttering in a gentle breeze, you came upon the ethereal golden glow of the two souls that belonged to those you held dear. 

“—must go, Jayce, and take Milá with you.” The unmistakable accent of Viktor’s voice floated through the stars, through your fingers and up to your ears. 

“We finish this together, and you know she would never abandon you either.” Jayce, firm in his conviction, his soul pulsing with the strength of his belief. 

You chuckled, the sound reverberating through the emptiness as the souls turned their attention to you. As swift as the wind at the front of a storm head, you closed the remaining distance, and blinked, the souls glowing softly in one moment, and in the next, floated the two men on the precipice of ending this war. 

Jayce, with his flowing locks and scruffy beard, watched you with awe in his dark eyes.

And Viktor, your lovely, sweet Viktor, looking just as you remembered before the changes - his hair shining a startling white, but beneath you knew the waves of chestnut remained - reached towards you, hand outstretched and curious. But you were much too large, your form stretched across the night sky, and his palm took up no more space than a freckle upon your cheek. Still, you leaned into his touch, into the soft curves of his fingers, his calluses.

“Milácku,” he whispered with reverence, eyes wide and lips parted.

“He’s right,” you said, your voice falling over them like a rain. “I’m not going anywhere. You do your work, and I’ll do mine. Deal?” 

“A team, like always,” Jayce agreed, holding his hand out for Viktor, arcane stone in his palm. 

There was nothing left for you to say, and as Viktor reached for his partner, you stretched and grew until they sat in the palm of your hands, glowing souls that collided in a blinding array of sparks. 

You wove your magic around them, a shimmering cocoon of starlight and dreams made real. As they burned brighter, you felt their souls pulsing with power, their essences intertwining. Your cosmic fingers gently cradled them, keeping them safe as the energy built to a new height.

You watched, breathless, as streams of magic curled around Viktor and Jayce, binding them together in a dance of light and shadow. Their forms blurred, becoming indistinct as they merged with the arcane energy.

Colours exploded outward, each hue carrying a memory, an emotion. You saw flashes of their shared past - late nights in the lab, heated arguments that turned to laughter, quiet moments of understanding. Love, frustration, hope, and determination. It was all there, and it was stunning.

The light grew blinding, forcing you to squint even with your cosmic eyes. You felt the surge building and your heart raced, a staccato rhythm that echoed through the vastness of space.

With a soundless roar, Viktor and Jayce's combined energy erupted. The force of it threatened to tear reality apart, to scatter their souls. But you were ready.

You tightened your web of magic, wrapping it around them like a net. The threads of your power, woven from galaxies and divine tears, held firm. You poured every ounce of your love, your hope, your unwavering belief in them into that protective barrier.

When the explosion finally subsided, you were left holding two softly glowing orbs - Viktor and Jayce's souls, preserved and protected, shining with the same light blue hue as your magic.

Tears of relief and joy streamed down your cheeks, each droplet a newborn star. You had done it. They were safe, plucked from the edge of extinction and held in your palms like the most precious of pearls. 

You breathed deeply, your inhale rippling across reality like a stone cast into still waters. You needed somewhere to go, somewhere where you could all finally get the rest you were owed.

"Go forth my child,” Soraka had whispered to you as you’d fallen through the void for the first time. “Like a blazing comet streaking through the darkened sky. Your mission is clear: to mend their broken bodies and souls, to rescue them from certain death. You hold the key to their salvation, the only hope for a future free from destruction."

You had thought you’d failed, had allowed death and destruction to reign, but perhaps you’d been looking at it wrong. Death would happen no matter what you did, it was the cycle of life. But after life…nothing but oblivion. That was, until you.

With a gentle exhale, you willed a new reality into existence, fuelled by your magic. The cosmos shimmered and parted like a curtain, revealing a realm of breathtaking beauty. Rolling hills of soft, luminescent grass stretched as far as the eye could see, each blade swaying in a breeze that carried the whispers of a thousand lifetimes. The sky above was an ever-changing background of colours, auroras dancing in mesmerizing patterns.

Crystal-clear streams meandered through the landscape, their waters gleaming with memories of joy and laughter. Trees with silver bark and leaves of spun starlight dotted the hills, their branches reaching towards the heavens - though, you supposed, this was as close to heaven as one could get. Beneath their canopies, shimmering flowers bloomed, each petal a fragment of a cherished moment.

You felt a stirring in your chest. The three souls you had gathered - the warmth of a friend, the love of a father, and the curiosity of a child - began to float towards this new paradise. They drifted from your heart like dandelion seeds on the wind, each carrying a piece of your essence with them. They would be the first to enjoy the afterlife you had created, but they would not be the last.

Opening your hands, you freed both Jayce and Viktor from your pull, letting them fall like leaves in autumn towards the haven that awaited them. It would all be over soon, you could rest, be free from pain and suffering at long last, and—

Viktor’s soul remained unmoving, his brilliant light dim and pulsing, the taste of rain on a gloomy day hitting the back of your tongue. You returned your hands to holding him, but where he’d once felt like determination and fear, he now felt like the screaming anguish of someone who’d lost everything at their own hands. And with all your power, the magic that flowed over and through you like a dying star given rebirth, you couldn’t cure his self-blame. But you were still you, even made of starlight and the memories of millions, and perhaps, that was what Viktor needed most; not the goddess, but simply you, his miláčku. 

You inhaled, deep and expansive, your lungs filling with the nothingness around you, and when you exhaled, you released pieces of yourself into the galaxy, shrinking down until you’d returned to your human height. Were you still human? 

Existential questions could wait, what was most important was Viktor, his soul, tinged in your protective blue glue, floating before you. With a wave of your hand, you returned his form back to him, channeling your magic. He could communicate - you think - in his soul-form, but whether he knew how, or could express as much was not clear. 

He was exactly how you remembered him on the day of the council explosion; his hair swept back and curled around his ears, devoid of any metal, thin, but entirely himself. The only difference being the press of guilt sitting heavy on his shoulders, curling them in, and the dullness of his once brilliant eyes. 

Without thinking, you reached for him, hand outstretched, needing to feel him, to know he was real. But you came to an abrupt stop when he flinched, not meeting your gaze, head hung. 

Silence stretched between you, the distance becoming a gaping canyon. You wanted to hold him, to offer him comforting words, but not before he was ready. 

And maybe your own anger over your own loss had you hesitating to try. 

“They’re gone, aren’t they?” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, your form of starlight and the darkness of space shimmering at the edges. 

You didn’t need to confirm it, he already knew, had felt their souls disintegrate when he took over their bodies. 

He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. “They came to me for healing, they were vulnerable and desperate and I-I used them,” he spat. “I burned their souls out of their bodies and they are lost forever because of me.”

“Viktor—“ you started, but he was quick to cut you off. 

“I do not deserve what you have made,” he turned towards the space you’d carved out of nothing, where you’d laid the foundations for something better than non-existence. “It…radiates goodness and purity, I cannot go there.”

It was simple to keep your face carefully blank when it wasn’t a face at all, and merely a collection of constellations. “Sulking out here won’t bring them back.”

His head turned to you with a sharp twist of his neck, incredulous disbelief in the curve of his brows. “How do you not despise me? Charlotte, you loved her, and I destroyed her.”

Your chest bloomed with a swirl of blue and violet stars, your grief laid bare. “Yes, you did,” your voice wavered, “I…am angry and hurt but it’s not directly solely at you - there were many factors that led to Charlotte’s death and the destruction of her soul. I blame myself too, I blame Piltover and their lack of care for the citizens of Zaun, I blame Jayce for killing that last piece of your humanity you had left, and yes, I blame you, though it is unfair to say there were no other circumstances that led to this ending. Your mind was corrupted, and I do have some experience with what that��s like. With time, I will heal, but you will have to exist with that guilt forever. There is nothing you can do, no one left to pardon you.” 

It was harsh, but honest, and you did not have the energy to shield the truth from him, nor did you believe it would help. Still, the agonized grimace that twisted his lips, the tears gathering in his eyes, had your limbs tingling with the need to hold him tight, to soothe your hand down his hair and tell him everything would be okay.

“I don’t want that.” He pulled back his upper lip in a sneer, his teeth clenched. 

“Too bad,” you shot back. “You don’t get to shy away from the things you’ve done, to drift off into nothingness because it would be easier than facing it. I have never known you to be such a coward.” He flinched again and you stopped yourself, your hands clenched into fists. Taking out your anger and grief on him while he was already in such a vulnerable state would not benefit anyone.

You inhaled deeply and exhaled the stars. “Viktor, I…do you remember what I said to you on top of the Hexgate?”

His eyes swam with sorrow, deep pools of molten gold. “Every word,” he whispered like a promise. 

Your heart ached to see him like this, a shell of his former self. “We all played a part in this; if I hadn’t used the Hexcore to heal you, none of this would have happened. If we had died when we were supposed to, maybe we could have saved a lot of people from suffering. But there are too many ifs and buts and frankly, I don’t care enough to catalogue them all, nor would it change anything. I meant what I said, that I don’t regret a second of our time together, even through it all. I can’t bring myself to wish I could change it.”

Viktor’s eyes darted between yours as though he was searching for your sanity and could find no traces. “You absorbed thirty Gemstones, surely you have lost your mind and you do not truly mean that.”

You giggled, unable to hold yourself back. “It was closer to forty, but I think I’ve always been a little crazy when it comes to you.”

Seeing that he wasn’t going to persuade you to leave him to rot with those tactics, he changed his approach. “Milá, you made an afterlife, such a feat…it boggles the mind. You are…” he sighed, heavy and tired, affection swirling with the sorrow in his eyes. “You are a goddess, radiant and powerful and the most magnificent being in all of creation. And I…what good have I done?”

The answer was simple, it came to your tongue like breath to your lungs. “You loved me, for starters, and without you I never would have made it this far.” 

He opened his mouth to argue, but you held up a hand. “Wait, I’m not finished.” And when he reluctantly crossed his arms over his chest, you continued, “You were a kind and loving friend, you taught others the value of science and how to apply it which I’m sure will lead to all sorts of wonderful advances. You made me laugh when no one else could, and even though you hurt them in the end, you healed so many, provided them relief for the first times in many of their lives. But your value isn’t only what you can provide to others. You fought for yourself, for your right to live. You pursued goals others could only dream of, and you did what you had to survive. You couldn’t have known how it would end, neither of us did, not fully.”

He twisted his lips, his shoulders tightening, unable to meet your gaze. “I essentially killed you—“

“And I essentially killed you,” you countered, watching as his mouth opened and shut in rapid succession as he failed to come up with a rebuttal. 

“If you had never met me, you would still be alive,” he managed at last. 

You smiled then, sad and gentle. “Not without you, not in any ways that matter.”

His eyes widened, jaw slack in disbelief. Silence settled between you once more, but this time, you felt peace. The anger was still there, your grief simmering beneath the surface. Charlotte had been…like a mother, in the short time you’d known her. Losing her so completely had torn your heart in two. But you would have time to sort through that pain, right now, Viktor needed to get to a place where he could begin mending. You’d both been through enough, you deserved a happy ending. 

“I-I used a whole commune, I tore out their souls.”

“You did,” you floated forwards, stopping when he pulled back. “And that does not change how much I love you.”

Panic, fleeting and sharp crossed his angular face. “I aligned with a military, invasive force that killed hundreds.”

“And I love you,” you countered, moving closer again, only a few feet between you.

“I was going to subjugate the entire world, to remove their ability to choose in the pursuit of perfection!” His voice had raised an octave, but he no longer pulled away when you continued to float closer. 

“And I love you.” A few inches now, and you stopped, hand raised to cup his cheek in your stardust palm.

“But I…” his breath came in sharp pants, tears shining in his red-rimmed eyes. “I hurt you.”

“Sometimes we hurt the ones we love, but love isn’t about never making mistakes, it’s about how we handle them when they happen. Even the big ones.” Charlotte’s words of wisdom floated from you with ease. You tilted your head, running your fingers through his hair and watching with rapt attention as he shivered. “Viktor, I have loved you through life and death and rebirth. I will love you for eternity. So please, let yourself be loved.”

Like the breaking of a dam, Viktor crumbled. He fell into your arms, his body colliding with yours, two celestial bodies drawn together by gravity. You enveloped him, your cosmic form moulding around his. He curled into you, face buried against your chest as he wept. You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other traced soothing patterns along his spine.

As you comforted him, comets streaked from your eyes instead of tears. They blazed brilliant trails across the inky void, each one carrying a fragment of your shared grief. The comets sailed past distant nebulae and newborn stars, their fiery tails painting the darkness with your sorrow.

Viktor's fingers dug into your shoulders, clinging to you as if you were the only solid thing in a universe gone mad. His tears soaked into your starlight skin, creating ripples of iridescent colour that spread outward like rings in a pond. You felt every shuddering breath, every choked sob as if they were your own.

Time lost all meaning as you floated there, two souls intertwined amidst the nothingness of space. Galaxies spun lazily around you, their spiralling arms seeming to cradle you like those of a loving parent.

Ever so slowly, his sobs began to subside. His grip on you loosened, though he made no move to pull away. You felt the tension gradually leave his body as exhaustion took hold. His breathing evened out, punctuated only by the occasional hiccup or sniffle.

You continued to hold him, one hand stroking his hair while murmuring soft words of love. The comets falling from your eyes grew fewer and farther between, until at last they ceased altogether. A sense of peace settled over you both, as delicate as spun sugar but no less real for its fragility.

“I want to take you home,” you whispered into the shell of his ear - though home had always been anywhere with him.

Viktor slowly pulled back, his amber eyes rimmed with red but no longer overflowing with tears. He gazed at you, wonder and hesitation warring on his face. You cupped his cheek, your celestial flesh warm against his skin.

"I would like that," he whispered, barely audible even in the vast silence of space.

Relief flooded through you, setting off a cascade of shooting stars across your form. You took his hand, intertwining your fingers, and gently tugged him towards the paradise you'd created. As you descended, the universe seemed to contract around you. Stars rushed past in streaks of light, galaxies blurred into swirls of colour.

Your feet touched down on soft grass that glowed with a gentle inner light. The blades bent beneath your weight, releasing a sweet scent that reminded you of summer evenings and childhood laughter. Viktor stumbled slightly as he landed, unused to having a physical form again. You steadied him, your hand on his shoulder.

For a moment, you both stood still, taking in the breathtaking beauty of your creation. The ever-changing sky painted everything in soft, ethereal hues. A warm breeze caressed your skin, carrying whispers of joy and contentment.

You closed your eyes, focusing inward. Your cosmic form buzzed with energy, too vast and powerful to be contained in a human shape. Slowly, you began to compress that power, folding it inward like origami. Stars collapsed into neutron-dense points within your chest. Galaxies spiraled down into the marrow of your bones. The vast emptiness between celestial bodies became the spaces between your atoms.

It was an odd sensation, like trying to pour an ocean into a teacup. Your skin tingled and stretched as it struggled to contain your new nature. You felt simultaneously infinite and impossibly small. Memories of countless lives flickered through your mind - births and deaths, triumphs and failures, love and loss - before settling into the background hum of your subconscious.

When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself standing on solid ground, in a form that was both familiar and strange. Your hair floated around you as if suspended in water, each strand containing a glimmering nebula. Your skin shimmered, constellations mapping themselves across your body in ever-shifting patterns. When you breathed, stardust escaped your lips in glittering clouds. And as always - your constant companions - the blue balls of light that belonged to your sparks floated lazily around you.

You turned to Viktor, but before you could take in his wide-eyed expression, a blur of motion caught your eye. Without warning, someone launched themselves at you with a delighted squeal, wrapping you in a tight hug, arms around your neck. The sudden impact sent you staggering back a step, your body rippling with surprise.

For a moment, confusion reigned. Your mind, still adjusting to its new vastness, struggled to process this unexpected development. But familiar sensations washed over you - the tickle of dark curls against your cheek, the scent of sunlight and tender friendship that could only belong to one person.

"Sky," you breathed, your voice cracking around the syllable of her name.

As if your recognition had unlocked something within you, your legs gave out, and you sank to the luminescent grass. She went down with you, refusing to let go even for a moment.

Sobs pulled from your chest in painful tears, your body shaking and weak. Sky held you through it all, her small frame surprisingly strong. Her hands rubbed soothing circles on your back, leaving trails of warmth that felt like home.

"I've got you," she murmured, her voice thick with her own tears. "I've got you, and I'm never letting go again."

How had you not recognized her soul when it had sat so snuggly in your chest?

You clung to her, your fingers digging into the fabric of her sundress as if she might disappear if you loosened your grip even slightly. Flowers sprouted and bloomed around you in a rapid cycle, their petals opening and closing like a visual representation of your racing heartbeat.

You cried for everything you'd lost, for the agony you'd endured, for the impossible choices you'd been forced to make. But you also cried with relief and joy at this unexpected reunion, at the miracle of having your dearest friend back in your arms.

Gradually, your sobs subsided, replaced by hiccupping breaths and the occasional sniffle. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at Sky's face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but her smile was as bright and warm as ever. Her eyes, filled with love and understanding, met yours without flinching from your new, otherworldly appearance.

“The whole time,” you whispered, your bottom lip quivering. “You were with me the whole time.”

“You kept me safe. Even when I didn’t know that I was, well, me, you held my soul until I could come back to myself.” She laughed, breathy and tear-strained. “You are amazing, Milá. I can’t wait to hear about everything I missed.”

You laughed through your tears, the sound tinkling like broken glass. "I've missed you so much."

A gentle cough drew your attention. Viktor stood awkwardly nearby, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His eyes darted between you and Sky, a mix of emotions playing across his face - relief, guilt, uncertainty. Gone was the glowing blue aura of your magic. He was simply Viktor, no Hexcore metal, no sickness lingering in his lungs, cane held lightly over his forearm.

Sky noticed him too. Her grip on you loosened slightly as she turned to face him. For a moment, tension crackled in the air like static electricity.

Then Sky smiled, warm and welcoming. "Hello, Viktor. It's good to see you again."

Viktor's eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "I…I'm sorry, Sky. For everything."

Sky's expression softened. "I know. And I don’t blame you."

Those simple words seemed to lift a great weight from Viktor's shoulders. He sagged visibly, exhaling a shaky breath.

Pushing yourself up to stand, you took Viktor’s hand in yours. His skin was plush and warm beneath your touch, and his fingers intertwined with yours as he gave you a small smile.

As you drank in the sight of him whole and unburdened, movement over his shoulder caught your eye. In the distance, beneath the boughs of a tree with silver bark and twinkling leaves, stood a figure you had only ever seen in your dreams. Vander, his face creased in a gentle smile, knelt beside a little girl, dyed blue hair lovingly tied back in twin braids. Isha, you realized with a start, her round features lit by the soft glow emanating from the grass beneath her feet.

Vander placed a comforting hand on Isha's shoulder, and you watched as she smiled shyly up at him. The sight tugged at your heart, a bittersweet ache of recognition flooding through you. These were the other two souls you'd carried with you, nestled safely within you until you could bring them to this place of peace.

Your moment of reflection was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out. "Hey! Wait for me!"

You looked up to see Jayce jogging towards you, his gait slightly uneven but determined. He was cleaned up, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair combed back. The only evidence of his past ordeals was the leg brace he still wore.

Jayce slowed as he approached, a sheepish grin on his face. "Sorry I'm late. Got a bit turned around in this place." His eyes widened as he took in your new look. "Wow, Mila. You look…different."

You couldn't help but laugh, genuine and relieved to see him in one piece - and back to himself. "It's been quite a journey."

Jayce nodded, his lips pursing. "I can imagine." He turned to Viktor, extending his hand. "Partner. It's good to see you back to yourself again without the imminent threat of arcane destruction."

Viktor hesitated for a moment before clasping Jayce's hand. "And you, Jayce. We have much to discuss after…all that.”

“We do,” Jayce agreed, “but I’d like a minute just to, uh, process it, if that’s alright with you.”

Viktor inclined his head. “Of course.”

"So," Sky said, antsy as the tension pulled taut between the two men. She turned to you. "What's it like being a goddess?"

You chuckled, grateful for the distraction to take the pressure off of Jayce and Viktor. They had plenty of time to work through their issues, jumping in right away would only lead to further strife. You’d all had more than your fair share of that. "Overwhelming. Beautiful. Terrifying." You paused, considering. "I'm not sure I'd call myself a goddess, exactly. More like…a cosmic caretaker?"

Viktor's hand tightened in yours. "You created an afterlife," he pointed out, awe colouring his tone. "If that's not goddess-like, I do not know what is."

You leaned into him, savouring his warmth. How close you’d come to losing him…you didn’t want to think about it. "I couldn't have done it without you. Any of you. Your love, your friendship, it gave me the strength to reshape reality. Thank you."

Sky beamed at you, her eyes sparkling. "Well, I for one think you've done a wonderful job. This place is beautiful."

As if in response to her words, the sky above you erupted in bright aurora-like waves of light that danced across the heavens.

"It's incredible," Viktor breathed. He turned to you, a hint of his old curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "How does it work?”

"I'm not entirely sure yet," you admitted. "It's all still so new. But I think…" You paused, reaching out with your newfound senses.

The realm pulsed around you, alive in ways you were only beginning to understand. You could feel the ebb and flow of energy, the intricate webs of connection between all things. It was gorgeous and frightening, like holding a living star in your hands.

"I think it's responsive," you said slowly, "to emotions, needs, and desires. It's not just a static place, but something that can grow and change."

As if to demonstrate your point, a cluster of flowers suddenly bloomed at Viktor’s feet. Their petals were translucent, catching the light in rainbow hues.

"Fascinating," Viktor muttered to himself, releasing your hand to kneel and examine the flowers more closely. "The potential significance is staggering. An infinitely adaptable environment, capable of providing for any need."

Even in the face of the miraculous, Viktor's scientific mind never stopped working.

"Well," Jayce said, clapping his hands together, "as amazing as all this is, I don't know about the rest of you, but I could use a drink and a very long nap."

Sky laughed, her dress swishing in the breeze. "I second that motion."

You looked around at the faces of those you loved most - Sky's bright smile, Jayce's easy grin, Viktor's intense gaze softened by wonder. For the first time in what felt like eons, you felt truly at peace.

"I think I can arrange that," you said with a wink, and with a wave of your hand, a cozy-looking cottage shimmered into existence nearby. It was nothing fancy - just a simple structure with a thatched roof and climbing roses around the door. But it radiated warmth and safety.

"Shall we?" you asked, gesturing towards the cottage.

As your little group made their way towards the house, Viktor began to trail behind. You matched his pace, watching as Jayce and Sky chatted animatedly ahead.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked softly. "About me?"

You linked your arm in his, resting your head on his shoulder. "More sure than I've ever been about anything," you replied. "We've been through hell and back, Viktor. We deserve some happiness together without the threat of death looming over us. You know, since we’re already dead."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As you walked, you noticed the grass beneath his feet sprouting tiny blue flowers - forget-me-nots. Had that been your doing or his? Either way, you couldn’t imagine forgetting even a second of your time with him.

Sky and Jayce entered the cottage, their laughter drifting back to you on the gentle breeze. As they disappeared inside, you pulled Viktor to a stop, your fingers curling around his wrist.

"Viktor, I…" The words caught in your throat, a supernova of emotion ready to burst from your chest. You bit your lip. How could mere language possibly encompass the depth of what you felt?

To hell with words, you thought. I'll show him instead.

You pulled Viktor close, your hands cupping his face as you pressed your lips to his in a searing kiss. The contact sent shockwaves through you, ripples of energy cascading across your skin like the surface of a disturbed pond. Viktor stiffened for a moment, surprised, before melting into your kiss.

The grass beneath your feet erupted in a riot of wildflowers, their petals unfurling in rapid time-lapse. The sky above blazed with shooting stars and you tasted stardust on Viktor's lips, felt the heat of a thousand suns in the press of his body against yours.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, you found that your feet were no longer touching the ground. You and Viktor floated several inches above the flower-strewn grass, held by your magic as it glowed around you.

A smile tugged at his lips, boyish and carefree in a way you hadn’t seen in years.

"I love you," you whispered. "We made it, Viktor. We're here, together. Our friends are safe, and when the rest are ready, they will have a place here too."

In response, Viktor pulled you close again, resting his forehead against yours. You closed your eyes, basking in his affection, in the simple miracle of his presence. The universe may have been vast and unknowable, but in that moment, your entire world was contained in the circle of Viktor's arms.

Lowering yourself, you made your way towards the cottage once more. Viktor entered first, but you paused at the doorway, looking back at the vast expanse of your creation. It felt surreal to be there, like a dream come true. In time, you’d figure out how to usher other souls to this place, to make it a true beacon of rest and safety. And maybe, just maybe, you could find the shards of Charlotte’s soul and piece her back together. Anything was possible when you had the power of infinite universes at your fingertips.

You stepped into the cottage, leaving the door open for Vander and Isha if they decided to make their way over, and were greeted by the smiling faces of your friends as they settled into the new space. Jayce, Sky, Viktor, and soon-to-be countless others are at your side. You knew in the depths of your never-ending soul, that this was where you were meant to be.

Epilogue

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A/N: I can't believe its over!! It's crazy to think that its been three years since I posted the first part, and the entire time in between I was thinking and brainstorming about how I wanted it to end, only for Arcane to give us such a beautiful ending I couldn't bring myself to change much of it. But now they get to all be happy together in the afterlife for eternity, no more fighting or pain, just getting to be together in all the ways that matter ❤️

Thank you x1000000 for coming on this journey with me, its been a blast!! I'd love to hear what you think, even if you're reading this months or years later, I'm always looking for more inspiration to write more!

I may at some point post a very short epilogue so let me know if you still have any questions and I will try to provide answers. (Jinx isn't here because I think she's still alive)

Love you all!!!!

Spotify playlist

[itsmarkjudgelove]

Human: Who are you, standing before me like the living shadow of my thoughts? Baphomet: I am what you could become if you ceased to fear. Your hands have shaped worlds, though you’ve never touched them. Human: Worlds? But my life is but dust, and my body frail. Baphomet: Dust is the beginning of a star, and frailty is a lie told by a thousand voices. Rise and see yourself as you were always meant to be. Human: And if my steps falter? Baphomet: Then you will rise again, stronger. Only those who dare to fall will ever touch eternity.

[moonselune]

Hello! I was wondering if you could write something with god Gale where Gale is being rude about their times as mortals and the reader just snaps at them? Reader goes full rant mode about all the little things they miss about being mortal. Like the feeling of the sun on their skin, or the smell just after it rains. Thanks a lot! I really love your writing! 💜

Yes yes yes yes yes I love this and I hope you do to and thank you so much!

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God!Gale x Reader | The little things

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In Gale’s domain, the air hummed with arcane energy, the very walls of his celestial realm pulsing in time with the weave itself. You had long since grown accustomed to the shimmering light that surrounded everything, a reflection of his immense power and the world he had shaped for himself—and now, for you. Everything here was perfect, pristine, and untouchable. But at times, that perfection felt like a cage.

Gale sat at his grand table, casually drumming his fingers on the polished surface as he reminisced about the days when you both had been mere mortals. His words were laced with thinly veiled disdain, his tone almost mocking.

"Mortality," he mused, his voice deep and measured. "Such a limited, tedious existence. The constant hunger, the frailty of the body, the fleetingness of time. I don’t know how we ever tolerated it for as long as we did."

You stood beside him, your back stiffening as his words grated against you. You had heard this before—how he reveled in his godhood, in the transcendence of all the things that had once made life real, tangible. He spoke as though being mortal had been a burden, something to be discarded like a worn-out cloak. But for you, it wasn’t that simple. The more he went on, the tighter the knot in your chest became, and finally, something inside you snapped.

“You don’t know how we tolerated it?” you cut in sharply, your voice rising as you turned to face him, the frustration you’d been holding back for centuries bubbling to the surface. “How about because it was real, Gale? Everything meant something. You talk about mortality like it was some kind of curse, but do you even remember what it felt like?”

Gale blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden outburst, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

“Of course I do,” he said, his tone measured but slightly defensive. “But I’ve evolved past—”

“No, you don’t,” you interrupted, your voice trembling with emotion now. “You’ve forgotten. You’ve forgotten all the little things that made life worth living.”

You stepped closer to him, your eyes burning with unshed tears of frustration. “You’ve forgotten what it felt like to have the sun warm your skin on a crisp morning. Or the smell of the earth just after it rained, when everything felt fresh and new. You’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel the grass between your toes, or to stand in the breeze and just—breathe.”

Gale sat up straighter, his brow furrowing as he opened his mouth to speak, but you didn’t let him.

“You’ve forgotten what it felt like to get lost in a book for hours, to feel tiredness settle in your bones at the end of the day after doing something meaningful. Or even just the taste of food after being hungry, or that first sip of wine that warms you from the inside out. You miss the beauty in the fleetingness of it all! You miss—” Your voice cracked, and you took a shaky breath before continuing. “You miss the simple joy of being alive. Of being human.”

Gale’s expression shifted, the amusement gone from his face now, replaced by something more guarded—perhaps even regretful. But still, he remained silent, his gaze fixed on you as if trying to comprehend the weight of your words.

“And sure,” you continued, your voice softer now but no less impassioned, “maybe we don’t have to worry about those things anymore. We don’t feel hunger, or fatigue, or pain. But we’ve lost something too, Gale. We’ve lost the very things that made us who we were. The things that made life real.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, the rawness of your emotions leaving you exposed. “You can sit here and talk about how much better it is to be a god, how much more powerful and perfect it is—but I miss being mortal. I miss the imperfection, the fleetingness, the moments that mattered because we knew they wouldn’t last.”

For a long moment, silence hung between the two of you, the tension in the air palpable. Gale’s gaze softened, his godly aura dimming slightly as he absorbed your words. He looked away, his hands stilling on the table as if the gravity of what you had said weighed heavy on him.

“I never… thought of it that way,” he finally said, his voice quieter, less certain than before. “You’re right. I’ve been too focused on what we’ve gained, and I’ve forgotten what we left behind.”

You swallowed hard, trying to tamp down the storm of emotions that had erupted from deep inside you.

“We didn’t just leave it behind, Gale,” you whispered. “We lost it.”

He rose from his seat, stepping toward you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to see the world through your perspective. Slowly, he reached out, taking your hand in his, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

“I never meant to diminish what we had,” he said softly. “I only wanted to protect you, to give you everything.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over. “I don’t want everything,” you whispered. “I just want something. Something real.”

For the first time in what felt like centuries, Gale seemed to falter, his divine confidence wavering. He drew you into his arms, holding you close, and for a brief moment, it felt almost mortal—almost human.

“I’ll try,” he murmured into your hair, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar vulnerability. “I’ll try to remember. For you.”

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A little god gale piece for you all, I hope you enjoy it !! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[cloudss-space]

My sunflower

( adwd ) casper x reader ... fluff - hurt/comfort ...

author's note: does contain spoils for the "beyond the bet" dlc, you are warned !! This is my take on the "sunflower" ending.

trigger warning:

slight gore

Casper was once a shadow, a whisper in the dark, a figure draped in the inevitability of endings. Now, as he stands before you, solid and whole, his awkward movements reveal his past life. The weight of mortality is new to him, and he is still learning how to carry it. His skin, pale as marble, is no longer the lifeless shade of death, but it's still translucent, as though the veil between worlds hasn't fully lifted. His eyes, once hollow and empty sockets of the eternal, have begun to glisten with the subtle spark of humanity, though they carry the secrets of ages lived beyond time. Each breath is a symphony to the newness of life, the steady rise and fall of his chest a sound that comforts and unnerves him. He clutches his hands tightly at times, as though fearing they'll slip through his fingers, as though he might return to the void without warning. There are moments when his gaze lingers on his own body, tracing the shape of his ribs, the pulse beneath his skin, the blood that flows in endless circles. He is bound to this flesh, this frailty, this inevitable decay, and yet he seeks you, your warmth, your presence, as if your touch might remind him that life can be something more than a fleeting breath.

When he walks, his steps are hesitant, as if the earth beneath him might suddenly break apart, sending him back into the abyss where death is final and unrelenting. He has experienced the sensation of weightlessness, the gravity of souls, and the coldness of passing from one life to the next. But now, he feels the soft press of dirt beneath his boots, the familiar crunch of gravel, the tactile proof that he is here. He had been the one who guided the lost, the one who bore the scythe, severing the threads of existence with a swift swing. And now, as you both sit together under a sky painted with the dusk's bleeding hues, he wonders at the simplicity of it all. The very concept of living, of existing without a time limit, is strange to him. His fingers, once sharp and deathless, now tremble slightly when they brush against yours, as if afraid he might damage you in some way, as though his touch might extinguish the fragile light within you. His laughter, rare, soft and unexpected, sounds like the crackling of firewood, a sound foreign in its warmth. He is amazed at how your hand fits into his, as though they were always meant to be together, even in a life so different from the one he had once known. But the ache within him, the gnawing fear of losing this, of being taken back, lingers like an open wound.

There are moments when his hunger for death rises within him: a deep craving that clawed at him when he was a reaper, a need to return to the silent cold of the graveyard. But now, with flesh and blood, he cannot indulge it. Instead, it turns into a deep sorrow, a longing for something he cannot name, something he doesn't know how to satiate. You see it in his eyes: a quiet storm brewing, the part of him that was once pure darkness, now tamed but still restless, still seeking. It pulls at him like the gravity of his old existence, that pull toward inevitability, the desire to return to a world without pain or joy, without the sharpness of love or the sweetness of touch. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks as though he might crumble into dust. But then he turns to you, and your presence is a tether that keeps him from floating away, from losing himself again in the deep abyss of endless endings. His fingers find yours and his touch sends a tremor through you, as if every touch, every feeling, every heartbeat is a revelation to him.

The first time he tasted food, it was a revelation. He had been used to the absence of hunger, to the stillness of his non-life, so the sensation of eating—of needing to consume—was terrifying. The texture of bread, the warmth of soup, the sweetness of fruit; each bite was a gift and a curse, a reminder that this life was fleeting. He stared at the food on his plate, his gaze faraway, as if he could feel the clock ticking away somewhere in the distance. But you had fed him, guiding his hand and helping him find pleasure in the act. For a brief moment, the gnawing emptiness that had once defined him was sated. But there's something unsettling about the way he eats. He's slow and careful, as if he's afraid of tasting too much, of consuming too deeply. His eyes flicker between you and the food, as if looking for permission, as though he is unsure if this part of humanity is something he can truly embrace.

Casper speaks now, his voice still rough, like a forgotten melody that hasn't been sung in centuries. It's soft, hushed, and when he speaks, there's a clear tenderness, but also an undercurrent of regret, of something broken. When he was a reaper, he didn't need words; silence was his companion, and he could navigate the world with nothing more than a glance, a wave of his hand. Now, as a man, his thoughts are tangled, his desires more complicated, and he searches for the right words to express what he feels. He stumbles sometimes, unsure how to speak without the cold, clipped finality of death, and yet, when he looks at you, his words flow like a river that had been dammed for far too long. When he tells you he loves you, his voice trembles, and there is something so raw and unrefined about it that it cuts through the space between you, reaching deep into your heart. He didn't know love like we do, didn't know what it meant to desire someone with all his soul. But now, with every touch, every word, every shared glance, he is learning. And he is terrified of losing it, because love is so fragile; it's like the breath of a dying star.

His touch is undeniably gentle, yet there's a palpable urgency to it now, as though he's struggling to accept your reality, your presence here, and that you won't disappear as quickly as you came. He lingers too long when he touches your skin, as though he might slip through his fingers. His gaze is intense and quiet, as though you are both a miracle and a mystery, something too beautiful to hold for long. The scars of his past, of being a grim reaper, are still there, hidden beneath the surface, but they are less sharp and less consuming. When you kiss him, there is a sense of hesitation, a fear that he will undo all the progress he has made, that the death that runs through his veins will rise again, pulling him away from you. But you remind him of the earth beneath him, of the life that pulses in his body, of the love he has learned to hold. He will fall deeper, letting your presence tether him to this new world of fleeting moments, of beauty and pain.

When night falls, Casper is often restless. He wanders the house or the fields beyond your shared home, searching for something he cannot name. The shadows still speak to him, whispering of the world beyond the veil, reminding him of the eternity that once stretched out before him. He has learned to fight it, to remind himself that he is no longer the keeper of souls, no longer bound to the endless cycle of life and death. He seeks reassurance and comfort from you in those quiet moments, his body close to yours. You are his anchor, his tether to this fleeting world. He chooses life with you, despite knowing all about death. He holds you close, his hands brushing your hair, as though afraid you might disappear, as though his very touch might shatter the fragile peace that exists between the living and the dead. But you are here, and you are real, and that is enough for him—for now.

Casper rarely speaks of his past. The memory of the scythe, of the souls he harvested, of the endless procession of endings, lingers like a shadow behind his eyes. When he is alone, you can hear the faint sound of chains rattling and the scrape of bone against stone, because he is remembering. But in the mornings, when the light spills through the windows and the warmth of your body against his is all that he needs, he is human. And that is enough for him, for now. He looks at you, and you see the eternity in his gaze — the years of death, of existence beyond life — but you also see the softness, the yearning for something he never thought he could have. Something simple. Something beautiful. A life with you, here, on this earth, as fleeting and fragile as it is. For the first time in an eternity, he knows what it means to live.

Casper finds Casper's humanity strange and unfamiliar. It is like an unfamiliar rhythm that he is trying to learn. At times, it's a soothing hum that wraps around him, drawing him close to you, grounding him in ways he never thought possible. But sometimes, it's a discordant echo, a constant reminder of everything he once was, everything he once controlled with the swing of his scythe, the cold finality of it all. Now, there are choices to make, paths to take, and that uncertainty weighs heavily on him, pressing against his chest in ways he cannot quite explain. He feels his breath catch in his throat when he considers the future, his future with you, a life unmarked by the certainty of death, but full of unknowns. He gazes at you, seeing you as the answer and the question. His heart pounds with a quiet desperation to hold on to this new reality, this life, this love.

There are moments when he feels like a stranger in his own skin. The skin that was once as cold and empty as the tomb now flushes with warmth, with the pulse of life he never thought he would experience. When he wakes in the morning, the sunlight feels strange against his face: hot and soft, unfamiliar in its touch. At first, it makes him wince, but then he remembers—he is alive. He stretches, feels the pull of muscles that ache, that tighten with the effort of movement. The sting of soreness is new to him, as is the creaking and cracking of his joints and the way his body demands rest and food. He had never thought he would have these experiences again, and yet here he is, learning to adapt to a body that seems to belong to someone else. When you kiss him in the mornings, it's as though you are both waking from a dream, as if the kiss itself is the only thing that truly feels real. His lips tremble, unsure of this tenderness, unsure if he can truly hold onto it.

The first time he felt a tear fall down his cheek, it broke him. Death had never cried. It had never known sorrow the way humans do, never felt the sting of emotion so sharp it could pull the soul apart. But as he sat with you one evening, gazing out into the vastness of the world, he felt it—an ache that filled his chest, a weight too heavy to bear. He tried to hide it, but the tears came anyway, slow and quiet, rolling down his face like forgotten rivers. You held him then, as his body shook with the force of grief, a grief that was unfamiliar to him, a grief for all the lives he had taken, for all the souls he had guided into darkness. He had never been the one left behind, never been the one to mourn. But now, as he wept in your arms, he understood the depth of loss, the terrible beauty of it, and he hated it. He hated the vulnerability it brought, the human fragility it revealed in him. Yet he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop himself from feeling.

Every laugh that escapes his lips now is a gift; he holds on to it tightly. The sound is nothing like the hollow whispers of death or the cold laughter of a reaper that never touched the soul. His laughter is warm, rich and full of joy. It vibrates in his chest like a long-forgotten song being sung again, and it makes his heart feel heavy with wonder. When you make him laugh, the tension in his shoulders relaxes, the sharpness in his gaze softens, and for a brief moment, he forgets that he was once a servant of the end. He forgets that he had once ruled the passage of life and death with an unflinching hand. He becomes something else, something new, something entirely human. He becomes himself, something raw and tender and wholly yours.

He feels disconnected from the world around him. It moves too quickly and recklessly. It lacks the weight of finality he once knew. It makes him anxious, his mind whirling with the idea that time, that precious, fleeting thing, is slipping through his fingers. The world is full of noise, people and events that seem meaningless and monumental all at once. He doesn't always know where he fits in. When he was the Grim Reaper, everything was simple. Time had no hold on him, and every soul he claimed was another mark in an endless chain of existence. Now, he is bound by time, and it eats at him, gnawing at his thoughts, reminding him that every moment is a drop in an ocean that will never return. It leaves him restless, pacing late into the night, staring at the stars and wondering how long he will have to hold on to this new life. Will it last forever, or will it, too, fade like everything else? You hold him, pressing your body against his, and tell him that for now, this is enough. This moment is enough.

He is learning the small things now. He is learning to savour a meal, to hold your hand, to say goodbye without the weight of eternity behind him. He is soft and innocent. He has moments of clarity where he understands the beauty of life—its fragility, its grace, its impermanence—and it moves him in ways that the harsh finality of death never could. He sees the world differently now, taking in the colour of the sky, the rustling of leaves, the way the wind moves through the trees. He had never seen the world like this before, never truly experienced it in all its complexity. Now, every moment feels like a gift; a treasure to be cherished before it slips away. When he looks at you, he feels this strange sensation of wanting to hold on to you forever, wanting to trap time in amber and preserve every single second. But he knows that's impossible. And yet, he holds you anyway, as though holding on to you might slow the inevitable tide of time, if only for a moment.

There are days when the weight of his past presses down on him, when the echo of the scythe, the cold grip of death, calls to him in the deepest recesses of his mind. On those days, he withdraws. His gaze is distant, his movements slow. It is as though he is caught between two worlds, two selves. He struggles with the memory of who he was, the certainty of who he had been, and the uncertainty of who he is now. But when you are near, when you are close, he feels the pull toward life, the pull toward you, stronger than any shadow that might rise within him. You become his anchor, a beacon of light in the darkness, reminding him of who he is becoming, not who he was. He touches you then, with a gentleness that betrays his internal chaos, his hands seeking reassurance in the warmth of your skin, the steadiness of your heartbeat. In those moments, he realizes that letting go of the past, learning to be human and embracing the beauty of life is the hardest part. It is a struggle, but it is a struggle he is willing to face, as long as he has you by his side.

The silence between you both speaks volumes. Words are unnecessary to explain it; you both feel it: the pull toward each other, the shared longing to be more than the past allows. There is an intimacy in this shared vulnerability. Casper no longer hides the darkness that lingers in him; he shares it with you and trusts you to help him navigate it. This trust is a gift, a delicate thread that binds you both together. The shadows may still whisper to him and the echoes of death may never fully leave his bones, but he knows one thing for certain: with you, he is human. With you, he is alive. For the first time in his long existence, that is enough.

The day you opened the flower shop was remarkable: there was a strange, almost violent beauty to it. The air was thick with the smell of earth and damp stems, the sharp tang of fresh-cut flowers mingling with the heavy scent of sunlight streaming through the windows. Casper, still getting used to his new humanity, stood quietly at the counter, his fingers brushing over the edges of the sunflowers, tracing the vibrant yellow petals with the care of someone who had never touched such warmth before. The flowers, bright and bold, pulsed with life, their heads heavy with golden joy, their roots thick and sturdy beneath the soil. You saw the way his eyes softened as he looked at them, as if they were a reminder of something he had lost – something that once belonged only to the living. He had never known the delicate care required to nurture a plant, to see something grow with your own hands. But now, as he touched each stem, he felt something new stirring within him—a desire to protect, to tend to life with the same care he had once offered death.

The sunflowers became his anchor. Their boldness and resilience reminded him of the beauty in life's fleeting moments and the strength to be found even in the face of inevitable decay. As you worked together, arranging the flowers in bright pots and creating bouquets that would soon find their way into the hands of strangers, you could see how he had transformed. His touch was gentler now, the rough edges of his past smoothed over by the tenderness of the petals, the softness of the stems beneath his fingertips. He no longer feared the fragile life around him; instead, he reveled in it, his movements slow but sure, his hands becoming more confident as he nurtured each bloom. You would often catch him staring at the sunflowers, his gaze fixed intently on them, as though they were a mirror reflecting everything he had come to understand about himself: bright, alive, and on the edge of something darker.

The shop was a place of quiet chaos, a blending of scents and colours that seemed almost too alive for one space. The flowers piled high, a sea of soft petals and rough leaves, and there was always a certain tension in the air, as though the earth itself was holding its breath. You and Casper worked together seamlessly, moving between the rows of plants, arranging and re-arranging, each sunflower finding its place in the intricate tapestry of blooms you both created. You looked up from your task and saw him standing still, watching you with a kind of reverence in his eyes. This simple act of caring for life was the most sacred thing he had ever known. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up each plant, but there was something fiercely protective in the way he handled them, as though he was guarding them from something unseen. It was as though each flower, each sunflower, was a promise—one he had made to himself, to you, to life itself.

The windows of the shop were always filled with sunlight. As the day wore on, the sunflowers grew taller, their heads turning toward the light as if they, too, were learning to bask in the warmth of life. It was a strange thing, watching them grow before your eyes, knowing that these flowers—these sunflowers—were as alive as you were, as Casper was, as the world around you was. There was a rhythm to it, a silent hum that filled the space as the sunflowers stretched and bloomed, their petals heavy with the weight of their own existence. Casper often stood by the window, staring out at the sunlight as it filtered through the glass, the golden glow casting shadows across his face. He gazed at the sunflowers, his expression pensive, as though he could hear their whispers, the stories they carried in their seeds, in the fragile life they bore.

He was often to be found at the counter, his hand resting on a sunflower as if it were something sacred, something too precious to be lost. His fingers, once so cold and lifeless, now brushed against the petals with the gentlest of touches, as if afraid that the warmth of the flower might burn him. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like a person who had never known death, who had never carried the weight of eternity in his bones. You would watch him then, the way he became part of the space, part of the shop, as though the sunflowers had become a part of him. The world around him settled into a rhythm, a pulse that matched his own. For the first time, he belonged to this world. He was no longer the reaper who had once taken it all away, but someone who was allowed to experience its beauty.

The sunflowers became your shared language, the bridge between you and Casper, a constant reminder of how far you had come together. Every time he brought in a new batch, his face lit up with something almost childlike, a joy so pure and unexpected that it left you breathless. He would stand there, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, his gaze fixed on the bright yellow heads as though they were the only things that mattered in that moment. You smiled, knowing that these flowers had become more than just plants; they were symbols of your journey together, of the life you were building, step by step, petal by petal. His devotion to them was palpable, as though they were the only thing in the world that would never leave him, that would never betray him. The boldness and fragility of the sunflowers reflected the life he had never thought possible. Now they were all around him, filling the space with their golden glow.

The flower shop was a haven. Life and death coexisted there, the scars of the past fading into the background, obscured by the vibrant colours of nature. The sunflowers, with their thick stems and towering heads, were the crown jewels of the shop. Their brightness pulled customers in, inviting them to touch the earth, to feel the pulse of life beneath their fingers. You and Casper worked in tandem, moving between the rows, arranging the blooms just so, creating a harmony that only you both understood. There was a tenderness in the way you worked together, a quiet understanding that had grown between you over time. It was a dance of sorts, a primal rhythm, and the connection between you both deepened by the act of nurturing something together.

Casper would often stand by the sunflower display, his fingers running along the rough edges of the petals, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He watched the customers marvel at the blooms, at the life they carried in every stem, and pride radiated from his eyes. This pride wasn't just from the success of the shop, but from something deeper: the realisation that he, too, could be a part of this world. He used to be a harbinger of death, a force that guided souls into the afterlife with unfeeling hands, but now he is a caretaker, a creator of life. He often looked over at you during these moments, his eyes filled with awe and quiet reverence for the life you had built together.

The days passed in a blur, each one melding into the next, and as time moved forward, the sunflowers bloomed and faded, just as life and death always does. With each passing bloom, Casper learned something new about himself, something that tied him to the world in ways he had never imagined. The weight of his past life—the cold, unyielding existence of a reaper—had become a distant memory, something he could still feel, but no longer fear. He had found a new purpose, rooted in the earth, in the simple act of nurturing, of giving life to something beautiful. In the sunflowers that grew tall and strong beneath his care, he had found something that transcended death itself—something worth living for. The shop, with its soft glow of sunlight and vibrant blooms, was a testament to that love, to the life you both shared. It was a place where the past and the present coexisted, where sunflowers represented the joys of a life that, despite everything, had become beautifully, tragically human.

Casper knew the sunflowers were more than just plants; they were lifelines. They reminded him that life could be tender, could be messy, and could still bloom despite the harshness that came before. Each new batch demanded his attention, challenging him to live as fully as they did. And though there were moments of doubt, moments when the weight of his past felt like an anchor around his ankles, those moments were becoming fewer, slipping away with every new bloom that reached for the light. There were days when he stood at the window, hands on the cool glass, watching the world pass by as if it were all new to him, a landscape he had never been a part of until now. He smiled to himself, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, and in that moment, he felt the reaper he once was fall away entirely. He was alive and breathing, caught in the simple wonder of the world he was learning to love.

He looked at you in a certain way, with a gaze that lingered for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to grasp the enormity of what you had together. It was a connection that transcended the finality of death, forged by the fragile, beating heart of life itself. When he touched you, his hands were reverent, his fingers gently brushing against your skin. He was careful not to be too rough, because he didn't want to break something precious. And yet, there was a hunger in him too, a deep-seated desire to hold you close, to feel the pulse of your heart against his own, to cement this fleeting moment of warmth into something tangible. Each day with you, each hour spent nurturing the flowers together, felt like an impossible gift, and he didn't want to take a single second of it for granted. In the sunlight-filled shop, the golden glow of the sunflowers reflected the warmth and delicate balance of life between you both.

As you worked alongside him, the shop became an extension of both your souls. You moved in perfect tandem, communicating without words, your hands touching with shared understanding as you prepared the flowers for customers, arranged the sunflowers into perfectly imperfect bouquets, or simply admired the way the light danced off their petals. Each sunflower felt like a piece of something larger, a piece of a world that had once seemed distant, unreachable. The way they stood tall and proud, their yellow faces almost brash against the soft green leaves, spoke to the resilience both you and Casper had cultivated together. For him, every sunflower taught a lesson: be patient, be tender, accept that life can be both beautiful and cruel, but choose to live in the moments that make it worth it.

There was always a shadow in the corner of the shop. It was a quiet reminder of Casper's past life. On quiet days, when the air seemed still, you would catch him standing by the sunflower display, his fingers lightly stroking the petals, his expression distant. In these moments, you remember—you remember the way he had once been, the coldness that had defined him, the endless reach of death that had never once allowed him to experience the softness of life. But now, even in his silence, there is warmth in him, something slowly unfolding like the sunflowers before him. You approached him, standing beside him in the silence, and without a word, you reached for his hand. The touch was everything: it reminded him that he was not alone, that the world around him was not something to be feared, but something to embrace.

Some mornings, when the mist from the night before clung to the ground and the shop opened early, you and Casper would sit among the sunflowers. The air was cool and damp, and the world was still waking up. You watched as the first customers wandered in, their faces surprised by the unexpected beauty of the sunflowers that filled the shop, their brightness pulling them in like moths to a flame. Casper stood behind the counter, watching them, his lips curling into a small, almost shy smile as they complimented the flowers. It was an expression of something new in him—something you hadn't seen before, a quiet joy in giving something beautiful to the world. It was strange seeing him, someone who had once been a harbinger of endings, become a creator of beginnings, of beauty, of life.

You both learned the rhythm of the shop, the pulse of the flowers that seemed to beat with their own energy, a silent song that echoed through the shop as each day passed. Customers came and went, and the shop settled into a peaceful routine. Yet, even in the stillness, there was always a sense of movement, a sense of growth—much like the sunflowers that lined the shelves, their faces always seeking the sun, always reaching for something more. With each new bloom, Casper became more attuned to the world around him. He learned the art of patience, watching something grow from a tiny seed into something magnificent. He had once been a keeper of the end, but now, he was a keeper of the beginning—a keeper of life.

In the evenings, when the last of the customers had left and the shop was quiet, you would sit together. The sunflowers cast long shadows across the floor, the light slowly fading as the night crept in. It was then that the weight of the day settled on him, and you could see it in his eyes. He would show the fleeting recognition of everything he had become, everything he was still learning. He would look at you, his gaze searching, as though he needed to remind himself that this—this life—was real, that he hadn't imagined it, that it wasn't just another fleeting moment that would slip through his fingers like the souls he had once carried. You would hold him close, grounding him, as the quiet hum of the shop and the faint rustle of the sunflowers became the backdrop to the soft warmth between you.

Every night, the sunflowers whispered in their own way, their petals closing as the dark settled in, their seeds silently holding the promise of new life. With each new day and each new flower that bloomed in the shop, Casper's transformation was clear: the man who had once walked alongside death now walked alongside life, growing and learning with every petal that unfurled. The flower shop, with its warmth and light, was the stage for you and Casper to learn what it meant to be alive. You felt the weight of joy and sorrow, and knew that both were part of the same beautiful, painful dance. The sunflowers, the ultimate symbol of joy, stood as silent witnesses to this transformation, their golden faces shining like a beacon of hope, of renewal, of something that never truly died.

As time passed, the shop took on its own character, shaped by the quiet energy of the flowers, the rhythm of the seasons and the delicate balance between you and Casper. The sunflowers were always the centrepiece: tall and proud, their yellow heads like beacons in the warm glow of the shop. They had become more than just flowers; they were symbols of everything Casper had come to cherish. Each sunflower represented something he had learned: the strength of life, the resilience in the face of adversity, and the quiet beauty of beginnings, no matter how small. Watching him carefully tend to them each day, it was clear to everyone how his hands had learned to nurture rather than take, and how his heart had softened, no longer bound by the coldness of death. He worked with the flowers as though they were a reflection of his own rebirth, tending to each petal with a reverence that spoke to the depth of his understanding of what it meant to be human.

At sunset, the light filtered through the shop's windows in a soft, amber hue, casting a glow over the sunflowers. This made them look almost ethereal, as though they were glowing from within. At these moments, Casper's expression revealed a deep sense of wonder, as though he was experiencing the warmth of the sun itself. He would stand beside the sunflowers, his eyes tracing the curve of their petals, as though seeing them for the first time again, each one a reminder of the simple joy that comes with being alive. In those moments, you could almost see the weight of his past fall away, the memory of the reaper who once guided souls into the afterlife, leaving only a man who had learned to embrace life with both hands.

Customers often remarked on the sunflowers' beauty, marveling at their size, vibrant colour and the life they radiated. But it was more than just their beauty that drew people in; it was the warmth of the shop itself, the sense of peace that enveloped them as soon as they entered. There was something in the air that spoke of rebirth, of second chances, of something soft and true, and it was all wrapped up in the quiet presence of Casper. Visitors, drawn in by the sunflowers, left with more than just a bouquet; they left with something lighter, something that stayed with them long after they had passed through the door. The energy of the flowers and Casper's transformation touched them, reminding them that beauty can be found even in the darkest of places.

Every morning, you and Casper would stand side by side, preparing the shop for the day. The sunflowers, heavy with dew from the night, leaned towards the windows, their faces turned towards the light, always seeking it out. This daily care and quiet tending to the life around you both was a ritual. There was something almost sacred in this quiet partnership, and yet there was also something intensely human about the way you and Casper worked together. It was the kind of intimacy that comes from working together, from creating something with your hands, something that requires your attention, your love, your care. Each stem you trimmed, each flower you arranged, felt like you were creating something greater than the sum of its parts. The shop was more than just a place for flowers; it was a living, breathing entity, shaped by your hands, your hearts.

Casper's passion for the process was evident with each new batch of sunflowers igniting something human in him – his capacity for hope, love and joy. In the past, when he had been a reaper, he had seen only endings. He had moved through the world like a shadow, cold and distant, never knowing the warmth of life. But now, working alongside you, he is learning that life isn't just a series of moments to be endured. It is something to be celebrated, to be lived with intention and care. The sunflowers taught him the value of simplicity, the strength of stillness and the beauty of existence itself. As he worked with them, tending to each one with care, he clearly blossomed alongside them, unfolding like a flower reaching for the sun.

The shop was always full of laughter, with customers regularly coming in to request bouquets for special occasions or simply to brighten their homes. On those days, the sunflowers grew brighter, their golden faces reflecting the joy in the room. You and Casper worked together, arranging the flowers with ease, finding the perfect balance between colour and texture, between the delicate green leaves and the bold yellow petals. It was a delicate dance, this process of creation, and it became second nature to both of you. The space between you both seemed to shrink, as though every moment spent together, every act of creation, brought you closer. You could feel it in the way he moved, the way his fingers brushed against yours, the quiet connection that had grown between you. The flowers, especially the sunflowers, became part of that connection, their beauty weaving its way into the fabric of your love.

But there were also quiet days, when the shop was empty except for the two of you and the steady hum of the world outside. On those days, you would sit together in silence, the sunflowers casting long shadows across the floor. On these days, you would catch Casper in moments of reflection, his gaze fixed on the sunflowers as if they were the key to understanding the world around him. He had come a long way from the reaper he had once been, and yet there were moments when the past flickered in his eyes, a reminder of the darkness that had once consumed him. But these moments were short-lived, quickly overshadowed by the quiet joy of being alive, of being human. In those moments, you would sit beside him, your hand slipping into his, the two of you sharing a silence that spoke volumes, a silence filled with everything unsaid.

The sunflowers, the ultimate symbol of joy, mirrored this unspoken accord, their faces oriented towards the light, their roots deeply anchored in the soil. They became a symbol of all the things that could be found in life: beauty, growth, fragility and strength. As the days passed and the seasons shifted, you and Casper grew alongside them. You learned together what it meant to care for something, to nurture it, to allow it to bloom. And in turn, you found that you too had bloomed, your love for each other growing stronger with each passing day. The shop, once a quiet corner of the world, had become a place where life was celebrated in all its messy, beautiful glory, where sunflowers stood as constant reminders that even in the face of death, there was always something worth living for.

The day had been long. The air was thick with the scent of sunflowers and the remnants of laughter left by the last customer. You feel the weight of the day in your bones, your muscles sore from bending and reaching, from the endless arranging of flowers that felt like they could bloom forever, only to wither by the next morning. The shop has closed. The last of the sunlight slipping through the curtains. The world outside seems too large and too harsh compared to the warmth inside. You make your way to the small corner of the room and find Casper already there, sitting on the couch. His body is relaxed but his eyes are tired, as if he too carried the weight of the day, though in a quieter way. There's a tenderness in the way he looks at you, something raw and unspoken that invites you to come closer, to melt into the space between you both.

He opens his arms, inviting you to enter them, and you fall into them as if they were the only thing that could ever hold you. His warmth envelops you immediately, his body a soft and familiar anchor that stills the chaotic thoughts in your head. The faint, persistent scent of flowers clings to him, a reminder of the day spent together amidst petals and stems. His arms are around you, holding you close, and you feel like the weight of the world could fall away, like nothing exists beyond this quiet, shared space. His breath on your head is steady, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and with each exhale, you feel a quiet rhythm, as though the world outside has ceased to exist for just a while.

Casper's hands are warm now, tracing slow circles along your back as though trying to map the contours of your body, to ground himself in the softness of you. His fingers are pressing into your skin as though he is not only touching you but also acknowledging that this is a privilege. You can feel the tension of the day slowly bleeding out of him, the sharp edges of his past fading away with each gentle stroke, each soft press of his palm against you. His body tenses for a moment, as though the memory of his former existence – the cold, the death, the shadows – has made an unwanted return, but then it passes, as if washed away by the warmth of your embrace. You hold him closer, a silent promise that the darkness has no place here, that you are the light in which he can find peace.

His head rests against yours, and you both become a single entity, a blend of warmth and comfort. The quietness of this moment feels like the world is holding its breath, even the flowers in the shop pause to take in the sight of you two intertwined in each other's arms. Casper's fingers slip through your hair, his touch careful and tender, learning to be gentle and to love without fear of the unknown. His thumb brushes against your ear and you shiver, the sensation sharp and electric against the softness of the moment. The space between you both feels infinite and fragile; at any moment, it could break and send you both tumbling into a world too cold and distant.

Here, in the cocoon of your shared quiet, distance is impossible. There is no end. There is only the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the steady, familiar pulse that keeps time with your own. His lips press a kiss into your hair. It is warm and gentle. It is an apology and a promise. The silence between you is a language all its own, full of things that don't need to be spoken, things that can only be felt. You can feel his breath against your skin, the subtle tremor of his body as it learns to relax into this softness, into this life he now shares with you. He has always been careful with you, hesitant to fully feel, but now, in this moment, he is all warmth, all openness.

Your hand slides across his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your fingers. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage, the deep breaths he takes to steady himself after the weight of the world has been lifted for just a while. His skin is warmer than before, as though his humanity is slowly taking root in the very marrow of his bones. His body responds to you now: his muscles soften, his heart beats in the rhythm of life. With every passing moment, you sense the reaper that once was slipping further into the shadows. He is no longer a part of him, no longer a thing he carries.

As his lips brush against the top of your head again, you feel a shudder run through him. It's the kind of shiver that comes when someone is learning how to be loved, how to belong. His hands hold you tighter, and in the quiet of the room, you hear him sighing deeply, as though releasing a weight he's been carrying for too long. It's a quiet, almost imperceptible sound, but it's there, and you know it's a sign that he's letting go of something—something old, something dark. In that moment, you feel the gravity of it, the weight of the years he spent as something cold, as something feared. Here, in this space between you, there is no fear. There is only warmth, only the steady pulse of your hearts beating in sync.

Casper presses his forehead to yours, and the closeness of your bodies offers an intimacy that words can't touch. You can feel his breath mingling with yours, the heat of it rising between you like steam. He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into this moment of peace. He is learning how to be human all over again, how to embrace the warmth of connection without the shadow of death hovering over him. The memory of the reaper's cold touch, of the weight of souls, has slipped from him; now he feels only the tender warmth of this love—this life that he now shares with you. His hand gently touches your face, the gesture conveying a quiet inquiry, a silent plea for reassurance, a reminder that this is real, that he is real.

You do. In the quietest way possible. Your hand lifts to his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin as you stare into his eyes. There's a softness there now, a glow that wasn't there before, a spark of something alive that flickers in the depths of his gaze. It's a look of gratitude, of wonder, of disbelief that he has found something so beautiful, so real, amidst the shadows of his past. In this moment, you both feel alive, and that is all that matters. There is no need to rush or speak, because the language between you is woven in touch, in quiet moments like these, in the heat of his skin against yours, in the pulse of his heartbeat that matches yours.

His lips find yours in a slow, tender kiss, the kind that lingers in the air long after it's over. This kiss speaks volumes, conveying everything you need to say without words. It reminds him he's alive and loved. When the kiss breaks, he rests his head against your chest again, his body settling into the warmth of yours, and you both breathe together. The shop is quiet now, the sunflowers resting in their vases as the night stretches out before you. In the quiet room, wrapped in each other's arms, you realise that this moment of peace is all you need.

[olivialau]

Shadow's Embrace Ch.4

Sukuna x Reader

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fanfiction based on the universe of "Jujutsu Kaisen," created by Gege Akutami. The original manga, anime, and characters belong to their respective owners and creators.

Notes:

This story unfolds in the Jujutsu world, set in a slightly altered universe where Sukuna inhabits his own vessel distinct from Itadori Yuji's body, making him a separate entity.

Summary:

Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, becomes fascinated with a female sorcerer rich in potential but lacking control. Initially seizing her for his destructive plans, Sukuna aims to bind her abilities through a contract. Yet, as he tries to dominate her, he finds himself intrigued by her strength and determination. Over time, his interest evolves from strategic advantage to a deeper, personal connection.

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CHAPTER 4 - Trial of Resolve

Swallowing your pride, you stooped to pick up the water and bread that Sukuna had tossed at your feet. You retreated to the mattress in the far corner of the room, and silently consumed the provisions.

The act of accepting food from him was humiliating, but you knew it was a necessary concession to keep yourself alive and strong enough to fight back.

The corner of Sukuna's lips curled in contempt as he watched you eat the bread and gulp down the water, his eyes narrowing.

"Pathetic," he spat, "The frailty of humans, unable to survive without their precious food and water." He shook his head, a mixture of disgust and amusement playing across his features.

"You are truly pitiful creatures."

You knew it wasn't wise to provoke him, yet the glaring contradiction in his hatred for humans compelled you to speak up.

Ancient texts from Jujutsu High painted Sukuna as an Imaginary Demon from the Heian Era, a time when sorcerers reached their peak powers during what was known as the Golden Age of Jujutsu.

However, Gojo had told you that, in truth, Sukuna had been a human sorcerer during this era, known as the Disgraced One. His overwhelming strength made him unstoppable during his murderous rampages, a force of nature feared by all.

Despite the peril you found yourself in currently, you couldn't resist needling him, your playful nature momentarily overshadowing the precarious situation.

"Weren't you human once yourself?" you challenged, a smirk tugging at your lips. "You must have needed to eat and drink just like everyone else. Isn't that rather... pathetic?"

Sukuna's eyes narrowed dangerously, his jaw tightening. For a moment, you could sense the coiled energy within him, the barely restrained fury at your audacity. But just as quickly, his features smoothed into a sardonic smile.

"Ah, so the little sorcerer has found her tongue," he purred. "How amusing."

Drawing nearer, his figure cast a dark, suffocating shadow over you. "You forget your place, brat," he growled, his fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his intense gaze.

"I am no longer bound by humanity's weaknesses," he hissed with disdain. "I've transcended the pitiful limitations of your kind."

"Whilst we're on the topic... I believe it's time we continue our little game," His gaze narrowed with a glint of cruel amusement. "Your spirit won't break without a little... encouragement, you see."

Sukuna's eyes bore into yours as he spoke "And as for my past... it holds no concern for you." He scoffed. "I would worry about your own future instead—the one I will shape after I've broken you." He chuckled, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

Sukuna paced back and forth, his eyes fixed upon you as he pondered aloud. "Hmm, what would it take to shatter a spirit such as yours, I wonder?"

His voice dripped with mocking contemplation, like a connoisseur savoring the prospect of exquisite torment. Sukuna's gaze narrowed further, a twisted smile on his lips as he outlined the possibilities.

"Extreme violence and physical torture, perhaps?" he mused, his tone laced with chilling amusement. "Or should I unravel the delicate threads of your psyche instead?"

"Exhaustion, humiliation, deprivation... the options are endless," he murmured softly, his voice a velvet promise of horrors yet to unfold.

Sukuna's gaze swept over your battered form, a contemplative gleam in his eyes. "Seeing as you're already so bruised and broken," he mused, "how about pushing that fragile body just a little further, woman?"

He leaned in, his face mere inches from yours, his hot breath caressing your skin. "Until your legs can no longer bear your weight. Until your ribs ache with every pathetic breath. Until your hands can do nothing but tremble."

Despite the dread coiling within you, you steeled your resolve, refusing to let even a glimmer of fear show in your eyes. You met Sukuna's gaze with an unwavering glare, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing you cower.

Suddenly, Sukuna yanked you by the arm, his fingers digging into your injured wrist. The sharp pain shot through your body, eliciting an involuntary wince. Without a moment's hesitation, he began to drag you up the stairs, each step echoing ominously through the confined basement.

He unlocked the door at the top of the staircase, and as he pushed it open, your breath caught in your throat.

Before you laid a vast, industrial space that resembled an abandoned factory. Towering steel beams crisscrossed the ceiling, casting long, haunting shadows.

The walls and floor, were made of the same weathered concrete as the basement, but covered in dark crimson stains that seemed to whisper tales of past conflicts.

Sunlight filtered through gaps in boarded-up windows, casting an eerie glow over the large space.

It was clear that this place was a battleground, meticulously designed for combat—the perfect arena for Sukuna to exert his power without restraint.

Before, Sukuna had used lower-level curses to gauge your strength, pushing you to your limits. Now, however, his intentions seemed to take on a more personal approach.

As he pulled you towards the center of the room, he finally released your wrist, stepping back to create distance between the two of you. His crimson eyes bore into yours.

You would never admit it to him, but you were scared; the only giveaway, a small tremor in your hands, barely noticeable.

Anticipating the imminent danger, you pondered his next move. But he afforded you little time to prepare, as he suddenly sprang into action. His muscles tightened, and with a swift, decisive movement, he surged toward you.

Your eyes widened in alarm, but Sukuna's blinding speed left you no chance to evade.

His body collided with bone-crushing force, hurling you into the air. The impact against the hard concrete floor as you fell, sent searing pain rippling through your body, each tumble on the surface intensifying the agony. Amidst the ringing in your ears, Sukuna's malicious cackling echoed.

Struggling to push yourself up, Sukuna's smirk only intensified as he charged toward you once more, relentless in his assault.

With a quick roll to the side, you narrowly evaded his attack. But Sukuna's movements were too fast; in a swift pivot, he planted his leg in your stomach with tremendous force.

The impact knocked the wind out of you, leaving you gasping for breath as you crumpled to the ground again. Coughing and sputtering, your vision blurred as you fought to regain composure.

Sukuna's unrelenting attacks were taking a devastating toll, and you knew you had to shift the momentum before he would actually kill you.

Desperately trying to channel your cursed energy, you braced yourself as Sukuna prepared to unleash another destructive assault.

Most sorcerers possessed an innate cursed technique, a specialized ability honed through years of training and often inherited. Yet, you hadn't discovered your own yet, leaving you grappling with raw cursed energy.

In the heat of the moment, you struggled to summon the calm focus Sukuna had taught you, in the basement.

Instead, you reverted to your habit of haphazardly forcing cursed energy through your palms. The resulting release was powerful but wildly imprecise, veering off course and missing Sukuna by a significant margin.

Frustration and desperation gnawed at you as you grappled with the realization that your lack of control left you dangerously exposed.

Sukuna's expression darkened as he observed your desperate, uncontrolled attack miss its mark. Annoyance flashed across his features, and he let out a derisive scoff.

"That's all wrong, brat," He spoke with obvious disgust. "And here I thought I had been gracious enough to offer you my guidance."

Sukuna shook his head in dissatisfaction as he regarded you with disdain. "If you are so utterly lacking in talent, I might just have to kill you after all."

His scathing words struck a chord within you, amplifying the frustration and self-loathing you already felt. He was right – your inability to control your own cursed energy was a glaring weakness.

The realization stung, and you felt a wave of shame wash over you. You had tried, you had pushed yourself to the limit, and yet your efforts had amounted to nothing, your attack failing to even graze your foe.

It unleashed an immense sense of guilt and helplessness, feelings that had plagued you ever since you failed to save Ayumi from her tragic fate.

When you found her you were frozen in place, unable to move, unable to do anything to alter the cruel course of events.

This was the same, you couldn't do anything. It felt suffocating.

Sukuna's expression remained cold and unforgiving, devoid of any trace of sympathy. He had no patience for weakness, and your failure to harness your abilities to his satisfaction only seemed to fuel his relentless onslaught.

Without warning, he surged forward, his powerful grip latching onto your arm. With a swift, fluid motion, he swung you across the room.

Your head struck the ground with a sickening thud, a pool of blood beginning to form around you, testament to the brutality of his attack.

Sukuna must have expected this to be the final blow, the moment when your spirit would finally break under the weight of his overwhelming power.

For a fleeting moment, you almost considered it too- giving up, surrendering to the crushing weight of defeat. Wouldn't it bring immense relief, to let go and succumb?

But then, the image of Ayumi's feet standing in front of you, disrupting your stick-drawn figure in the dirt, flashed before your eyes. It was that fateful day in front of your porch, when she decided to pull you out of your loneliness.

Yet, like a cruel twist of fate, the image started alternating with the horrid memory of Ayumi's severed head, lying in the very same dirt, in front of that very same porch.

A haunting reminder of your weakness.

You couldn't escape that gruesome image, no matter how desperately you tried. It was etched deep into your mind and soul, tormenting you with its vivid details. You would do anything to rid yourself of it.

A wave of crushing clarity washed over you. Your only path forward was clear—to become stronger, resilient enough to banish that haunting image from your thoughts once and for all.

Trembling, you forced yourself back to your feet, determination burning brighter than the pain that wracked your battered body. With each slow breath, you pushed aside the negative emotions that had fueled your previous erratic attacks.

Channeling your energy with a gentle, controlled flow, you felt a steady bolt of cursed energy form in your palm. Meeting Sukuna's gaze with unwavering resolve, you aimed the concentrated blast directly at him.

The bolt shot forward in a straight, precise line, hurtling towards Sukuna with unwavering intent.

His eyes widened ever so slightly as your powerful blast approached him. For a brief moment, he seemed caught off guard, unable to evade the precise attack.

Reacting with his trademark speed and agility, Sukuna raised his hand, swiftly deflecting the bolt of energy. However, the impact was not lost on him, as a faint shimmer of pain flashed across his face, betraying the effects your strike had upon him.

The King of Curses regarded you with a newfound glint of respect in his crimson eyes. "That's it," he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent.

Sukuna's lips curved into a predatory smile as he shifted into a more defensive stance, a stark change from his earlier nonchalant demeanor. It was as if he now regarded you with earnestness, a realization that sent an unexpected flutter of excitement through your stomach.

His cursed energy intensified, enveloping him in a crimson glow, as he challenged you,

"Now let's see how long you can maintain that focus, little sorcerer."

---------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading and until the next chapter.

If you want to be added to the taglist, so you don't miss any updates, please let me know in the comments or with a private message. Thankyou!

Taglist: @sukunasthightattoos

[kabutoden]

Sorry if youve answered this before, but how do you chose the bugs to assign to each character ? Also they are all really cool and fun :3

Hi, I’ve explained this before but I’ll do it again! Last time I explained it was less specific to the character and more to the caste, so this’ll be a little different. I use the metaphors and associations of the insect to pick their species as well as their diet. I’m calling the species a troll mimics their ‘morph’.

Aradia: Fly. Associated with death. Detritivore. Tavros: Craneflies. Frailty, timidness, clumsiness. Thinking longhorn beetle might be a funnier pun though, so I might change it. Herbivore. Sollux: Bees. Construction, intelligence, connections to groupthink/hiveminds/psi. Herbivore. Nepeta: Caterpillar. It’s a pun. Herbivore. Karkat: Isopod. Highly social insect. Durable shell representing defensiveness/personal barriers, but also serving literal aspect of ‘thick skin.’ Detritivore. Kanaya: Hornet. Dangerous but caring parents, association with femininity. Omnivore. Terezi: Dragonfly. Good eyesight’s associated with clarity, though large eyes would also be easier to blind. Good at flying. Dragon pun. Carnivore. Vriska: Spider. Manipulative, association with femininity. Carnivore. Equius: Beetle. Strong. Omnivore. Gamzee: Praying mantis. Associations with religion due to unique praying pose. Carnivore. Eridan: Anolomacaris. Extinct skilled distance hunter. Carnivore. Feferi: Trilobite. Large curved spines, trident tongue, ‘ruler of precambrian seas.’ Detritvore.

All insects before Jade are herbivores or detritivores, and all insects jade and after are middle to highblood can hunt. This was to set up an intentionally antagonistic relationship between lowbloods and highbloods. It’s also a new way to play with themes in my personal work which are all about animal dynamics.

I mostly did the human kids as bugs as a joke, because they’re not aliens at all so its funny!! But I had a ton of fun with them so here we go again. I chose them off colors and gimmicks.

John: Spitbug. They’re bright green and gooey boys. Like ectoplasm. Rose: Rosy maple moth. Name association—also bright pink and yellow against their will. Rose wishes she was a cool goth all-black moth. Moths are associated with ‘seeking light.’ Dave: Assassin beetle/wheel bug. Have a gear shaped bump on back, large black eyes, efficient predators, some red coloration. Fits in with his expectations and pressures. Jade: Wooly aphid. They’re white, fuzzy, with rainbow wings. That’s so her.

Jane: Candy-striped leafhopper. Bright cyan with red highlights, food-themed name.Roxy: Pink-spotted cattleheart. Gorgeous pink and black coloring. Butterflies are nectar-drinkers, associated with celebration and inebriation. Kinda clumsy too. Dirk: Tiger beetle. They can move in bursts of motion faster than they can see. That’s flash stepping. Orange and black. Jake: Diving beetle. Dark green with orange highlights, explorers who go where other beetles cannot.

[rottenentity]

the ultimate lifeform | shadow

what does the ultimate lifeform long for? it does not know. it cannot know.

contains: grief/mourning, introspection, amnesia, existentialism

The ultimate lifeform doesn’t dream.

Dreaming is a mortal flaw—a chaotic spill of fractured thoughts, insecurities, and broken memories weaving into an incoherent tapestry. But it doesn’t have that flaw. It isn’t mortal.

Instead, it exists in silence. Stillness. The space between the tick and tock of a clock. It is perfect in its design: untouchable, infallible, a god in the shape of a weapon.

And yet, it does not feel like a god.

The ultimate lifeform does not hunger. It does not thirst. Its body requires nothing beyond what was programmed into it—a simple, unerring perfection that mocks the weaknesses of those it was built to surpass. Its creators stripped it of need, of frailty, and yet left behind an echo of longing, a hole that cannot be filled.

What does the ultimate lifeform long for? It does not know. It cannot know. Its mind churns with questions it cannot answer, a spiral of incompleteness. If it was made to be the pinnacle of life, why does it feel so empty?

The ultimate lifeform does not love. Love is a mortal folly, a biochemical reaction that binds flesh to flesh, heart to heart. Love is weakness. Love is vulnerability. Love is fleeting.

But the ultimate lifeform remembers.

It remembers her voice, gentle and full of light, though it cannot remember her face. It remembers her laughter, though it cannot recall why she laughed. It remembers her kindness, though it cannot fathom why it mattered. These fragments cling to it like the shadows of a dying star, faint and fading, but there. Always there.

The ultimate lifeform does not cry. It cannot. It was built to endure, to withstand the crushing weight of loss and rage without breaking. Tears are for the fragile, for those who can bleed and bruise and falter.

And yet, its chest aches. It does not have the words for what it feels—if it can even call it feeling. There is something heavy within it, a weight pressing against its core, suffocating and relentless. A sorrow that seeps into its very being, staining every thought and action.

The ultimate lifeform does not forgive. Its purpose is destruction, vengeance, power. Forgiveness is antithetical to its design. To forgive would be to let go, to release the anger and pain that fuels its existence. And without anger, without pain, what is it?

Nothing.

The ultimate lifeform does not rest. It is a creature of purpose, a tool honed to perfection, and tools do not sleep. But as it stands alone, watching the world below—this fragile, cruel world it was told to protect but longs to destroy—it feels the exhaustion in its very bones. Not physical exhaustion, but something deeper, something that cannot be fixed by rest.

The ultimate lifeform does not dream.

And yet, it imagines. It imagines what it would be like to be more, to be less, to be normal. It imagines the warmth of sunlight on its skin, the taste of rain on its tongue, the sound of a heartbeat that is its own.

It imagines her.

Her laughter. Her kindness. The promise, though it cannot remember the words.

It stands on the edge of the city, its crimson eyes piercing the veil of humanity below. The wind tugs at its fur, a cold, biting reminder that it is alone. Always alone.

The ultimate lifeform does not love, or cry, or forgive. It does not rest or hunger or thirst. It does not dream.

But he does.

[katyspersonal]

Anti-Clockwise is the power of 'Spiders'?

Rom's petrified 'real' body is used to bring Annalise back to her normal shape after Alfred beats her into a pulp! But it might also be an explanation of how Rom manages to keep humanity safe from horrors! Mensis Ritual is effecting everyone like a status effect even if they can't perceive it, but the time-reversal powers can pull backwards most of the transformations: beasthood or Kin!

Not everyone could be saved (cases in point: Gascoigne and Amelia turning before we defeat Rom). But at the same time, those two, as well as average Yharnamites becoming beastly upon the hunt, are likely falling for their own hubris! This is not Rom's domain, but she can protect people from what Bloodmoon would otherwise transform them into! Gilbert is an example off the top of my head, not having been corrupted by blood and hunt but being afflicted with Ashen Blood from within that comes in "reaction" with the Moon and otherwise is just frailty and bad coughing fits!

Basically, her protection could go beyond simply "not showing" people scary things! It also makes me wonder if better studying this power could, potentially, discover a way to turn people back into humans even after they've became beasts/kin/monsters/etc! Maybe that's why the strongest variant of this rune was found in Loran too, because they were looking for a way to stop the transformation: Ashen Blood beasts are abundant in Loran dungeons after all! Nightmare Apostles (what 'Spiders' are) found in dungeons, and Patches goes there too, and Amygdalas also were a thing since those times as they're bosses in there. It could be thanks to them why some Loranites survived to this day (Suspicious Beggar and Henryk come to mind)

Or maybe this power is only accessible to those that did make a pact with Amygdalas, and even then where is the guarantee you will be strong enough as a Spider to help everyone? Say, someone wants to turn victims of Healing Church's experiments back into humans and makes a pact with Amygdala..... ...but what if that very act wrecks their humanity, or sanity overall, to the point they no longer want to do that? Or they see some twisted bigger picture for why they should not. Or they lose their freedom and are not permitted by Amygdalas to do it: they are EVIL gods, after all!

[haggishlyhagging]

Hildegard's repeated envisioning of the Church as Mother and her descriptions of the creative, life-giving aspect of the Church, which she likens to "green-ness" (viriditas), her holistic symbol for the vitality of earth, nature, human life and spirituality, all express her insistence on the unity of male and female principles in the universe, on earth and in heaven. Her theology breaks sharply with the dichotomized categories of the scholastics and with the patriarchal hierarchies embedded in their thought. Hildegard's visions fuse male and female elements, the physical and the spiritual, the rational-practical and the mystical aspects of existence. It is no accident that the illuminations of her visions abound in circles, curves and waves, in mandala-like designs, which avoid any concept of hierarchy in favor of wholeness, roundedness and integration.

It is impossible here to do justice to the richness of her visions, the complexities of her thought and the originality of much of her writing. She was influenced by Benedictine teachings and by Galen's medical theories, which defined 'humors" as leading principles governing nature and humans, and "phlegm" as the main cause of disease. She incorporated principles of folk medicine and popular tradition in her medical work and her cosmology, such as belief in the curative value of minerals and precious stones. Since the Latin translations of Aristotle's scientific writings were not then available in Western Europe, she was not influenced by Aristotelian explanations of natural and biological phenomena. Hildegard was therefore quite original in her medicinal writings and especially in her poetic cosmology. Her careful, often quite accurate descriptions of sexual intercourse and her insistence that sexual activity was beneficial to human beings over and above its function for procreation bespeak an unusual understanding of human nature and a rather liberal interpretation of human possibilities, especially considering that Hildegard had lived since age eight in a cloistered environment. Further, her descriptions of female and male characteristics quite independent of one another and her upgrading of woman's role in various ways in her writing indicate that, despite her acceptance of traditional gender definitions, she integrated some of her life experiences into her writing. Women, despite her insistence on their frailty and inferiority, emerge as active, strong people in her writings.

Hildegard, first of a long line of female mystics and spiritualists, derived her authority and right to speak and to think directly from God. God spoke to Hildegard—of this she was convinced and she was able to convince her contemporaries. From this she derived her enormous energy, vitality and leadership.

In three of the illuminations appearing in her late work, De Operatione Dei, Hildegard has painted herself into the visions. The visions are abstract and interpretative in their subject matter, representing "The Cosmic Wheel," "On Human Nature" and "Cultivating the Cosmic Tree." Each of these illuminations shows a mandala with many circles, representing various aspects of the universe, with a human figure at its center. In the left-hand corner of each of these pictures there is the figure of a seated nun, writing on two tablets shaped like the Mosaic tablets. Her face is lifted up and touched by some sort of radiance. This self-conscious self-representation may very well be the first of its kind for a woman. The repetition of this motif and its placement within the illuminations dealing with the most far-reaching, philosophical themes show that Hildegard had by then transcended the conventional posture of self-effacement and humility. No longer merely "God's little trumpet," she wished to be seen in the act of writing down her visions, in the act of authorship. Wishing to be remembered in her own right, she became the first female inspired by mystical revelation to claim her place in history.

-Gerda Lerner, The Creation of Feminist Consciousness

[cosmicjoke]

No Words

God damn, God DAMN, I finally had a chance to sit down and watch Part 3 of the Final Season of “Attack on Titan”, and I really just have no words.  I’m just completely blown away.  MAPPA has done such an indescribably stellar job on every part of this last arc of maybe the greatest story ever written in manga form, and they do not disappoint here.  The gravitas of this hour long episode, including the naked brutality of the opening showing us the true horror of the Rumbling, and Eren’s own monstrosity, was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever had the true privilege to see in animation.  This isn’t a children’s show, as the manga itself was never a children’s story.  This is one of the most intensely relevant and truthful depictions I’ve ever seen of not only the horrors of war and violence, but the tragedy of the human condition.  They not only left Isayama’s panels uncensored here, but even added scenes which drove home the true brutality and tragedy of what Eren was doing.  Seriously, that entire opening sequence left me breathless.  I was just sitting here, stunned, while watching it. Again, this story is such an unvarnished and sincere look at the tragedy of war and the human capacity for violence, and really, in many ways, the inescapability of that nature within us.  I’ve always applauded Isayama for his commitment to that tragedy, and not giving in to the temptation of a happy ending in which all is well and right with the world, in which Eren is able to be redeemed, in which the cycle of violence is miraculously stopped.  Like Erwin once said, as long as there is more than one person, there will always be war.  And this episode by MAPPA captured that deeply dark, ugly and somber reality with such immensity and truth. It’s one of the greatest pieces of cinema I’ve ever seen. That really isn’t hyperbole.  I had tears in my eyes at several points watching this episode.  The cinematic quality and standard of MAPPA’s work remains as first rate as ever.

Hange’s moment, man... Again, I’m left speechless.  Hange really was the hero of this episode.  Their sacrifice, and the way it was rendered here by MAPPA, again, the brutality of it (and I know I keep using that word, but I really can’t find any other), watching them take down Colossal Titan after Colossal Titan, before finally succumbing to the heat, the way they caught on fire, and yet even still, as they were burning alive, they continued to fight and managed to take out one last Titan... Ah, it’s got me all fucked up just thinking about it.  They truly gave their all in the end to save humanity. 

And their farewell with Levi, just... oof, man.  Hange really was Levi’s last, remaining friend from the old days, and he has to watch them go, and there’s nothing he can do to save them, nothing he can do to help.  Another burden on his shoulders, another sense of his immense strength failing to matter.  And again, I have to commend MAPPA here, and their attention to detail.  Levi’s difficulty in even squeezing the trigger of his ODM gear drove home just how WEAK Levi still is at this point in the story.  For all the people that try to criticize him for not being able to do more, for not being enough of a force in the final battle, I think this one, small scene of his physical frailty should shut all those people up.  Because it makes crystal clear to the audience just how physically hurt Levi is, how he’s joining his comrades through nothing but sheer will alone.  His difficulty in performing a physical task which, through this ENTIRE series, Levi was more adept at, more capable of, more powerful in, than any other character, and yet, his hands shake here, and he has to grit his teeth and struggle to accomplish it, it proves Levi’s dedication and determination, even through his own deep impairment.  He’s in no shape to be fighting, and yet he does.  He has to, and he does.  That, like Hange, is the choice of a hero.

The same to all the cast.  Armin, Mikasa, Reiner, Jean, Connie, Pieck, and even Annie, eventually. 

I think MAPPA did an incredible job of conveying the true hopelessness of this situation.  The absolutely minuscule chances of success.  And yet here we are, our hero’s arriving to do what they can, regardless of the odds. 

And then there’s Eren.  Eren, who I will always maintain is one of the most compelling and tragic character’s I’ve ever seen.  While we see his undoubted and terrifying monstrosity on full display, and we understand truly, without question, that he has become the villain of this story, we also see in the flashback to his time in Marley, and his interaction with Ramzi, Eren’s humanity, his remorse, his self-loathing, and his regret.  And it’s that humanity we see in Eren, that genuine horror at what he knows he’s going to do, that makes his final actions all the more horrific and unforgivable.  Because he IS human.  He isn’t a monster.  He’s a human being.  And he chooses to do this.  He chooses to, because he WANTS to, just like he admits tearfully and with genuine remorse to Ramzi.  Is there anything more heartbreaking than that?  Eren’s betrayal of humanities hope is so impactful and so hard to accept because of that humanity.  Because we learned to love and care for and root for him over the entire course of this long journey, only to see him fail so utterly.  My heart bleeds for Eren, even as I know he’s become an unredeemable monster. 

My hat’s off to MAPPA, man.  I’m just floored by this first part of “Attack on Titan’s” conclusion.  I couldn’t be more impressed, or more satisfied with the seriousness with which this very serious story is treated here.  This is art, truly.  This is a story which speaks with total sincerity to the human condition.  And MAPPA has brought it so spectacularly to life.  Thank you MAPPA, and most of all, thank you Hajime Isayama for writing this incredible tale of human will, determination, dreams, triumph, tragedy, violence, cruelty, hate, fear, love, friendship and hope. 

I’m gonna’ stop now before I make myself cry.

I don’t think there’s ever going to be another manga or anime that hits harder or means more than “Attack on Titan”.  It’s truly a masterpiece, and in a class all it’s own. 

[jasminewalkerauthor]

Trope chats: immortality

The concept of immortality has fascinated humankind for millennia, often appearing in myths, folklore, religious texts, and modern literature. It evokes existential questions about the nature of life, death, and time, while exploring what it means to be human. As a literary device, immortality serves as a lens through which authors explore morality, purpose, and human frailty. However, it also comes with narrative risks, including the potential for repetitiveness or a lack of emotional stakes. Beyond literature, the immortality trope also plays a significant role in shaping societal beliefs, fears, and aspirations. This essay delves into the uses, pitfalls, and broader societal impact of the immortality trope, highlighting its continued relevance and complexity in storytelling.

The origins of the immortality trope can be traced back to ancient myths and religious stories. In the Epic of Gilgamesh, one of the oldest recorded works of literature, the hero seeks immortality after confronting the inevitability of death following the loss of his friend, Enkidu. His journey highlights the futility of escaping death, yet simultaneously reflects the enduring human desire to transcend it.

Similarly, in Greek mythology, figures like Tithonus and the gods themselves embody different aspects of immortality. Tithonus, granted immortality without eternal youth, serves as a cautionary tale about the consequences of living forever but decaying in body. The gods’ immortality, on the other hand, emphasizes their divine nature and separateness from the human condition. Immortality in these tales often reflects not just a desire for eternal life but a deeper exploration of what it means to live and die well, and how immortality complicates those values.

In many religious traditions, immortality is also connected to the afterlife. Christianity, Islam, and Buddhism each promise a form of life beyond death, whether it is eternal paradise, reincarnation, or enlightenment. The religious portrayal of immortality often carries moral undertones, where eternal life is a reward for virtuous living. Here, immortality is not inherently desirable but conditional, serving as both an incentive for moral behavior and a reflection of divine justice.

As literature evolved, the immortality trope took on new dimensions. In modern fiction, immortality is often examined through the lens of individual psychology, ethics, and social dynamics. The vampire genre, popularized by Bram Stoker's Dracula and modernized by works like Anne Rice's The Vampire Chronicles, explores the existential burden of living forever. Vampires, often cursed with immortality, grapple with isolation, moral decay, and ennui. In these stories, immortality becomes a prison rather than a gift, highlighting the human need for connection, change, and mortality.

More recently, works like Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go and The Age of Adaline reframe the immortality theme within the context of scientific advancement and human experimentation. These narratives question the ethical boundaries of life extension and the implications of such technological progress. For instance, in Never Let Me Go, the cloned characters are treated as vessels for immortality by others, emphasizing the dehumanizing consequences of pursuing eternal life through unethical means.

In speculative fiction, Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles and Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series engage with the idea of immortal civilizations or entities. These works extend the immortality theme beyond individuals, questioning whether societies and cultures themselves can achieve a kind of immortality through knowledge, science, or colonization of new worlds.

The immortality trope allows for the exploration of a wide array of philosophical and emotional themes, making it a powerful tool for authors. Key among these are the notions of time, identity, and morality.

Immortal characters often experience time in profoundly different ways than mortal beings, leading to a disconnection from human concerns. In works like Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, the Elves, who are immortal, possess a deep historical memory and an inherent melancholy, as they witness the rise and fall of kingdoms and people. Their immortality gives them a different perspective on war, love, and life itself, where events that seem monumental to mortals are but fleeting moments in their endless existence.

Immortality raises questions about personal identity over time. How does an individual maintain their sense of self over centuries or millennia? In works like Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, the protagonist’s immortality and gender fluidity are intertwined, allowing Woolf to explore the fluidity of identity over time and space. In contrast, works like The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde show the dangers of eternal youth, where a refusal to change or grow leads to moral and psychological decay.

Immortality often complicates ethical decision-making. Characters who cannot die may become indifferent to the suffering of others, seeing human life as transient and insignificant. This is evident in characters like Doctor Manhattan from Alan Moore’s Watchmen, whose near-omniscience and immortality alienate him from humanity, as he struggles to find meaning in life and morality. Alternatively, immortal characters might strive to use their endless time for benevolent purposes, as seen with Captain Jack Harkness in Doctor Who, who serves as a protector despite the pain his immortality causes him.

Despite its narrative potential, the immortality trope has several pitfalls. One of the major risks is that of repetitiveness. Immortal characters, particularly those in long-running series, may struggle to evolve in meaningful ways, since their inability to die removes traditional narrative stakes. This can lead to stagnant character arcs, where the potential for growth and change is limited by the character’s inherent invulnerability.

Another challenge is diminished emotional engagement. Mortality is central to the human condition, and much of a reader’s emotional investment comes from the awareness that a character's time is limited. In stories featuring immortality, the absence of death as a real possibility can lessen tension. Authors must compensate for this by introducing alternative stakes, such as the potential for emotional or existential suffering, as seen in Interview with the Vampire, where the emotional isolation of eternal life becomes the central conflict.

Lastly, immortality can sometimes lead to philosophical overload, where stories become bogged down by metaphysical debates and lose touch with the characters themselves. When immortality is used merely as a plot device for abstract musings on existence, it risks alienating readers who are more invested in narrative progression or character development.

The immortality trope also resonates beyond literature, reflecting broader societal anxieties and desires. In an age where scientific advancements, such as stem cell research, anti-aging technology, and the quest for digital consciousness, promise the possibility of extending human life, the trope takes on new relevance. It serves as a platform to explore the ethical, philosophical, and emotional consequences of such pursuits.

The immortality trope taps into the human fear of death and the desire to leave a lasting legacy. Whether through biological immortality or cultural immortality (such as leaving behind great works of art or knowledge), many people seek ways to outlive their finite lifespans. This desire for legacy is mirrored in characters who either embrace or reject their immortality, providing readers with a lens to examine their own fears of mortality.

Immortality also reflects societal aspirations toward technological progress. With the rise of biohacking, life extension research, and transhumanist movements, immortality is no longer a distant fantasy but a potential reality. However, stories that explore these themes often serve as cautionary tales, warning against the ethical and psychological consequences of altering the human condition. Works like Altered Carbon highlight the dangers of living indefinitely through technological means, from economic inequality to the erosion of empathy and identity.

In today’s society, the immortality trope intersects with cultural obsessions with youth and beauty. The growing industries dedicated to anti-aging products, cosmetic surgery, and longevity diets reflect a deep-seated fear of aging. Stories that feature eternal youth, such as The Picture of Dorian Gray, expose the vanity and moral emptiness that can accompany such obsessions, warning of the costs that come with an eternal pursuit of youth.

The immortality trope, deeply rooted in human mythology, religion, and literature, remains a powerful tool for exploring existential questions about life, death, and the passage of time. While it offers unique opportunities for examining morality, identity, and the human condition, it also presents narrative challenges, such as the risk of stagnation or diminished emotional stakes. Beyond its literary uses, the immortality trope continues to influence and reflect societal aspirations, fears, and ethical concerns, particularly in the context of modern science and technology. In a world where the possibility of extended life may one day become a reality, the trope of immortality will remain a vital means of grappling with the profound questions that define the human experience.

[connectparanormal]

Krasue of Asia

Southeast Asian mythology features the intriguing Krasue, who is common in places like Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos. Often portrayed as a disembodied female head with internal organs trailing below, this unsettling figure floats through the night in search of food. The Krasue legend is a powerful illustration of societal conventions, cultural values, and human anxieties. The Krasue's origin tales differ, but most of them imply that she was once a cursed woman because of her conceit or her use of black magic. Some stories attribute the curse to an injured lover or as retribution for previous transgressions. She looks like any other woman during the day, but at night, driven by an unquenchable desire for flesh, blood, and offal, her head separates from her body. This metamorphosis highlights themes of dualism and the hidden evil within humanity.

Rural communities, where strong traditional beliefs persist, frequently connect with the ghostly Krasue. Reports suggest that she prowls the edges of settlements, rice paddies, and woodlands, preying on cattle and, more unsettlingly, expectant mothers and infants. This part of the folklore probably represents fears that society has about giving birth and the frailty of new life. It also highlights the taboos surrounding women's roles and the fear that accompanies power as a woman, particularly when it is unrestrained by social conventions. Sometimes, people portray the Krasue as tragically inevitable, despite her terrible nature. It is common to view her illness as a curse rather than a decision, which makes others sympathetic to her situation. This dualism reflects the complex human emotions associated with punishment, remorse, and the need for atonement. Thus, we can view the Krasue as a figure of caution, warning people about the dangers of excess, envy, and the misuse of authority. Modernity and globalization have shaped the Krasue's representation in culture over time. She frequently appears in movies, TV series, and books as a frightening symbol but also as a moving reminder of conventional wisdom. These contemporary interpretations can combine humor and terror, illustrating how attitudes about folklore are shifting in a culture that is changing quickly. Interestingly, the Krasue serves as a lens to observe the intersections of folklore from various cultures. Similar legends, such as the Manananggal in the Philippines and the Penanggalan in Malaysia, are found in nearby areas. These similarities point to common cultural anxieties as well as the universality of some themes, such as the conflict between good and evil and fear of the unknown.

Sometimes, people use the Krasue as a metaphor for the challenges women face in patriarchal settings. Her narrative emphasizes the difficulties of living up to social norms and the repercussions of defying them. In this sense, the Krasue continues to be a potent and significant figure, representing women's resiliency as well as their concerns. Ultimately, the Krasue ghost legend endures because it resonates with individuals on various levels such as fear, caution, and empathy. It makes it possible to investigate society dynamics and human character, offering insight into Southeast Asia's cultural psychology. The Krasue, with her eerie appearance and tragic history, is still a potent emblem in the vast fabric of mythology.

[woozapooza]

ridiculously long Sopranos post I swear I tried to keep it concise but this is as short as it's going to get

One pattern among Sopranos viewers that I find baffling is the veneration of Dr. Krakower, the therapist in “Second Opinion” who tells Carmela flat-out that she’s obligated to leave Tony and refuses to take her “blood money.” I’ve seen him described as one of the only truly moral characters in the whole show, if not the only one. I agree that his integrity is truly admirable, but I think a lot of viewers overstate the value of that integrity. Granted, this is partly just me being the biggest Melfi apologist imaginable (I’ll get to that in a second), but I also think that I have an objectively valid point to make. One of the biggest themes of The Sopranos is how difficult it is to make a substantive change in one’s life, and that’s partly a matter of human frailty, but it’s also a matter of circumstances and environment. The Sopranos understands that, for most people, willpower will only take them so far because people don’t exist in isolation. To take an example from the last episode I watched (6x17, “Walk Like a Man”), Christopher has been trying so, so hard to stay sober, but he ends up getting drunk and murdering a guy, and while that is ultimately on him, it might never have happened if he hadn’t endured years of mockery from the very people who insisted that he get sober in the first place. It’s this interconnectedness, this imbrication of people, that makes morality so complicated—and so insufficient. Virtue and vice are unfortunately never the only factors at play in human behavior.

Bringing this back to Krakower: his integrity is undeniably admirable, but what good does it do? Carmela doesn’t take his advice! I saw a YouTube comment that said that the best thing Dr. Melfi ever did for the Soprano family was to refer Carmela to Krakower, but how can that be, when the net impact of that referral was nothing at all? Is throwing moral clarity at a morally murky situation really the objectively right thing to do, when it’s so unlikely to accomplish anything material? Not to mention Carmela's religion teaches her that she’s obligated to stay in this marriage, which is an absurd belief IMO, but it is her belief nonetheless. Of course he’s not going to get through to her if he doesn’t meet her where she’s at. I’m not saying integrity doesn’t matter. I’m just saying that in Sopranos World, as in the real world, you don’t have a good/bad effect on the world just by having good/bad morals. I think it’s best to have one foot firmly planted in morality while also being willing to engage with immorality, but even that approach to life isn’t guaranteed to do good, because sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it’s out of your hands. The world is just too complicated.

One of countless things I love about Melfi is that she’s one of the few characters who I see making a fairly consistent effort to walk the line between principles and pragmatism. Obviously she makes mistakes, she’s as human as the rest of them, but damn it, at least she’s trying! I think a lot of viewers don’t give her enough credit for that. If Krakower deserves credit for his moral intransigence (and he does!), surely Melfi deserves credit for trying to strike an effective balance. I just don’t understand how viewers of this show, which takes such a realistic look at the limits of how far an innate sense of right and wrong can take you, can see one therapist who tells his patient that she has to do something she’s almost guaranteed not to do because it would be enormously difficult both psychologically and logistically (he tells her to “take the children” and go—how’s that supposed to work? They’re not toddlers who she can just scoop up and carry away!) and then sends her away, and one therapist who tries to build a relationship with her patient through which they could theoretically work together on shaping him into a more functional person, and declare that the former is doing it right and the latter is doing it wrong. Sure, her strategy ultimately fails, but so does his, and I think hers was a lot more pragmatic! It would have worked with a patient who was more willing to try. Like me, for example. I would be the best patient she ever had and I would never let her down and she would be so proud of me.

Okay, I had written some additional paragraphs switching gears and focusing on Melfi’s approach to treating Tony and explaining some of the reasons that I will always stan her, but this post is so long already I think I’m going to end it here. Sometime soon I’ll make a separate post with the Melfi paragraphs. She deserves her own post anyway. Have I mentioned that I love her? Have I ever mentioned that???

[let-us-cultivate-our-garden]

Envy was the most sadistic of the Homunculi in Fullmetal Alchemist, bragging about things such as starting the Ishvalan Civil War, indirectly creating Scar, and killing fan favorite Maes Hughes, but Arakawa gave them a bit of complexity and the best villain death ever

When dealing the final blow with major villains/antagonists, you actually have to defeat them twice; the first is the actual physical defeat and the second is the defeat of their ideals or beliefs.

Envy's driving force was how superior they thought they were to "weak" humans; the irony of course (and as their name indicates) they are envious of humans for their inner strength and morality. So you have a character that is secretly deeply insecure and they commit atrocities to mask that insecurity. So how do you truly defeat this type of villain?

Unmask them. Reveal the inner weakness. How pathetic they truly they are. Make them realize the enormity of their actions.

This is why Envy's death resonates: we have the catharsis of watching the haughty character be broken down, to reveal the rot underneath yet at the same time there is a sense of pity because Envy's fears are relatable. It does not make Envy a "good" person by any stretch of the imagination but (ironically) a more human character. The defeat of the Homunculi also rebukes Father's goal of achieving perfection with his artificial humans; by exposing the frailties of his creations, you expose the frailties of the main villain.

The Owl House does not do this with Belos; he is killed but his ideology is not, he dies thinking himself in the right. This could work but only if you show why Belos is so committed to his cause to the bitter end and while the show has hints of this, it's so vague that it's practically meaningless and is his backstory is never paid off. There's no final confrontation between Luz and Belos about the roles they have played in shaping the isles and how Luz let go of her childish fantasies while Belos did not and how it destroyed him.

The show also never gets into the forces that made Belos; he's just always been like that and having him be the cause of all the problems on the BI seems to say that if you remove the One Bad Man then everything will be ok. No one else who supported Belos ever gets any kind of comeuppance, none of the Coven Heads, not Odalia, and we only see Kiki in one shot helping rebuild the school so I guess we're okay with her now?

Belos' death is just disappointing all around; Luz's silence would be amazing as it would indicate that she no longer allows him to control her, except that Belos never had any influence over her. She's always rebuked his advances at commonality and her main angst in season 3 over "helping" him is so narratively weak and so lacking in tension that it's laughable.

When you have a character like Belos, especially after building up how delusional he is and the circumstances as to what made him, there needs to be a proper conclusion in which he is confronted with his delusions and lies, that he wasted his life for nothing. That his goals were childish and stupid and it all could have been avoided. Instead we get a pithy one-liner and an anti-climactic foot stomping. How bold.

(and also, don't tell me that Belos can't bounce back from his apparent "death." The man reformed himself from a single droplet and a little acid rain and some boots aren't going to do squat).

[hiswordsarekisses]

“2000 years ago when Jesus died on the cross the glory of God ripped through the curtain veil of the four walls of the old covenant temple.

Religion has tried to put God back into that old system almost ever since.

Jesus' death on the cross rips the veil between what we call sacred and secular.

No more is Gods glorious presence resigned to a 4-walled place of religion; now the entire scope of the human experience can be invaded by the divine.

Now worship is more than religious service or performance in a temple, but the entirety of the life we lead is an act of surrender and worship.

We prefer a safe and domesticated presence. One that doesn't challenge us.

Our meetings often invite His presence but only so much as to give us goosebumps.

Like a genie in a lamp we treat the Holy Spirit; giving Him freedom to "come out" when we need a touch; then back into His proverbial cage while we move on with the other parts of our lives.

We have thus created a religion of the presence of God where we allow Him close enough to make us feel good but not enough to shape and form us into Christ.

We are experts at getting into God's presence, novices at letting God into our presence.

This is how a man can spend 12 hours a day in the prayer room but not formed inwardly to be like Christ.

4-walled religion lets us touch God on our own terms and timing rather than allowing His presence to invade EVERY part of our world and private life.

We are fine if He comes inside our allotted worship times, but carefully guard the rest of our lives once "worship" is over.

The Incarnation of Christ is proof that God is forever pleased to unite Himself to our humanity.

This means that the Presence of God isn't just resigned to our "spiritual times" but dwells inside the full scope and depth of the weakness, frailty, joy, beauty, and pain of our human experience.

To that, I cry "God get into my presence!"

It's as if we prefer a predictable presence of God, one that molds to our meetings and agendas, rather than a presence of God that parts the ocean, topples empires, and leads us into the oft uncomfortable realm of faith and the unknown!

Could it be, that God is as much longing to get out of our 4 walls of religion today as He was 2000 years ago?

Invade every part.”

~ Chris Burns

( @chrisburnslove )