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hxzbinwrites · 10 months ago

Note

Hey!! Saw that u were taking request <3 I was thinking that an Alestor x wife!reader being a power (but absolutely terrifying) couple would be soooo cool, like maybe they already knew each other from when they were humans, and Alestor is just 10000% a simp for his wifey lol. Hope u like it!

Alastor x Wife! Overlord! Reader | Forgiveness |

Warnings ⚠️: Cussing, Death, Killing, Mentions of Alastor being a Cannibal, Reader makes STUPID DECISIONS

In the Pride Ring is where all of the sinners and Overlords alike mingle. The uppermost ring of Hell and the closest to Heaven. That’s where some of the most feared and powerful beings live. Two of those entities being Alastor, the Radio Demon, and (Y/n), the Jazz Demon.

Together, they rule their districts with an iron grip. While some Overlords team up, like the Vees, Alastor and (Y/n) were the first to do it. Well, it makes sense really, especially because they were close during their respective times alive on Earth.

——————

Three gunshots were heard that fateful night. One ending a mans life by his hand, one ending the witness’s life by his hand, and one ending his by justice’s hand. No more Bayou Killer, but he took two more lives before he went. Awful, sick man. Good thing he’s in Hell now…

Alastor hissed as his back hit the pavement. His squinted eyes took in his surroundings, he was in Hell. Hmm, no shocker there. What was a shock was seeing the body next to his.

“Ugghh” They groaned, sitting upright on the pavement next to him. They locked eyes. It was (Y/n). Before Alastor could even speak, she pounced on him, pushing him back into the pavement.

“You sick son of a BITCH!! YOU KILLED ME!! SHOT ME LIKE I WAS AN ANIMAL FOR YA NEXT MEAL!!” She yelled, shaking him back and forth by gripping his collar. His collar looked identical to hers, and he tuned out her yelling, he noticed her attire. She was now wearing a black suit with red and white accents, one that looked like a reverse image of his. Except a few details weren’t the same, hers looked more feminine, but also had less harsh edges to it. She looked more elegant while he looked more harsh.

He then looked up to her face, she had red eyes and long, silky black hair, with red underneath. He looked to the top of her head and noticed two fluffy, black ears. They were currently pressed to her scalp, a clear indicator of her unhappiness at the current moment.

“AND TO THINK, AFTER ALL OF THAT BEGGIN, YOU WAS JUST DYING TO GET ME ON YOUR RADIO SHOW!! WELL LOOK AT US NOW, MR. ALASTOR. LOOK. AT. US. NOW. WHAT EVEN ARE YOU, YOU SICK FREAK. EVERYONE KNEW THE BAYOU KILLER ATE FOLKS. IF YOU WERENT SHOT, WERE YOU GONNA EAT ME?? WAS I GONNA NOT EVEN BE ABLE TO HAVE A BURIAL NEXT TO MY PA, CAUSE YOU ATE ME!? OH LORD HELP ME!!”

Alastor rolled his eyes, feeling no remorse for the doe that whined above him. (Y/n) was a famous musician in Louisiana, particularly in Jazz. Alastor had begged her to come onto his radio show, play some tunes for his devoted fans. She agreed, but that night Alastor didn’t show to the studio. She heard shouting in the woods across the street from the building, stupidly she went to investigate. She saw the oh so famous radio host, and with a bang of a shotgun the other man was dead. Probably in Heaven now. Trying to stay silent, (Y/n) tried to back away before a branch snapped, like a doe her eyes widened before she darted away, only to be shot right in the heart and drop down to the ground. She heard another shot faintly in the distance before she felt the wind brush past her as she fell.

“My dear, I apologize.” Alastor said, gently grabbing (Y/n)‘s hand. “It was never my intention to make you my target. I knew that if word got out about my….hobbies….that my reputation would be ruined. No more radio show.”

“You can apologize for the rest of eternity” She scowled, smacking his hand away before standing up,” You’re a MONSTER. Leave me ALONE. Hopefully someone down here will be nice, but I’m not taking no help from you”. (Y/n) finally walked away, leaving a very annoyed Alastor sitting there.

———————

About 20 years later

Alastor was a feared Overlord now, rising the ranks out of seemingly nowhere. Even with this newfound power and respect, (Y/n) still wanted nothing to do with him. She was famous in her own way. Music was not very abundant in Hell, and she profited off of that. She had little to no competition in the music industry. Becoming an icon of Hell, her name was in everyone’s mouth, making Alastor yesterday’s news, which irked him to no end.

‘I need her.’ Alastor initially thought,’ with someone as influential as her now, having her on my side will make my power increase tenfold.’ But after many times of asking over the years, he just yearned for her admiration. Not only to be on his side, but by his side. He didn’t know where the newfound obsession came from, but Alastor knew he wouldn’t stop until he brought her to him.

Alastor made his way to her huge studio, basically a small turf at this point. Without ever fighting, she’d managed to become a little bit of an Overlord, just not to the extent she could be called one. He made his way up to her penthouse, knowing the way by heart since this is not the first time he’s made a visit for an alliance.

“What Alastor.” (Y/n) asked, not even looking up from her sheet music she was writing.

“Hello my dear!” Alastor said,”lovely to see you again! I just miss you so much darling!”

“Miss me from what?” She said, turning around to meet his eyes,” we were aquatinted when we were alive, and then you killed me. What exactly do you miss me from?”

“I just miss seeing you.” He said in a softer tone,”Please (Y/n), you must realize that your death was an accident. I was never planning to hurt you. I was never planning to do anything to you.”

(Y/n)’s head tipped down, her ears pressed to her scalp,”but you did, Alastor. You killed me.”

“My dear….” He said, getting closer slowly, like she’d dart off at any given moment, just for him to not see her ever again. “My dear, I cannot imagine the pain you’ve gone through. I know it’s been a few years now, but that’s a few years you could’ve still been alive. Found a husband, had a better music career, just lived. I took that from you, and I’m…..I’m sorry.”

“I know Alastor.” She said, hugging him. Even though he hated when people touched him, she did not know this, so he internally decided to let this one time be the exception. “You know I can never fully forgive you….but after all of these years, I think I can at least try to have you in my life….but if you screw up ANY, I’m gonna kill you. I don’t care if you’re an Overlord or whatever the hell you’re doing, I will kill you like you killed me.”

“Hmm, fair enough” He shrugged, breaking off the hug as he sat down in the chair across from hers.

———————

Present Day

“So hold up” Angel said, looking at the two powerful Overlords,”He literally killed you and you were like, ‘oh well, I forgive you’. What the hell (Y/n)?”

(Y/n) was a true Overlord know. Once she let Alastor back into her life, he taught her the ways of toppling Overlords. She didn’t posses near the amount of power that he had, so he did the gruesome part for her. Building her musical empire (and later on having to shoo of Vox who begged her to join his up and coming ‘Television’ idea after Alastor shot him down).

“Oh I’d hardly call it forgiving.” Alastor said,”I get constantly reminded about it every day, multiple times a day. You wonder why it took us 60 years to even get engaged.”

(Y/n) just rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. Alastor smirked, looking over at his wife.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do? The man kept coming by begging me every week for TWENTY YEARS!! Lovesick puppy if you ask me.”

Charlie squealed, hugging onto Vaggie. “Look Vaggie! That could be us one day!!”

“I hope not” Vaggie said,” A freaky cannibalistic overlord and his delusional companion. I’m fine with staying as us.”

“No Vaggie! I meant married! Wouldn’t that be fun!! Married for a long time!! Forever!!”

While Charlie was helping Vaggie stop short circuiting, (Y/n) and Alastor just looked at one another with a knowing glance. Alastor took her hand and kissed her knuckles, smiling up at her.

“Thank you again my dear, for letting me back into your life. I’m eternally sorry for what I did.”

“I know you are Alastor, plus I’d be dead already now regardless.” (Y/n) giggled,”I still don’t know what overcame me that day. I mean, who lets someone back into their life after doing that!! I am glad I did though. It’s like you said in that apology, I have a husband, I have a huge music career, but I’m not living, technically, but it feels like it!!”

Alastor chuckled,”that’s right, my precious doe. Now, I am off to go grab lunch for the both of us! If you excuse me, I shall make a trip down to the Cannibal District, and then over to the grocery store for your food!”

———————

Word Count: 1,560

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five-rivers · 6 months ago

Text

Funeral

“I’m sorry,” said Danny, speaking to the headstone in lieu of anything else to talk to. He certainly wasn’t going to speak to the empty and expectant grave a few feet away. “I wanted to wait. I want to wait. It’s just–” He cut himself off, curling his hands into fists. “There are so many things I haven’t seen, haven’t done. Jazz got married, you know? She’s pregnant. If I was– I could have–”

He fell silent and adjusted the collar of his overcoat, trying to keep the frigid Ghost Zone wind away from his currently human neck.

“Sam and Tucker are thinking about getting married, now that we’ve all graduated,” he said softly. “I would have liked to see that, too. And have a career. Travel. I know you wanted to do that, too. But–”

He broke off as his voice pitched weirdly, too high, too loud. Sparks jumped off his fists as his emotions rose. He flickered in and out of sight and tangibility, and his skin started to–

With an effort, he wrenched himself back together.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “This is why I have to go. I’m too unstable, and it isn’t like you. I’m not just a danger to myself.”

(A premonition: Disturbed soil, a hand reaching out, a solid body… but there was nothing there now. The ground was troubled only by slowly growing grass.)

He turned away from Dani’s grave and walked back to the mortuary shrine.

The wind kicked up again. There was ice in it.

A motto was carved above the threshold of the shrine. It read, LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR OWN DEAD. Appropriate. No one fully living would be here tonight. Sam, Tucker, and Jazz had all wanted to be, just like they had all wanted to be there for Dani, but there were rules about this kind of thing, old rules, and–

Ice feathered out from under his feet. And it wouldn’t be safe for them.

The mortuary shrine was cozy on the inside, not at all like a morgue, or an embalmer’s studio. There were some similarities, overlaps in function, but the shrine was not organized with decaying fleshy bodies in mind. The central altar, for example, was high off the ground, for ease of access by the celebrants, but it was soft, bed-like, for the sake of the one who’d lie there. The other altars were filled with other things, like candles, foods, oils and wines, salt, cloth, books, and strange implements Danny couldn’t name. All things needed for a burial.

There was other furniture, too, and the associated accouterments. Elegant ghost lanterns and a fireplace, burning with cold fire. Lovely chairs and small tables carved from bright wood. Plush footstools. Tapestries and curtains, softening the stone walls.

Three ghosts waited for him there, the proper number for a rite like this. Frostbite, his horns only inches from the ceiling. Pandora, who had taken a smaller form for the occasion. Clockwork, who looked much the same as he always did, except that he wasn’t changing forms, instead wearing a guise of solid middle age.

(Danny still had to look up at all of them. He'd managed to catch up to Jazz, but he'd never reached his father's height.)

“You are ready,” said Clockwork.

It wasn’t really a question, didn't necessarily call for a response, but Danny understood. This was his last chance to back out without any more consequences than the ones he was currently experiencing.

But those consequences were bad enough. He shuddered as intangibility and invisibility rippled through him again, and he just barely kept a grip on his more destructive powers.

“Yes,” said Danny. He looked around the shrine, nervous. He hadn't been here when Dani did this. He didn't know what came next. Not in any detail. “Should I change?”

“No,” said Pandora. “Not unless you feel the need to. The ritual will be a guide, as it was for your younger sister.”

“Then we shall begin,” said Clockwork.

Danny nodded.

Frostbite came forward fist, and leaned all the way down to kiss Danny’s forehead. “You are dead, Great One, and we will remember you.”

He stepped back, and Pandora took his place. “You are dead, little warrior, and we will send you on with honor.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead as well.

Then, Clockwork came up. He looked down at Danny for longer than the other two. “You are dead, Daniel, and the time comes for all the dead to be laid to rest.”

When Clockwork’s lips brushed against Danny’s forehead, he felt the first strands of the ritual wrap around him like silk. Still thin and tenuous enough that he could break free, but not without damage to both the weaving and himself.

Frostbite, meanwhile, had turned to one of the lesser altars. There was a small teapot chilling there, above a braiser of cold fire. Frostbite poured its contents into a large mug, then added three scoops of shimmery white powder, each from a different small pot, before stirring three times.

He held the mug out to Danny. “For your nerves.”

“Is this drugged?” asked Danny, taking the mug. He kept his tone light. Considering the parts of this Danny knew were going to happen, that was really the least of his worries.

“Drugged and poisoned,” said Frostbite. “We did research into the best way to ritually account for your continued life. This is it.”

If Danny was younger, he’d ask if it was going to kill him. He knew better, now, about how durable half-ghosts were. Memories of long-ago history lessons, of trivia, of drugged drinks and gentle, honored deaths on cold mountains ghosted through Danny’s mind. But those were children.

He raised the mug to his lips and took a drink. It tasted of chocolate, cream, and a bewildering array of spices and herbs, from capsaicin to vanilla to rosemary. There was also a bitter undertaste, and Danny would have pulled away instinctively, but as soon as he’d started the reflexive motion, Frostbite put a friendly but firm hand on the back of his head, and another on the bottom of the mug, keeping it tilted back.

(A premonition: Other hands hovered nearby, ready to assist if Danny resisted. He could feel them. One over his nose, another stroking his throat, taking advantage of the remaining reflexes of his human body. But they weren’t there. Not yet.)

The rites, now started, would not be so easily refused.

Danny drank deeply, finding a strange sort of enjoyment in the extended physical contact. He’d been avoiding touch ever since a nasty scare with his ice powers and Sam’s skin. There had been close calls before that, too, with his newer, more esoteric powers, but until then…

Frostbite tilted Danny’s head all the way back, ensuring the last few drops of the drink fell past Danny’s lips, then pulled the mug away. Danny licked his teeth and lips, and swallowed one more time. He didn’t feel anything yet.

“What next?” he asked, wincing at the edge of power behind the question. He should probably just. Not talk. Especially not with drugs in his system.

“After a death, the first step is to clean and prepare the body,” said Pandora.

Of course. Danny nodded. The mortuary shrine… wobbled.

Frostbite swept Danny up into his arms - which would have been more embarrassing if Frostbite wasn’t huge - and carried him to one of the lesser altars. It was smooth-surfaced and the neighboring, even smaller altars had bars, bottles, jars, basins of water, and washcloths, all arranged to stand at precise angles from one another. He was laid down on the altar, and Frostbite and Clockwork started to undress him.

At first, Danny tried to help, peeling out of his overcoat and sweater quickly. But then, his movements seemed to… blur. His mind was still sharp, as far as he could tell, but his limbs were becoming clumsy, slow.

It was Clockwork who untied his boots, and Frostbite who unbuttoned Danny’s shirt. By the time they got to his underthings, it felt like there was a barrier between him and his body. Not anything solid, he could still move, still react, but something muffling, slowing. Frostbite laid him down so that he was flat on his back on the lesser altar. Clockwork started going through Danny’s hand with a wet, lightly perfumed, comb. Frostbite, meanwhile, took out a set of dentists tools and eased Danny’s jaw open with one claw.

Across the room, at the main altar, Pandora laid layer after layer of cloth. Some of them were patterned, others plain. Some were thick with embroidery, others were gossamer thin. Some were edged with beads or woven with gold, others looked tattered, as if they’d been previously used for something else, the scrupulously cleaned.

Clockwork, done with Danny’s hair for the moment, moved on to his feet. It was hard to describe the intimacy of being cleaned like this by someone else. By someone he knew. He wasn’t a patient, Clockwork wasn’t a nurse. He wasn’t an infant, and Clockwork wasn’t his parent. But this was an act of care and love, offered without judgment. It was also embarrassingly efficient and thorough. When a body was cleaned, prepared for internment, it wasn't just the normal surfaces that were cleaned, but areas generally considered private.

As Clockwork moved upwards, the powers that churned along the surface of Danny’s skin quieted. They did not go silent - they never did, these days - but they were no longer so maddeningly active.

Finished with Danny's mouth (which now felt much more clean than it ever did after the dentist's) Frostbite moved on to his nails, clipping and cleaning them, smoothing rough edges and cuticles. Danny tried to be helpful with this, to at least hold his hands in the right way, but the effects of the drugs were progressing. His movements were slowing, growing smaller.

He should be panicking. The loss of control, at least, should bother him, given the constant vigilance his rapidly growing powerset required. But, as a human, his emotions were still principally dependent on physical systems and chemical reactions. His heartbeat was slow, and growing slower.

They turned him over to work on his back, and Danny half-dozed, eyes barely open, as they diligently scrubbed him clean.

Then, he was on his back again, anointed with oils and perfumes, smokes and incense wafted over him. Something wet drew a line from his lips to his groin.

Danny's heart twitched to a stop.

Blue-white rings flared from his core in an instant, painfully arresting the moment of death, then swept out to Danny's extremities. He flinched, twisting on the table, onto his side, suddenly able to move again. Everything was too bright, too loud, too close, too present. He covered his face with his arms.

The panic he’d missed earlier was in full force now, shining bright and pure and crystalline in the way only ghostly emotions could. He was in danger. He was dangerous. He could feel his powers coiling, ready to strike, whether it be his will or against it. He fought them, and paid the price, bones and skin going soft, their fine, detailed structures destabilizing, running like wax, like the flesh of a caterpillar in a cocoon.

A hand scooped through his sticky, melting flesh and pressed a cool, hard, surface to his lips. He drank. It was the same thing Frostbite had given him before, but without the bitterness. With every gulp, the ritual spun onwards, strands thickening, multiplying. By the time he was finished drinking, his skin was sticky and damp, but solid again underneath that.

“No poison this time?” he asked.

“Just because you cannot taste it does not mean it isn’t there,” said Frostbite. “Do you know what separates a medicine from a poison?”

“Dosage?” hazarded Danny. Jazz was an MD. He’d picked up a few things.

All three of the older ghosts chuckled. Frostbite went as far as to ruffle his hair.

“He does learn,” said Clockwork, unzipping Danny’s jumpsuit (it had grown with him) and gently pushing aside Danny’s hands when he moved to help.

Whatever was in the second drink, if there was anything at all, it didn’t act nearly as quickly as the first. He could feel so much more, his sense of touch unblunted. It made the process of Frostbite, Clockwork, and Pandora undressing him all that much more, especially when they chided him (ever so gently) for trying to help them, for doing anything but lying there like a corpse.

(Deja vu: Rituals as old as humanity, reaching back, reaching forward. The preparation of the dead, laying them to rest. The duty of the family, to clean and prepare, to stand watch, sit vigil, to March the wake, to mourn, to celebrate. The dead did not move to help. They did not move at all.)

They washed the spaces between his toes and fingers, his teeth, the backs of his eyelids, the insides of his ears, every nook and cranny they had cleaned when he was in human form was cleaned again. The stickiness from his earlier destabilization was wiped away, replaced with a dry, fresh feeling. Invisibility and intangibility stopped wisping across his skin, too tightly bound by the ritual to be used even by accident.

The perfumes they used now were different, they tickled at his brain and core both, summoning feelings of nostalgia, regret, longing, grief, quiet, peace. They traced symbols in them, in languages Danny didn’t know but could feel the meanings of, of linear past and spreading future, of the pinpoint present, of decay and rot, of the loosening of muscles, of the blurring of boundaries, of reconstruction, of change, of stability, of things remade, of things caught in time forever.

Frostbite picked him up and brought him to the main altar. It was soft, piled high with cloth. They felt cool and silky on Danny’s bare skin and there was a pillow under his head. Absently, he ran his palm back and forth across the top cloth. Or, no, not quite the top one. The main one he was touching was large, large enough to hang off the altar and pool on the ground, but there was a smaller strip of embroidered cloth, almost like a long belt or ribbon, at the height of his biceps.

There was, he noted, another such ribbon under his ankles, and another under his knees. He wondered what they were for.

He didn’t have to wonder for long. Clockwork picked up the long ends of the ribbon and wound it around his ankles in a complicated fashion. The twists and turns showed off the intricacy of the abstract embroidery. He finished it off with a knot that disappeared under the rest of the ribbon.

The strings of the ritual gathered faster, wound thicker, tighter, with a physical anchor.

Clockwork moved on to the ribbon at Danny’s ankles. The weaving was slightly different, but had the same effect.

He expected the one under his arms to go the same way. But instead Pandora, Frostbite, and Clockwork gathered flowers from another altar. They were all black and white, so it took Danny a moment to recognize them. Lilies, roses, marigolds, carnations, asphodel, nettle, nightshade, poppies, lycoris. Flowers for death, for funerals, for mourning.

Clockwork wrapped Danny’s hands around the bouquet, and pressed the ring finger of his left hand against a rose thorn. A drop of blood welled up. Blood, not ectoplasm. Danny stared, surprised. But he didn’t get to stare long. Clockwork produced another ribbon, and wrapped it around the flowers and Danny’s wrists.

Then, he picked up the other ribbon under Danny and tied it around his upper arms and elbows before tucking the ends into the ribbon around Danny’s wrists.

It all felt very secure.

Under normal circumstances, Danny would have been able to escape such flimsy restraints in a hummingbird’s heartbeat. But it wasn’t just the ribbons that held him. He could still escape, yes, but it would take a great deal of effort.

He twitched his shoulder, just to check that he could. The motion was slow, heavy, and smaller than he expected.

Pandora put a stilling hand on his shoulder and held a coin up in front of his face. It was large and silver, inscribed with symbols from languages both long dead and never alive. Danny wondered if they had made it just for this occasion.

“A last chance,” said Pandora.

His last chance to back out, is what she meant. To say something. He could do it. He could stop the ritual and suffer the consequences. He could be a danger to everyone around him for the rest of his existence, however long or short that was.

He gave Pandora the tiniest shake of his head. She smiled and pressed the coin against his lips. He opened his mouth, just enough to take the coin. It fit comfortably on his tongue, in between his teeth but not jostling against them. If it wasn’t custom made and sized, it might as well have been. It tasted metallic and sweet, as if, given enough time, it would dissolve on his tongue.

Pandora took out one more embroidered ribbon and wrapped it around his jaw and the top of his head, holding his mouth closed. There was enough tension in the ribbon to press, but not enough for its edges to dig into tender flesh. Taken together, the coin and ribbon made an effective gag.

His wail was now bound just as effectively as his intangibility and invisibility, as effectively as his tongue and voice. For the first time since the incompatibility between his powers and his body became clear, the stress of keeping his wail under control was lifted away.

(A possibility, unraveled: Danny standing at the center of a crater made with his own voice. No, kneeling. No, weeping, curled on the ground, head touching dirt and fractured concrete. He knew those buildings, teetering on the edges of new cliffs. He knew them.)

This was the right decision.

The three older ghosts busied themselves at the other, smaller altars briefly, allowing Danny to collect himself and sink deeper into that sense of relaxation. The wail wasn’t the only thing that had been taken off his shoulder. All his other voice-based powers were similarly locked away, and he hadn’t even noticed losing his shapeshifting, but he couldn’t touch that, either.

When Pandora stepped back into his field of view, she was holding a mask. A death mask, more specifically, styled after Danny’s own face. Frostbite, next to her, held a small, square cloth, like a handkerchief and a small bottle.

Clockwork reached out and touched Danny’s face, briefly tracing each of his features. His lips, his nose, his eyebrows. He slid his fingers down, pressing Danny’s eyelids closed. The motion was gentle, but held a strange sort of finality.

Danny found that he could not open his eyes.

Fabric, soft and smooth, whisper thin, covered his face and was adjusted, straightened. Something fragrant dampened it from above, near his nose. More perfume. He inhaled. Exhaled. Stopped.

Stopped.

Before he could have any more thoughts about not being able to breathe, the death mask was pressed into place. The weight of it pressed the thin shroud over his face snugly into his skin. It made his other limitations - his eyes, his breath, his general immobility - more acceptable, somehow.

Other talismans were placed on his skin or tucked into the ribbons. Some, he could identify by touch. The ticklish barbs of a feather. The cold roundness of another, smaller coin. The familiarity of his childhood stuffed bear. Others, his powers identified for him. The sparkling wonder of a lunar meteorite. The shiver of a carved piece of ghost ice. The thrumming power and glory of a vial of ectoplasm shed by a god Danny had fought and defeated. He hadn’t known they’d kept that.

But other things were too strange to identify by touch alone. He could make guesses. Maybe that was a flower petal, maybe this other thing was a coil of string, and while he was sure that last was paper, he couldn’t say what was on it.

With every token placed, another one of his powers was called up and locked away, like bound by like. His awareness of the stars winking out as the meteorite was placed was sad. The powers he’d ‘earned’ from that god being placed firmly out of his reach, however, was only a relief.

He was verging on helplessness, now. Helpless, but unburdened.

Clockwork started to speak. None of the words were recognizable, but Danny knew the feeling of a prayer. This one was old. Old old. Old even by the standards of ancient ghosts. They hummed briefly in his bones before settling in them like lead weights. Or golden ones.

The edges of the sheet he was lying on were lifted up and folded over him, then tucked under him. Wound around him. It was a winding sheet. Of course. Of course. The next cloth, too, was pulled up and over him, the motion a little more brisk now that the tokens were held in place by the first sheet. Then, the next. Cerecloth and cerements.

Danny twitched a little, at first, at certain unexpected touches, but when the third wrapping added its comforting, soothing pressure he was reduced (or, perhaps, elevated) to a state of perfect limpness.

They added more tokens between the third layer and the fourth, but Danny couldn’t even begin to guess what they were. They were too muffled by layers of silk - those layers being both the literal layers of cloth and the figurative layers of the ritual.

Clockwork’s prayers were getting harder to hear, but Danny felt like he could recognize some of them, now. Snippets of Akkadian, Egyptian, Greek, Latin, a word or two off the Oracle Bones. Prayers for the dead, for their revenge and their remembrance, for their reverence and their reward, for their repose and their return.

He was wrapped again and again, until the pressure, the gentle rocking motion necessary to wrap him, and the nearly unintelligible rhythm of Clockwork’s prayers threatened to lull him to sleep.

He could hear snatches of Esperanto, now, and English.

“... rest, and rest in peace… until waking… to hope… blessing in memory…”

Some parts of it felt familiar. Others were strange, so strange, but he was bound so securely, now, that he almost felt as if he was floating.

“... iron and wood, we entrust this most precious… an embrace… the hallowed graves… deliver and defend…”

No, he was floating, sort of. He’d been lifted up, sheets and all, and now he was being moved sideways. Sideways, and now down, down, into a snug cavity. Was he bordered by flowers? Pillows? Both? He couldn’t tell.

“... into silk… like dust by sunlight into gold… changed… after a long day, to sleep…”

A faint weight draped over him, a final sheet covering him. He felt, with a strange sense that lay deeper than instinct, further down and closer to his heart and soul, that Pandora, Frostbite, and Clockwork had drawn closer, that they were kneeling beside his casket or coffin, heads bowed.

“Now we lay thee down to sleep,” whispered Clockwork, words startlingly clear despite his voice being harder to hear than ever, “we pray thy grave thy soul to keep, until thou choose the form thou take, and the hour thou shall wake.”

“And should thou never wake,” whispered - someone. It was getting harder to tell the muffled voices apart. “We shall mourn for thy sake.”

Very slowly, the force pushing in and down on Danny increased, deliciously. It was almost enough.

(Danny didn’t know where that thought had come from.)

A loud thump shuddered through Danny. Another. They were nailing him in. Another restraint. Another limitation. Another step towards the cumulation of the ritual. Almost. Almost.

Thirteen nails sealed Danny into the coffin.

(He had been snug before. Now, he wasn’t sure he could have moved even if the ritual hadn’t removed the ability from him.)

(All his powers were bound. There was no more sense of responsibility keeping him awake. His body was cocooned in every way possible. There was no more fear about destabilizing and melting. None of his choices would change what would happen to him next. Only a curiosity about what it would feel like to be buried kept him from succumbing to his soul-deep exhaustion then and there.)

Vaguely, ever-so-vaguely, Danny could feel his coffin lifted, moved. He knew where he was going. Out of the mortuary shrine, across the lawn, down the rows and rows of graves, and to one grave in particular. He’d wanted to be buried next to family, and Dani was his only family available.

They stopped. He was lowered. Down. Down. Stopped again.

A chill stole over Danny, like the cool side of a pillow, but all over his body, as if it meant to draw out the last of the warmth of life from his ectoplasm. Restful.

The dirt came down in sifted shovelfuls, like rain on a roof, like distant thunder. And– he did have more powers, either so subtle he didn’t notice them as such or as of yet undiscovered. These were buried as thoroughly as the others.

Up and up the dirt piled, until he could barely feel it as it came down. Until all that was left was the weighty, solid thump of a headstone coming down.

Then there was nothing. Nothing but silence, stillness, silk… and sleep.

Danny woke with the comfortable confusion of someone who had gotten their blanket wrapped around them unevenly while they slept. Slow, unhurried, well-rested, but just slightly less cozy than expected.

He shifted, mumbling and rolling over. No, that wasn’t any good. He made a face. There was something on his face. He reached up to wipe it off, and the sheets wrapped around him tore like cobwebs.

That roused him further. This… he did not think this was his bed. It was his, but not his bed.

He wiped something thin and crackly off his face and inhaled deeply. Dust. Salt. Dust, salt, and something like decay, but sharper, fresher, cleaner.

He breathed, remembering. His mouth tasted like silver and sugar. His hands quested outward, seeking, seeking, until he found the edges of the space he was in.

This was his grave. His coffin.

It was bigger than he’d imagined.

His eyes opened to a darkness relieved only by his own faint glow. The many sheets he had been wrapped in had been reduced to fragile scraps, except a very few that remained stubbornly wrapped around his shoulders. His mask was a thin shell. The flowers were desiccated, colorless strands and flakes. The pillows were flat and torn, showing the wooden sides of the coffin in places. The only token he could see and identify was the plush and pristine form of Neil Bearstrong. He gathered the toy close, pressing him against his chest.

He’d made it. He was awake, aware, and apparently stable, when before he’d been bracing himself for death. He breathed out, breathed in. His breath caught in his throat, and he giggled.

Did that mean Dani had made it, too?

He rolled onto his back and put a hand against the lid of the coffin. It looked strange there. Disproportionate. But of course it did. His body had just finished reformatting itself into a stable form. Frostbite had told him that he’d probably look different, maybe even radically different. Clockwork had even confirmed that medical opinion, from a temporal perspective.

Positives: his hand was a recognizably human hand. He was awake.

He didn’t dare turn human - if he even could - until he had Frostbite and the others look him over. He wouldn’t be able to phase through the Ghost Zone’s soil. Teleportation was inadvisable while he was this disoriented. So were portals. And most powers, really.

He’d have to dig his way out.

Bracing himself, making sure his limbs were free of restraint, he drew back his fist to punch the lid. The dirt would come in fast, and he wasn’t sure how deep he was. Six feet was traditional, of course, but it was also traditional for the dead to stay that way. So.

The lid flew upward under the force of his strike, all the dirt overhead bending away. He grabbed the edges of the hole and pulled down, widening it enough for him to claw his way out without warping his body. He… wasn’t quite ready for that, after the whole melting thing.

He burrowed upward, feeling like something between a worm and a badger, batting away dirt, crawling, squirming, reaching upward. Despite his best efforts, some of the winding sheets came with him, clinging, slowing his passage. Still, his hand hit free air. Grass tickled at his fingers. He set his palm down on the ground, and pulled.

The dirt did not want to let him go. It pulled back, its embrace offering an eternal peace, but Danny was firm, eager to go, to see, to live. He pushed himself up, and out, then lay, panting, on the ground.

That had been… more tiring than expected, actually.

Someone propped him up, large hands bringing him into a sitting position. “Daniel,” said Clockwork. A loose and oddly cut robe was wrapped around him.

“Mm,” said Danny, his voice cracking.

A cup was raised to his lips. He drank greedily, the sweet, floral liquid soothing his dry throat.

“Shall we get you cleaned up?” asked Pandora, another hand, laid on the center of his back.

“Can you walk?” asked Frostbite. “Or fly?”

“Yes,” said Danny, hoarsely. He reached up to put his hand on Clockwork’s shoulder. It took some to get it there. It was further away than he’d thought.

He was smaller than he had been. Not entirely unexpected. Returning to one’s appearance at death was, apparently, one of the more common ways for this to go. But had he really been this small at fourteen?

They did not go to the mortuary shrine, but made their uncertain way to the other shrine in the graveyard: the revival shrine. The structure was much the same inside and outside, but it had only one altar. The rest of the space was reserved for a bath, bed, and mirrors.

Pandora guided him to a chair in front of one of the mirrors. Danny stared. He wasn’t much to look at right now, but what he could see of his body…

It hadn’t been a winding sheet dragging at him as he’d crawled through the dirt. It had been wings. He shrugged the loose robe off his shoulders to see them better. They were patterned with white and black, star and moon shapes on a dark background. He had antennae. Long, soft, feathery looking things curving up and back from his temples.

Clockwork brought a damp cloth to his face and, slowly, began to clean away the dirt.

“Surprised?” asked Clockwork.

“Are you?”

Clockwork chuckled.

“Did Dani– Is Dani–?”

“She woke seventeen years ago,” said Clockwork. “She is quite smug about technically being older than you in terms of lived experience.”

“She would be,” said Danny.

He pulled away from Clockwork’s ministrations to get another look at the mirror. He had about the same proportions he did when he was a teenager, and his hair was as white as it ever was in ghost form, but it sparkled, as if someone had dusted it with silver glitter. His antennae matched the color pretty well, too. Star-shaped freckles littered his cheeks, and when he tilted his head this way and that… There was an effect like a hologram, depending on the light, of a dark or glimmering domino mask around his eyes.

And, beneath that, his basic features, the structures of his bones… They looked about the same as they had when he was young. Except… softer, somehow. More neutral. The change, as subtle as it was, gave him a genderless mien.

(The idea of that trend continuing elsewhere on his body didn’t bother him nearly as much as he would have expected before this.)

He wondered what he would look like in human form. But… later. Later.

For now, Pandora was running a tiny brush though the delicate hairs of his antennae, removing irritating bits of soil and grass.

“In fact,” said Pandora, “I would wager that she will be smug about physically appearing older than you.”

“She looks older than me, too?” asked Danny. “That’s hardly fair.”

“That is the way of things, I’m afraid. She hadn’t truly died until she was buried.”

“But she’s okay?”

“She’s doing very well, last I saw her,” said Frostbite.

“And Jazz? Sam and Tucker?”

“All fine,” said Clockwork. “They visit you frequently.”

Pandora did something complicated with telekinesis that pulled most of the dirt from Danny’s skin and left him feeling distinctly fluffed. The fuzz along the bases and upper edges of his wings stood on end. He shook himself all over, then plucked the washcloth from Clockwork’s hands so he could clean behind his ears and in-between his toes.

“Clothes?” asked Clockwork.

“Cut for wings?” challenged Danny.

“Of course.”

#danny phantom #dannymay #dannymay 2024 #dannymay 2024 day 21: funeral

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s-4pphics · 7 months ago

Text

moth. teaser. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: knights of the devil, you all are to be conquered.

WORD COUNT: 881

WARNINGS: vampire!ellie, vampirekiller!oc, a lot to come FUCK, violence… so blood(drinking), death, murder, gore, religion briefly,

A/N: yasss yaaas taglist?

prolouge

1809

“Oh, my precious darling…”

Red, similar to her hair; palms painted from the tips of a finger to the points of elbows; knees sunk into begrimed pili drenched with fresh maroon. Panicked breaths are accompanied by prayers, wishes of denial. Desires for death.

“… What I would give to protect you…”

“F-F—“

Tortured hollers are directed towards the pouring skies. Bodies. Bodies everywhere; surrounded by decay.

She sobs, deep from the pits of her stomach, “Father, for-forgive them! For they do not—“

Thunder claps. Lightning is being used as weapons from the Lord above, all meant to discover her and strike. The beams in the sky are intended to punish her discernment. It was a mistake. It was a mistake! Her eyes refuse to meet the battered corpse of the young babe, no more than three. Her crime was committed in a haze, blinded by starvation, all at the cost of the family before her. Villagers would deem the view a savage attack. A mutilation only made possible by the ravenous wolves after dark. The bears that protect the trees at dusk.

All on horseback, the strangers paused their ventures to inquire guidance. She swiftly became an aid for navigating the path, instructing them with a trembling finger and a blistering throat. Follow that trail to the end of the woods. Unbeknownst to their gracious eyes, she followed. Stalked after their mount for miles like the thoroughbred they ride, carried by the wind. Urged by bloodlust.

Her vision blurred when they tied their horse’s lariats to a nearby post that barely passed the trees. Her vision was shrouded in darkness, a substance so thick that her limbs felt trapped, even in frantic movement. They’d reached the end, just like she’d promised.

Their screams satiated her hunger, but never hindered her guilt.

Demons, I tell you! All of them, demons! Witches destined to be set aflame for the masses!

And now she crouches over them with remorse in her chest. Remorse that will wash away her like the rainfall that pounds on her shoulders. Much like it had in the past when her purity was stolen. Another fatality.

1919

“Hunting requires bouts of unwavering dedication. If the entirety of your being doesn’t relish in the suffering of the demons walking, then you are to be shunned.”

Being the youngest hunter-to-be amongst legends, historical monuments that leave trails of prosperous victories wherever they advance, is humbling. Your mother pestered you for as long as you could remember: never, never become a hunter, being her only protest for you, her only child. She used to pray beside your bed at night when she assumed you to be asleep, praising the Creator for forbidding you sickness or poverty. You were her only treasure, a gift from the frosted heavens.

And the demons took her.

Hunters searched the unoccupied lands that surrounded your home relentlessly, but no traces of the Devils’ were ever discovered. They attended your mother’s burial for your protection, and prepared to assist your transition into the orphanage, but you denied. You were permanently vexed. Forever vengeful.

I wish to become a hunter!

Your recruitment was immediate due to the shortage of volunteers, and that same day, you witnessed all of the treasures and memories of your childhood home — of your mother — get burned to the ground by the Hunters. No trails for the demons should go untouched by fire.

“If you hesitate for even a second, you’re dead. Either by their hand…”

Something unsettled you that morning as you prepared for school. Something in the air, something underground. A heaviness in your home that you couldn’t trace. Your mother ironed your skirt and pinned your hair up, brushed down the small curls around your hairline, and she eased you. The weather is changing, dear, she’d said before wishing you well. You studied relentlessly, all while she was shredded by teeth sharp as knives. You want the Devil’s lifeless heart in the palm of your hand, risks be damned.

“Or mine. And I will not hesitate.”

The overseer of your battalion, who slowly paces before his future prodigies, aura menacing, pauses in front of you. With your gaze locked forward and a lump in your throat, you gawk right on the crescent on his belt — the hunter’s insignia — your feet shuffle, shoes slightly squeaking above the wood.

“Are you prepared, child?”

His tone is disparaging, and you swallow. Your head bobs and your breathing stutters.

“Yes, sir.”

He crouches before you and your cells stiffen, elbows perched on his knees, eyes finally level with yours. You appear stoic due to the grinding of your teeth, inspecting the stitched scar that sprouts at his right brow and crosses his eye.

“You are nothing,” He hisses, and your heart clenches, “You are not a child, and I am not your elder. Any identity you held prior to your arrival is worthless, now. We are vessels for the greatest power above. Hunter is your only name, do you understand?”

No verbiage escapes you. It couldn’t with how your breath trembles, so you nod once; Quite mechanic.

“Stand straight.”

His conviction forces your shoulders into alignment, and snickers from the older prodigies erupt from behind you. Your cheeks warm and your palms drip. The overseer rises to his feet once more.

“That goes for all of you!” He shouts, and the room is quiet.

The crescent sparkles under the yellow candlelight. Your palms grow clammy at his viperous swear.

“I will not hesitate.”

#vampire!ellie #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie williams angst #ellie williams au #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie x reader #ellie tlou #works 𖧧࣪#lesbian

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simaddix · 26 days ago

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Halloween: Burial Mounds

I'll have several goodies coming for you guys, though I won't be actually participating in the events. Keep an eye out for all the treats, and Happy Halloween!

______________________________________________________________

Here we have an addition to my coffins, burial mounds! These were really cool to test, and I personally can't wait to use them in my graveyard builds!

There are three pieces, plus a new terrain paint that matches the mounds!

Simply lower and level three spaces of terrain, place the burial mound into the space, and use S3DT to raise it to ground level (or anywhere in between).

NOTE: You will need S3DT for these to work below ground, but I recommend it to all players anyway!

As you can see above, these coffins are now effectively "buried"

Several variations of the pieces used together!

Feel free to bury anything! Including the bones that will be in the next download!

#ts3cc #s3cc #ts3medieval #simblreen #s3dt

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whoopsyeahokay · 6 months ago

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October Sun

summary: Wally had needed a moment alone since you two had parted ways earlier that morning. it had given him a chance to lay out the facts and finally see what trainwrecks of ghosts he and the others had been.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.15

Wally skulked into the teacher's lounge, bypassing the gathering in the main space where Mr. Hartman held court. The words 'footprints' and 'service road' filtered above a firing squad of sharp questions as Wally made his way to the back, into the kitchenette, where he grabbed an empty mug off the rack.

Obviously, the police had been in touch. He wondered vaguely if Maddie had heard the news. He hoped so. It would be tremendously weird if he knew something about what had happened to her before she did, the feeling like sludge in his throat.

Wandering back out, he kept an ear open to Mr. Hartman's speech and set himself up at the coffee machine. Filled the mug almost to the brim, added two sachets of brown sugar, and stirred. Placed the dirty spoon in an abandoned, half-empty glass of water and then tucked himself quietly away back in the kitchenette.

Mr. Anderson wasn't amongst the faces Wally recognized as the teachers who held senior classes. A good thing since Wally was still pissed. Never mind that the guy might be solely responsible for Maddie's ghost; how he'd behaved toward you last night left a nasty taste in Wally's mouth. Made his knuckles itch to punch until Mr. Anderson swallowed his own teeth. Until his eyes pulped and his nose caved in. Until Mr. Anderson was one of them.

Although, Wally thought with bemusement, he didn't want to be stuck with Mr. Anderson. If what you'd said was true—that Wally and the others were trapped—Jesus, imagine having to exist for the rest of eternity in proximity to a monster capable of abusing women.

And that was the crux of his somber mood right there, wasn't it?

Trapped.

They were trapped.

He was trapped.

Wally sagged in his chair, staring at nothing. Steam wafted over his chin and cheeks as he took an absentminded sip of his coffee, the heat and bitterness burning when he swallowed. He set the mug down, held it, and continued to stare blankly ahead.

In the absence of your closeness, a chimera of pain-hurt-betrayal sunk its teeth into his heart and spread under his skin like poison, coming to erupt out of him in an uncharacteristically violent display.

The mug crashed against the wall. Ceramic tinkled to the floor. Wally dropped his head into his hands and heaved a dry, noiseless sob that ended as soon as it began.

He was supposed to have had the chance to say goodbye. To his friends, his girlfriend, his parents—fuck. Even though they wouldn't have been able to hear him, those moments were meant to be HIS.

His choice, his freedom, his right.

But, he'd been denied. Locked in with no escape because he'd had the bad luck to die in a place infected by, what, malevolent devil-cult energy? A witch's final hex on the land? Disrespected ancient fucking burial grounds?

According to the notes you'd written him, even crossed-over, Wally would've been able to reach out and reassure his mamma that he was fine. That he missed her and loved her and everything was going to be alright—

The dull sound of ceramic being set down in front of him interrupted the barrage of hate, rage, grief storming through Wally. Head shooting up, he saw Ajay stepping around the small table to take the seat beside him, sad smile and sad eyes mirroring the pain Wally felt.

When he glanced across the table at the wall, the broken mug and splattered coffee were gone. Reset and then remade and delivered to Wally in an unspoken offering of support.

Eventually, "Are you okay?" Ajay asked in even syllables.

Wally didn't look at him, couldn't find it within himself to fake a smile and pretend. Ajay was a divine kind of perceptive and would see through it in an instant, anyway.

So, Wally opted to avoid giving Ajay an answer by asking a question of his own, "Have you ever thought about why we're having such a hard time crossing over?"

The weight of Ajay's gaze spoke for itself. He didn't say anything for several moments, watching Wally watch the wall—acute, analytical. What Ajay said, when he finally responded, made Wally jump to attention.

"You're talking to her, aren't you?" A statement disguised as a question. Ajay's features conveyed mild amusement.

Wally hesitated and then squeaked out, "Who?" though he could tell that Ajay knew. Had clearly known about you for a while. But, just to be safe, "Maddie? Dawn? Dude, we know a few chicks, you'll have to be more specific."

"Bro," Ajay deadpanned.

"Bro!"

Ajay leveled Wally with a flat look, mouth a slash of disappointment, "Bro..."

Wally's knee began to bounce under the table, sweat beading at his hairline. "Bro?"

"Bro."

Ajay folded his hands on the table and leaned in, as if about to divulge classified information—heavily redacted and for Wally's eyes only, the introduction to which was a kick to the gut.

"My parents," Ajay began, "Were deported the day before my funeral."

Wally released a puff of air from his cheeks, gaze dropping to his lap. His problems suddenly felt minuscule in comparison. "I'm sorry, man, I had no idea."

While it had seemed completely off-topic, Wally considered Ajay a close friend and was familiar with how he operated. Every word he shared had meaning, and, sure enough:

"Neither did I." Ajay said, matter-of-fact. "Her sister was the one who told me almost a decade after they were forced to leave."

Stunned, "Her sister went here?"

"Graduated the year before Katelynn died."

Wally did the math, "Damn, that's an age gap." That put her in her early thirties. Your mama had either been very young when she'd had your sister, or you'd been an unexpected surprise...Or both. "She can see ghosts, too?"

"Naw, but she can feel us."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"She's an empath." Ajay explained, "She used her senses to feel me out. Apparently, when I'm happy, I smell like my mother's biriyani." He chuckled lightly, gaze distant, fond, tinged in the creases by the hurt of missing someone important.

Wally sipped his coffee and gave Ajay a minute to reminisce. Once Ajay's eyes were focused again, Wally asked, "Was it different for her? Because she couldn't see you, I mean. 'Cause the way my girl put it, she'd get into some serious shit if she spoke to me."

Ajay snorted, shook his head, and waved a hand, "Absolutely not. Ora had to follow the same rule. 'Don't interfere' or whatever." He slouched sideways over the table, head in one hand, fingers of the other tracing nonsense patterns into the vinyl surface.

"But she did it anyway?"

"She didn't see how the rule applied to her. How could she interfere when she couldn't even tell if anything was going on." Ajay rolled his eyes the way people did when they talked about their siblings' antics. "I cared more about it than she did. That's why I never told you." His voice sobered, "I never told anyone."

He got up and fetched himself a drink. Took a glass from the cupboard and moved to the sink to fill it from the tap. One sip. Two. Three.

Back still turned to Wally, Ajay further professed, "I knew she was Ora's sister as soon as I saw her. They could be twins," He shuffled back to the table, sat down, "The resemblance is uncanny, I'm telling you. She looks so much like how I remember Ora." A tender smile, "As soon as I confirmed it, I kept an eye on her. Doing what I can to keep the others from discovering her abilities."

"But not me?"

"Oh, believe me, I tried. But it was like herding fucking cats, man. Something greater than all this," Ajay motioned to encompass beyond the room they were in, "Kept working against me. You two found each other no matter what I did." Aggrieved, "Her sophomore year was a bitch."

A laugh burst out of Wally unbidden as memories of that fateful year rolled across his mind like old film, only now the scenes played from Ajay's perspective.

Yeah. It'd probably been a bitch.

As confident as he was that Ajay wouldn't betray him—or you—Wally needed to be doubly sure: "I guess I don't have to ask you to keep our secret then, huh?"

Ajay mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key, punctuating the promise with a friendly wink. "I'll never utter a word."

Wally breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping both hands around his coffee and relaxing into his seat.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes as Wally collected his thoughts. He returned to the conversation he'd had with you that morning, and then to how Ajay had responded to the question of crossing over. As if he'd been guided to the same truth you'd revealed to Wally. Had your sister—Ora?—figured it out when she'd been a student?

"Why us?" Wally voiced the thought aloud. "Why the school?" He glanced at Ajay who was studying him closely, like a professor watching their pupil solve an unsolvable riddle. "Why can't we cross over?"

"And why did Janet get to?" Ajay granted with a sour line under her name.

On paper, Janet had been as polite as had been expected for a young woman raised in post-war America. All quaint mannerisms and Christian smiles. Voice always set to a reasonable decibel. However, there'd always been a current of disdain underscoring every interaction Janet had had with Mr. Martin.

Of their ragtag ensemble, Janet had been the most hostile toward Mr. Martin's brand of gentle parenting. Unlike Rhonda, who was openly resistant, Janet had playacted through the Group sessions she'd deigned to attend and had giddily punched holes in Mr. Martin's logic whenever she'd had the chance.

It didn't make sense, then, that she had been the first one of them to move on.

"Did you know we're supposed to be able to leave?" Wally said apropos of nothing. "We should be going to movies and bars and, fuck man, I should be able to go to the mall and get a pair of goddamn jeans."

Ajay laughed, adding, "And I could get some real food," with a demonstrative look of yearning.

"Whatever's trapping us here, in the school...what if that's why it's taken so long for one of us to cross over?"

"It makes sense." Ajay shrugged. "Ora never said that it was weird that we couldn't leave the school, but she said enough that I figured it out, and—" He stopped himself abruptly, mouth snapping shut with a clack that made Wally flinch.

Ajay seemed reluctant to continue, eyes zipping left and right as he weighed the pros and cons in his head.

Just when Wally thought that was it, Ajay cleared his throat and scuffed his chair as close to Wally as he could get it without sliding into Wally's lap.

"There's something I think you need to see." He whispered, eyes on the doorway, as if afraid of being overheard.

"Yeah, alright." Wally dragged his chair back and was on his feet in a flash.

Pressing his lips in a regretful line, Ajay nodded toward the clock in the main space of the teacher's lounge. It was empty now, save for a few teachers whose classes didn't start until later.

"Mr. Martin wanted to get started soon." He pointed out, "But after that, I'll show you."

"Does anyone else know?"

"No. It's just me and you, buddy." Ajay rose and clapped Wally on the back before leading them out of the teacher's lounge and into the hallway. After about a minute, Ajay broke their amiable silence and said, "So, you and the baby Paranormal Activist, huh?"

"I'm telling her you called her that." Wally groused without bite. "And I don't kiss and tell."

"Oh, you don't need to." Ajay assured, "I heard enough about that already."

Wally choked on a swallow. Eyes watering and tongue stuck in his throat, he coughed, "How!?"

"Mina saw you two last night," Ajay revealed, deceptively nonchalant. Before Wally could protest, Ajay signaled that there was nothing to worry about. "She won't say anything. My baby's a vault."

Wally choked again on the endearment, missing a step and staggering forward for two. "Your what!?"

Passive, teasing, "Bro, it's like you don't know anything about me at all," Ajay heaved an enormous, theatrical sigh.

"How does it even work!?" Wally demanded once he recovered. "How long have you two been together??"

With a sly, cheeky look, Ajay simply responded, "Come on, buddy, I'm a gentleman, I don't kiss and tell."

Wally halted on the spot. Sputtered indignantly for a few seconds before he put his hands on his hips and glared at Ajay's retreating back, "Oh, you are such a dick."

💀___________________________

PART FOURTEEN - PART SIXTEEN

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #zed necrodopolis #Disney Zombies #October Sun

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blueiscoool · 1 year ago

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The Tomb of a Royal Scribe Discovered in Egypt

Czech experts have made another important discovery in the Egyptian archaeological site in Abusir. They found the hitherto unexplored tomb of the royal scribe Dzhehutiemhat, which is richly decorated in the form of many hieroglyphic texts and images. They mainly consist of ritual and religious texts, which were supposed to ensure the soul of the deceased an eternal life in the next world.

In April and May of this year, another part of field research by Czech Egyptologists regarding shaft tombs from the middle of the first millennium BC took place in Abusir, Egypt. It was here that the archaeological team of the Czech Institute of Egyptology of the Faculty of Arts of Charles University discovered the tomb of a hitherto unknown dignitary from the time of the Persian invasion of Egypt.

“It is a richly decorated shaft tomb of medium size, whose owner, a certain Džehutiemhat, held the office of royal scribe,” explains Ladislav Bareš, who has been coordinating the research of Abusir shaft tombs for a long time.

From the tomb, the above-ground part of which was destroyed already in ancient times, only the main shaft was preserved, at the bottom of which lay a burial chamber made of limestone blocks at a depth of 14 meters. Access to it was provided by a small, more northerly shaft and a narrow corridor approximately three meters long connecting the access shaft with the burial chamber.

For reasons still unknown, this access shaft was largely filled with several dozen decorated limestone blocks, originating from the dismantled above-ground part of the nearby majestic tomb of General Menechibnekon.

A tomb with rich decoration

The burial chamber is richly decorated with texts and other scenes. A long sequence of incantations against snakebite from the Pyramid Texts covers the north entrance wall. Interestingly, the snakes mentioned in these magical texts represented a potential danger, but could also serve as powerful protectors of the deceased and his mummy.

“While the entrance to the nearby Menechibnekon’s burial chamber was protected by the guardians of the gates of the 144th chapter of the Book of the Dead, in the case of Džehutiemhat, snakes from the Pyramid Texts play this role,” adds Renata Landgráfová, director of the Institute of Egyptology and an expert on the ancient Egyptian language and texts.

The south and west walls are covered with a sacrificial ritual and an extensive sacrificial list. On the ceiling of the burial chamber are depictions of the journey of the sun god Reo through the sky, first in the morning and then in the evening celestial bar. The depictions are accompanied by hymns to the rising and setting sun. Inside the burial chamber covered with relief decoration is a large stone sarcophagus, which also bears hieroglyphic inscriptions and depictions of gods, both outside and inside. The lid is decorated with texts taken from the Book of the Dead, but also excerpts from the much older Pyramid Texts, which partially repeat sayings that also appear on the walls of the burial chamber.

Ritual texts for eternal life

On the bottom of the inner wall of the sarcophagus bath, the goddess of the west, Imentet, is depicted, and its inner sides bear the so-called canopic sayings, spoken by this goddess and the earth god Geb. “The goddess of the west inside the sarcophagus represents the protector, guide and symbolic mother of the deceased,” explains Jiří Janák, who analyzes and interprets religious and magical texts as part of field research.

All the mentioned spiritual-ritual texts were supposed to ensure the deceased a smooth entry into a blissful and well-secured eternal life in the afterlife.

The tomb of the scribe Dzhehutiemhat was discovered almost empty, as it was robbed probably already in the 5th century AD, similar to other tombs in this burial ground.

The deceased suffered from sedentary work

From the anthropological analysis of the skeletal remains, which was carried out by leading Egyptian experts, it was found that Dzhehutiemhat died at a relatively early age of around 25 years, he bore the signs of a kind of occupational disease (wear and tear of the spine during sedentary work) and suffered from severe osteoporosis, i.e. thinning of the bones.

The latter fact could place him in the family of other inhabitants of the Abusir shaft tomb burial, in whom the disease was also confirmed, such as the famous Iufaa, the owner of a nearby much larger tomb, whose unlooted burial chamber was discovered in 1996.

It is therefore possible that most of the owners of the tombs buried in this part of the Abusir necropolis belonged to one extended family, firmly anchored in the military elite of late Saiyan Egypt. However, Dzhehutiemhat’s mother probably came from completely different circles and a different part of Egypt at that time. Her two names can be translated as “Nubian” and “Fox”, while the latter is written in an unusual, most likely Berber form.

They also found a collection of pottery in the tomb. “The discovery of a large fragment of a Chian amphora with a perfectly smoothed edge is also very interesting, because the ancient looters probably used it as a shovel,” says Květa Smoláriková, who is an expert on Egyptian ceramics and Greek imports in the Czech team.

“The recently discovered tomb of the dignitary Džehutiemhat on the Abusír archaeological concession is the latest piece of knowledge in the mosaic of the history of ancient Egypt at the end of its glory in the late period, in the 6th century BC,” says Miroslav Bárta, director of Czech archaeological research in Abusír, about the discovery.

“The shaft tombs represent a special type of tombs of this time. They were created as a specific attempt by the ancient Egyptian elites for a renaissance and are based on the form of the tomb of King Djoser, the founder of the famous Old Kingdom, the time of the pyramid builders in the 3rd millennium BC,” he adds.

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bloopitynoot · 3 months ago

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17 Novel Canon Cultivation WangXian Fics

This is rec list two for @yiling-laozu-is-loml

Here are some of the parameters of the list:

Cultivators in ancient China based WangXian fics

Long form fics only (I tried to stick to 50K plus - most are longer- and all are completed fics).

Canon based on novel only! No yin iron plot CQL plotlines (though some of these do include some donghua but minimal)

BottomXian if applicable only

can include: canon divergent, fix-its, and time travel (I included all of the above)

I'm not going to lie I had to cut out so many of my favs because of the Yin Iron plot BUT I still think I put together a stellar list.

A lot of them are fix-its some are totally unique in their plots and I have a few Yilling-Wei sect fics that I adore and hope you do too!

Enjoy the list!

1 no one ever said the single-plank bridge had to be walked alone (174009 words) by rosemu

Chapters: 24/24 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Jiāng Yànlí/Jīn Zixuān (background), Mò Xuányǔ/Xuē Yáng | Xuē Chéngměi (Background), Sòng Lán | Sòng Zǐchēn/Xiǎo Xīngchén (background), One-Sided Xiǎo Xīngchén/Xuē Yáng | Xuē Chéngměi - Relationship Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Yílíng Wèi Sect, Fix-It, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji Stays at the Burial Mounds, Fluff, Angst, Domestic Fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Slow Burn, not the slowest burn but they do take their sweet time, LWJ and WWX get to be Dads together, the healing power of homoerotic flute/guqin duets, EXTREMELY self-indulgent, Happy Ending Summary: “Have you heard? The esteemed Second Jade of Lan, Hanguang-jun, has defected from the Lan sect! He’s living at the Burial Mounds now apparently.” “What?! That scourge, the Yiling Patriarch, has managed to corrupt even the most ideal, upstanding cultivator. How truly terrifying!” Lan Wangji learns to follow his heart over the rules just a little earlier and it changes some things.

NOTES: A fix-itish but also Yilling-Wei sect fic in which Lan Wangji just never leaves the burial mounds after his visit? So many things are fixed with the second jade just kind of always being by Wei Wuxian. This fic has wholesome energy and found family vibes.

2 Cultivating immortality (230949 words) by KizuKatana

Chapters: 44/44 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Rogue Cultivator Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Pining, Mutual Pining, Wei WuXian low self-esteem, BAMF Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, BAMF Lan Wangji, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, not sure if this qualifies as fix-it but that was my emotional need/intent, Hurt/Comfort, unreliable narrator (wwx's self image is…), sect wars happening, Canon typical darkness, demonic cultivation descriptions in detail, self-indulgent exploration of the creation of demonic cultivation and how it changed wwx, JC and lwj are reluctant (VERY RELUCTANT) allies, Madam Yu and Lan Qiren are made to face up to their faults, Jiang YanLi is badass (fight me) though not in terms of cultivation strenght, JC gets a chance to redeem himself, Found Family, Top Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Bottom Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, First Time, novel canon relationship dynamics, Please do not post to GoodReads or any other site Series: Part 1 of Cultivation partners universe Summary: “A weapon is not the same as a spouse, even if that weapon is powerful.” The words had barely left Wei Wuxian’s lips when he found himself slammed against the trunk of the nearest tree, Lan Wangji’s hands gripping painfully tight around his shoulders, practically lifting him from the ground. “Wei Ying is not a weapon!” Lan Wangji bit out. Wei Wuxian had said many things that had angered the illustrious Second Jade in the past. When he had been in Cloud Recesses as a youth, it had been Wei Wuxian’s favorite hobby. But he realized had never managed to truly enrage Lan Wangji with anything he had said until this moment. - - - - The Lan sect has been putting pressure on Lan Wangji to find a cultivation partner. They don't like the one he chooses.

NOTES: Baby WY has a journey to discover his self worth in this fic. The canon divergence happens after he's kicked out of cloud recesses and the subsequently kicked out of the Jiang sect via Madam Yu. There is a rogue cultivator WY plotline paired with Sect pressure for Lan Zhan to get a cultivation partner and the stubborn man vs oblivious man 230k is fantastic.

3 like speaking to my heart (613672 words) by SnowshadowAO3

Chapters: 42/42 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Some people live!, And some people still die in this fic it's just a matter of who STAYS dead and who is really dead ;), additional warnings in specific chapters, if you don't know what daemons are that's ok because I explain it in the author's note, also by slow burn I VERY much mean slow burn Summary: Wei Wuxian is staring up at the sky, thinking idly about the taste of Emperor’s Smile on his tongue, when Suibian jumps full force onto his stomach and cries, “A-Xian, don’t be mad!” The sheer force of her pounce knocks the breath out of him. The resulting pause is just long enough for Jiang Cheng, who up to this point has been laying rather peacefully next to him, to shoot up and demand, “Oh great, what did you do now?” To be fair, the question isn’t exactly unwarranted. Suibian looks an absolute mess: twigs stuck in her fur, dirt smeared across the white fluff of her underbelly. She’s panting up a storm, little heh heh heh gasps that haven’t edged into her normal high-pitched laughter. When her ears press back against her head, she could almost pass for pitiful. “Bichen hates me.” Wei Wuxian’s first thought is Why would Lan Zhan’s daemon hate you?, but it’s followed quickly by remembering exactly where he is, how little trouble he’s caused today, and the fact that he hasn’t seen Suibian for a few minutes. A grin spreads across his face. (Or: The most important name a cultivator will ever pick isn’t for their sword. It’s for their daemon.)

NOTES: This is still ancient china cultivators but has a little bit of au due to cultivators having daemons. It loosely follows the book plotline as well but is canon divergent. I honestly did not expect to love this 600k fic so much but it had my HEART. I fell for the plot as well as the sentient daemons and the role they play in helping these two sort out their feelings.

4 From Whence You Came (79393 words) by kanzaki19

Chapters: 12/12 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Jiang Yanli/Jin Zixuan, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin/Wen Qing Additional Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Night Hunts (Modao Zushi), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Fix-It, Canon-Typical Violence, Time Travel, Happy Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending Series: Part 1 of Second Chances Summary: Do not take those you love for granted, tell them you love them. You may never see them again. After being torn from the life he has lovingly settled in, Wei Wuxian finds himself back in Qiongi Path. Faced with immediate threats he grabs hold of every opportunity to better the lives of his family.

NOTES: A solid fix-it from Qiongi Path. WY dies and wakes up mid battle with enough time to save Zixuan. This changes the timeline for the best but at the expense of their established relationship in the alternate timeline. A little bit of mourning there, but still a happy ending though!

5 my life's journey is far from over (148672 words) by thelastdboy

Chapters: 40/40 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Madam Lan Lives (Modao Zushi), Jiang Yanli Lives, Wen Qing Lives (Modao Zushi), Post-Sunshot Campaign (Modao Zushi), POV Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Slow Burn, Yiling Laozu Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Healing Is a Slow Process, therapy is good actually, All women deserve better, Modern AU but not too modern™, mlm/wlw solidarity, the mortifying ordeal of discovering you're into bdsm while you're caught up in political intrigue, Kink Negotiation, Kink Exploration, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Lives, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Burial Mounds Ensemble as Family (Modao Zushi), Single Parent Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Selectively Mute Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Eventual Smut, Light Dom/sub, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Get a Happy Ending Series: Part 2 of the journey is far from over Summary: No one knew that Wei Ying survived the Burial Mounds. No one knew that it was his music that flooded the battlefields of the Sunshot Campaign with corpses. No one knew just how much he had given for his family. Now the war was over and Wei Ying found himself in Yiling once again and after spending years surrounded by nothing but death, he had to learn what it feels like to be alive again. He was dead to the world and for the first time wondered what it would be like to live for his own sake. Or: Wei Ying meets Lan Zhan after the war, both broken and searching for purpose. Wen Qing will do everything to save her little brother. Jiang Yanli learns that not every problem can be solved by soup alone.

NOTES: The story of what happens the war if no one knew that Wei Ying survived AND won the war for them. This has such a beautiful relationship between Lan Zhan and Wei Ying and features a jailbreak of (alive!) Madam Lan. It's healing and wonderful, but also expect the angst. Fear not though, it has a happy ending! BONUS: it does have a prequel which is part 1 in the series. Also very good but Lan Wangji POV and Wei Wuxian is presumed dead.

6 Vow (216627 words) by draechaeli

Chapters: 47/47 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mainly Novel with a few CQL and Donghua bits, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Temporary Character Death, WWXs dead for a lot of this, but he’s having fun, BeliefGod!WWX, Original Children Characters – Freeform, Adoption, Adoption but WWX birthed them all, Pregnancy Kink, Mpreg, minor male lactation, Consensual Non-Consent, Light Bondage, easy to skip nsfw chapters, brief crossdressing, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, because JGS, Mentions Canon Typical Incest, Canon Typical Violence Summary: “If you’re not good the Yiling Patriarch will steal you in the night!” It was never true, in fact the first child stole herself, the second was gifted, the third begged. By the time people realised that all the homeless children of Yiling, and all the daughters about to be sold had disappeared, it became, “If you’re unloved the Yiling Patriarch will save you.” Sometimes when you make a vow not even death can release you; as Xian-Gege the Eliminator of Evil, the Protector of the Weak, and the Saviour of Children finds out.

NOTES: A fun God!WWX fic in which the vow that WY made and the belief in the Yilling Patriarch brings him back. Such a solid fic, I love the way that WY goes from hated demon to loving deity of children, women, and those in need. He does die in this and is mostly dead for a good portion of it but it is worth it for the reunion and wholesome hoard of children he collects.

7Propagate Understanding (175626 words) by draechaeli

Chapters: 34/34 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Pregnancy Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Light Bondage, Adoption, Adoption but WWX birthed them all, Mo Xuanyu Lives, Mò Xuányǔ has an arc, Original Children Characters - Freeform, Babies for Everyone, Crossdressing, Temporary Character Death, easy to skip nsfw chapters, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Summary: A-Yuan was birthed by Wei WuXian, A-Yuan called Lan WangJi ‘Father’, A-Yuan had Lan WangJi’s nose! Was it the time that Wei WuXian took his forehead ribbon at the Wen Discussion Conference Archery Competition?—he’d have to ask Brother. As a physician, Wen Qing has to suffer fools constantly; if Lan WangJi is determined to be Wei WuXian’s baby daddy, she wasn’t going to stop him, especially if it could save them all. And if it leads to some misunderstandings on the topic of marriage and propagation—well, it is not Wen Qing’s fault if Lan WangJi became the world’s best and worst matchmaker, making sure that children everywhere had parents.

NOTES: This fic premise is absolute crack! and is one of my favourite niche crack! fic themes. In which the joke "I birthed him myself" is taken literally and the cultivation world truly believes the Yilling Patriarch and Hanguang-jun had a child together. So good, bless Wen Qing in this fic honestly.

8 Bring Your Wonder (Lose Your Faith) (75406 words) by kianspo

Chapters: 12/12 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Different Sunshot Campaign, straight boy wei ying, Feelings Realization, everyone is slightly darkner here, hints of xiyao if you squint, but not yet, meng yao has a plan, Protective Lan Huan | Lan Xichen, Protective Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, by which i mean they set the world on fire, BAMF Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, it's not all tragedy i promise, Angst with a Happy Ending, Twin Jades of Lan Feels, duh - Freeform, POV Multiple, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji Whump Summary: Canon divergence starting from after the Xuanwu Cave. What if it wasn't Wang Lingjiao who came to Lotus Pier? What if Wen Ruohan had sent Wen Zhuliu instead? The respectful, sensible Wen Zhuliu, who knows how to work the room… In which Wei Wuxian loses his hand (he gets one better), Lotus Pier is saved, the Lan Clan is said to be dead to the last man, there's a horrible banquet in Nightless City, someone accidentally plays Sleeping Beauty, and there's that awkward moment when you realize Meng Yao is the sane one (except not really). It's a dark, dark night, but the sun will rise eventually.

NOTES: This is one of my favourite BAMF WWX fics. It is VERY dark, and Lan Zhan is not okay in the majority of this fic but my goodness is it fantastic. WWX does get his hand cut off and then proceeds to be tossed into the burial mounds but his new hand and demonic cultivation are so rad. Worth it for the pain!

9 if you can't beat them, recruit them (228416 words) by moeblobmegane

Chapters: 48/48 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Conspiracy, Spies & Secret Agents, Team as Family, Found Family, Burial Mounds, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Pining, Morally Ambiguous Character, Rumors, Politics, Background JZX/JYL, Developing Friendships, Good Uncle Lan Qiren, Demonic Cultivation (Modao Zushi), YilingWei Sect Series: Part 1 of wwx time travels and accidentally creates a platonic harem Summary: Rather than mourning a future that had not happened yet, he would rather work with all his might to prevent it from happening. […] His aim was to fortify his home and his family so that they would never again be left vulnerable to greedy cultivators aiming for his genius. For that, he needed help. He may be a genius, but he was not the cunning manipulative man they thought him to be. No, that was not him. He knew who was, though. (Or: Wei Wuxian uses a powerful array to go back in time and builds a secret squad to prevent the misfortunes of the future.)

NOTES: Another fantastic time-travel fix it in which WWX post the tragic loss of his husband and son builds an array to go back. In it he befriends and recruits the antagonists of the main timeline and fixes things. This was so good- especially if you like morally grey characters and want a bit of Meng Yao and Xue Yang redemption.

10 Song Unwritten (94846 words) by ShotsOfSunshine, Kytrin

Chapters: 20/20 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Characters: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Cangse Sanren, Wei Changze Additional Tags: Temporary Character Death, Angst with a Happy Ending, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Get a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, Alternate Universe, cql meets mdzs, Transmigration, Parallel Universes, Yiling Laozu Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Alternate Universe - Yílíng Wèi Sect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, References to Depression Summary: Lan Wangji knew what miracles were. He'd been given one second chance for happiness already, only to have it snatched away by an enemy he could not fight -- time. Now among his husband's research, he had a chance at another one, but to seize it he would have to take matters into his own hands and fight for it. Even if that meant the fight would take him to another world. After all, Hanguang-Jun followed chaos. And when was Wei Wuxian not at the center of chaos?

NOTES: This is a transmigration fic with a morally grey Lan Zhan. After losing WY he decides not to ascend and instead uses an array for another timeline. I will say head the warnings, Lan Zhan's father is vile and there is child abuse here so pleas ehead the tags it is very awful, it does have a happy ending though. Bonus for Wei Wuxians parents being alive!

11 Time Kept Flowing (201383 words) by notoneforreality

Chapters: 35/35 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Additional Tags: Timeline? What Timeline?, Grief/Mourning, major character death is wwx, who comes back, Family, Canon Era, Autistic Character, Autistic Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Kid Fic, Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji raise the kids, Co-parenting is hard, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, POV Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, POV Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, POV Alternating, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, just realised 'major character death' is like most of the cast, but it all happened before the story opens, Canon-Typical Violence, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, at the top of each chapter, Golden Core Reveal (Modao Zushi) Summary: Jiang Cheng goes back to the Burial Mounds after the siege. He finds a ruined settlement and a feverish child. Then Lan Wangji turns up, half dead himself, and Jiang Cheng is not prepared for any of this. He takes them both back to Lotus Pier, because he's not leaving anyone to die on his watch, and they both need medical care. Then they just end up…staying. At least Lan Wangji is as unimpressed with the situation as Jiang Cheng is. (Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan accidentally become co-parents and have to deal with the repercussions)

NOTES: This is the Jiang Cheng & Lan Zhan platonic coparenting fic I didn't know I needed. It was so healing and while WWX is dead for a good chunk of this he does come back. This is a fantastic fic if you want some hurt/comfort, mourning, and healing energy. I will warn it does have a lot of hurt and the Lans come under scrutiny (justifiably). But happy ending!

12 the past drifts away with the waves (58025 words) by thelastdboy

Chapters: 15/15 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fall of Lotus Pier (Modao Zushi), Major Character Undeath, Yu Ziyuan Being an Asshole, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Loss of Limbs, Transformation, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Fierce Corpse Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Kinda, Merperson Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Heavy Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, No Sunshot Campaign (Modao Zushi), Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cultivation Sect Politics (Modao Zushi), Not Cultivation World Friendly, Resentful Creature Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Undead Merperson Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Fanart, Slow Burn, Getting Together, Revenge, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Resentment, Demonic Cultivation (Modao Zushi), POV Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, River Spirit Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Non-Human Genitalia, Dark Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Depending on who you ask, Monsterfucker Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Wen Remnants Deserve Better (Modao Zushi), Wen Remnants Live (Modao Zushi), Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Get a Happy Ending, Sect Leader Wen Qing (Modao Zushi) Summary: The next time Wei Wuxian became aware of his surroundings and was able to form semi-coherent thoughts, Wen Zhuliu had just finished tying weights to his feet. Both his arm and his back were still bleeding and he felt as if he had been flayed. “Should I make it quick?” Wen Zhuliu asked him, offering a small mercy. But Wei Wuxian shook his head. “Give me your worst,” he snarled, his teeth coated in blood from where he had bitten his tongue at some point. “I will come back to end you all,” he promised darkly. “Very well,” Wen Zhuliu merely said and drowned him. Or: Yu Ziyuan cuts off Wei Wuxian's hand to appease the Wens. He gets drowned in the lake behind Lotus Pier and resentful energy transforms him into a river spirit. After avenging his own death, he finds his way to Yiling.

NOTES: Very cool fic in which WY dies by Wen Zhuliu's hand and becomes a creature of resentment. He turns into a very cool undead water spirit with incredible power. He saves the wens, has a child, and gets the boy in the end. This story is for the monsterfuckers but don't let it fool you, it is kind of tragic. I swear there is a happy ending but the pain is rough.

13 Bitter Plants Bearing Sweet Fruit (83099 words) by Kryal

Chapters: 8/8 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: canon-typical horror elements, Worldbuilding, Desert, Misuse of Historic Setting, Original Character Death(s), Case Fic, aftermath of canon, ridiculously long author notes, Because I Have Nowhere Else to Talk Headcanons, Established Relationship, Nothing Explicit But Shameless Innuendo Summary: Patience is a bitter plant that bears sweet fruit. Lan Wangji doesn't know why Wei Wuxian is so interested in traveling to a city at the very edge of the civilized world. After Yunping, what secrets could possibly be left? But the desert remembers many things.

NOTES: Not going to lie this was a really cool casefic. The husbands go on a journey to the desert and solve a mystery. The coolest part was the difference in cultivation and belief systems outside of the sects territories. This is a healing fic- fantastic vibes.

14 We Meet at the Thousandth Step (315914 words) by Rynne, Admiranda

Chapters: 44/44 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Cangse Sanren/Wei Changze Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, No Sunshot Campaign (Modao Zushi), Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze Live, Rogue Cultivator Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Night Hunts (Modao Zushi), Genius Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Inventor Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Plot, Romance, Drama, Fluff, Strangers to married, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Developing Relationship, Minor Violence, Case Fic, Mystery, Flirting, Wei Wuxian's Canon-Typical Flower Flirting, Arson, There Was Only One Bed, Getting Together, First Kiss, Meeting the Parents, Resolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Romantic Tension, Wei Wuxian Is a Good Big Brother, New Relationship Bliss, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Blood and Injury, Yiling siblings, Married Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Honeymoon, Wangxian's Baby Fever Series: Part 1 of The Different Paths We Tread Summary: As they both go wherever the chaos might be, Lan Wangji and rogue cultivator Wei Wuxian, eldest child of the famous Cangse-sanren, find their paths converging. Soon they'll discover in each other the perfect partner for night hunting…and beyond.

NOTES: A canon divergence in which Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze both live and raise WWX as a rogue cultivator (also he has a sister and it is wonderful). Lan Zhan and Wei Ying meet during a night hunt and then keep making excused to hunt together. Such a beautiful and wholesome slowburn with lots of the Wei family teasing. A healing fic for sure.

15 Dispersing Clouds (283284 words) by dreamingofcake

Chapters: 54/54 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Genius Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Inventor Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Not Jiang Family Friendly, Abusive Yu Ziyuan, Canonical Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Eventual Sex, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm (Background Character), Background Character Deaths, child deaths, Good Uncle Lan Qiren, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Cultivation Sect Politics (Modao Zushi), Homophobia, Heteronormativity, Feelings Realization, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian is Not Oblivious, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin Bashing, Jiang Yanli is Not Angelic, Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan Bashing Summary: While the Wen Clan is embroiled in subduing internal conflicts within Qishan, the Jiang Clan hosts the annual discussion conference. It has been one year since the disastrous archery competition where Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji last met but Wei Wuxian remains as optimistic as ever. An unlikely friendship begins to blossom and without the looming spectres of conquest and war to strengthen his ties to the Jiang family, the trajectory of Wei Wuxian’s life changes.

NOTES: Definitely a fic if you're feeling completely angry at the Jiangs- it is definitely not in their favour. Terrible Madam yu and equally appalling Jiang family (In that they do nothing and normalize abuse). This fic does feature an absolute brilliant Wei Ying and a smitten WangXian with a bonus of the Lans actually not being terrible.

16 A Heart Undying (114855 words) by NonsensicalRambling

Chapters: 26/26 Rating: Mature Additional Tags: Undead Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things, the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Wei Wuxian probably needs a hug, the horrors of the sunshot campaign, Eventual WangXian, these boys will use their words!, No Yīn Tiger Seal, no beta - deal with it, Morally Gray Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Animals Eating People, Wei Wuxian's questionable choices, Morally conflicted Lan Wangji, Oblivious Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei Sect, Yiling Laozu Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Sect Leader Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji & Wen Qing have an Understanding, if Wen Qing were being paid she'd deserve a raise Summary: No one escapes from the Burial Mounds alive. No one. Just because Wei Wuxian made it out doesn't make him an exception. He knows he's surviving on borrowed time until someone finds out, but until then he's going to make that a problem for the Wen. And if no one does find out, well, he'll figure that out later. If only he could stop being so hungry.

NOTES: Okay this fic is actually rad as hell. The premise is so cool- WWX landing in the burial mounds and DYING but transformed. If you like vampiric energy but also God!WWX vibes this is the fic for you. It moves fast but the plot is so cool.

17 Practical Considerations (96963 words) by teawater, the_anthropologist

Chapters: 20/20 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Found Family, Spouses to Lovers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Politics, Scheming, Lán Elders are assholes, BAMF Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, BAMF Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, eventually BAMF Lan Xichen, learning to make decisions, Learning Self-worth, Self-Esteem Issues, Sweet Wangxian, Domestic Fluff, Fix-It, JC is a big asshole, he improves somewhat but it's open-ended, WWX learns to stand up for himself, Quote: Come Back to Gusu With Me (Modao Zushi), POV wwx, POV LWJ, POV JC, Golden Core Reveal (Modao Zushi), Teacher wwx, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It (Modao Zushi), Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, Past Suicidal Thoughts Summary: After the Sunshot Campaign Wei Wuxian is fooling around in Lotus Pier, and Jiang Cheng decides that he'd be more useful to the sect if he was to enter a diplomatic marriage. Especially since Lan Wangji seems so keen on dragging him away to Gusu. Only Wei Wuxian doesn't expect any good to come from it…

NOTES: An arranged marriage canon divergence fic in which "Come Back to gusu" is a term of endearment (but WWX does not know this). This fic goes form WWX being married and thinking he's being punished to married and absolutely THRIVING. This is one heck of a healing fic- great ending!

#wangxian #wangxian fics #mdzs #mdzs recs #lan zhan #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wei ying #all of these are stellar to be honest #I would read any of them again #also if you want recs dm me and i will make you a list!#I hope you like this set!#bloopitynoots wangxian recs

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wraithdance · 2 months ago

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Oathbound part 1/? | Resurrected!Johnny x Reader

CW: Mention of Reader's pregnancy, blood mention and general unsettling behavior. Nothing crazy happening just yet I just want to get myself in a spooky mood.

There’s something wrong with Johnny.

You watch him in the kitchen from behind the island, the granite slab a gift from your Uncle when he’d enthusiastically remodeled your kitchen for you and Johnny’s anniversary. You’re stirring cream into your tea slowly, the clink of the spoon against the glass mug tinkles in time with the words echoing in your mind like a rhythm.

‘There's something wrong with Johnny.’

Clink, clink, swirl.

‘There’s something wrong with Johnny.’

clink, clink, CLACK.

The spoon clatters into the sink. The spray of scalding tea dots your counter and fingers. You think of the black corpses of the sugar ants who’d found their way into your kitchen, gorging themselves on residue you’d forgotten to sweep away. Little bodies stuck in the sticky honey trap. A watery funeral beneath the faucet as you rang out the sponge that cleared the burial ground away.

As you slide and swipe a sponge across the tea droplets your mind compares it to the frantic scrubbing of blood off the smooth concrete floor of the garage. Same motions. but you’re numb this time.

Johnny’s back faces you as he stares out into the quiet morning. His scarred fingers are twitching on the windowsill, the movement is small, nearly imperceptible like the sound of a bird's wing. Yet, you can hear the tap-tap-taps sound off like a violent drum in the silent room. You think of the rust colored stains encrusted beneath his cracked nail beds as you burn your tongue on the first sip of bitter Earl gray.

Johnny had been back home for nearly a month.

You’d cried for days when you’d gotten the call from Laswell that he’d been found alive. You’d been broken beyond repair at the news of his death, had been close to following him into the afterlife had Simon not made it his mission to keep you above water. Five months of bedridden, nearly catatonic. Five months of mourning and hallucinating the sound of his voice and gentle caresses. Five months of missed prenatal pills shoved down your throat by large hands of your husband’s best friend as you thrashed and screamed. Crying for your husband buried beneath the rubble while all you got was an empty fucking casket. Gone from you forever.

Until he wasn’t.

You think about the last time you saw Johnny as you coax him to the breakfast table to eat. Johnny flinches and stares at you with dull, flat eyes for something longer than a minute when you gently place a hand over his tapping fingers. This Johnny sits deathly still in the seat where you’d placed his breakfast. He doesn’t look up even when you slide your own chair out dragging the heavy wood across the floor with a dull screech. Johnny’s tapping shakes the table. You sip from your mug.

Yours.

Your Johnny, vibrato and braggadocio. Sun kissed skin and cadence like thunder. Smoke and endless fire. Yours. Alive.

But not the man you married.

You think about the last time you recognized the person who kept you up at night. Listening for the creak of the backdoor or the feel of a body hovering over you as you pretended to sleep, the hilt of the butcher knife missing from the block in your kitchen cutting into your palms beneath your pillow. Heart hammering as your limbs locked up in fear at the sound of bones cracking like flint as you squeezed your eyelids tight.

The last time you recognized the man you married you stood listening to him brag about his near death six months prior to his real death- disappearance…

Your palms had burned with the sting of your nails. The quiet hum of the hospital corridor and the tick of the analog clock across the hall were the symphony accompanying the emotion you couldn’t put a name to.

Molar grinding molar, Acrylic tipped nails meeting flesh. The tension radiating through your stiff limbs felt like the only thing keeping you upright.

“Aye LT yer lucky I took that bullet for ye, I expect ye to kiss the ground I walk on for my troubles!”

He laughed loudly even despite the lack of returned humor. You’d shifted.

Ghost had noticed you first in that watchful way of his. You’d felt the brush of his assessing gaze the second he spotted your taut form half hidden in the doorway. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Did his ears pick up the demons that brayed in your ears? The tongues that hissed the love of your life was a man dancing with death?

You looked at the entity Ghost (not Simon the man who’d drink tea with you and make comments on the state of your garden whenever he came over) wondering if the wraith could see how close you were to ruin.

“Och, There’s my Bonnie lass! C’me here give me a kiss, why’re ye standing in the door like that hen?”

You hadn’t moved from where you’d drifted when he called out for you to touch him. You’d taken up sentry at the foot of his bed, hands gripping the plastic railing tight enough to hurt. You couldn’t move.

You’d been too focused on the bandages that wrapped his torso tight. There’d been a spot of blood on the edges. Blooming like a flower.

You stared and stared, watching the spot grow larger. Your mind creating visions of crimson swallowing his torso. Swallowing you with it.

Johnny had made another joke about surviving death and you had snapped like a wire. You’d screamed and screamed. Until you cried and made him promise to come home to you.

Because ‘wherever you go I’m following. I don’t care if I have to beg the devil himself to make it happen. I'm going with you or you’re coming back to me.”

You’d meant it.

You watch Johnny now. His hulking form sitting at your table tearing into the blood sausage on his plate with clawed fingers. His eyes meet yours, they’re black down to the sclera. There’s no trace of the electric blue that had stopped you in your tracks on first meeting. That had cried when you’d told him he would be a father.

He smiles. There’s blood on his lips from where he’d bitten into his fingers.

“What’s wrong hen?”

There’s something wrong with Johnny. But he kept his promise to you.

You smile back, finishing your tea.

“Nothing baby, finish up your food.”

#johnny x reader #john soap mactavish #mr clean

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camillelespanayesbtch · 15 days ago

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Seven Devils All Around Me (18+)

Content: Eventual smut, graphic depictions of murder and violence, character death, power imbalance, manipulation, addiction, grief, discussion of sexual violence (r receiving) (I will add more as I think of them)

Chapter Content: Funeral, men being violent, fire

Word Count: 3942

Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Chapter Two

The embers had long grown cold by the time you found it in yourself to lay your mother down so you could prepare her grave. It would take a while to dig the hole, but you didn’t want to rush it as the walls would cave in. You could tell the soil was good, it was dark and fluffy, worms wriggling around in the pile to the side of the hole as you add another shovel load to it. This is what your mother had wanted from you all along, to ensure that the soil that provides you with food had enough nutrition to continue providing, to not starve and sap life from the plants that called the earth their home. The earth, this soil would now be your mother’s home, and you hoped that the insects and bugs would treat her as kindly as she had them.

You wipe the sweat and tears from your face onto your sleeve, smearing the dirt that had got on your clothes onto your face. You lean back against the wall of the grave, tilting your head up to look at the night sky above. The stars were twinkling brilliantly, some even dancing across the sky and kissing the moon as they pass by. You reach your hand out, hoping to capture one of them because where there was light as bright as this, there was life, and maybe just maybe it would be enough to bring her back, but just like when you were a child trying the same thing- the stars were out of reach for they were meant to be untouched, their purpose is to be free, to guide us should we need it. A soft sigh leaves your lips, watching the way the light from the moon reflects off your nails and for a moment you could trick yourself into believing you had the stars at your fingertips.

You turn your head to look at where your mother lay, the light of the moon shining down on her made her body look silver instead of like a body from Pompeii. You plant your hands on the ground above the grave and pull yourself out, taking the shovel with you and stabbing it into the mound of dirt. There was a brief moment where you wanted to keep stabbing the soil, as if to punish it for what had transpired that day, but you had already disappointed your mother while she was living, you did not need her spirit to feel that way too. Your shoulders slump, more sobs wracking through your body, and you would have let yourself succumb to despair had you not been worried the beasts of the night would take to her body. You force yourself to turn around and go to your mother’s body, using your powers to lift her up, the tendrils of red carefully wrapping around her as you guide her into the grave. You lay her gently in the cold dark earth, leaning down to place a bouquet in her hands, hoping it would protect her like the flowers she had woven into your hair did. You stare at her a moment longer, although she no longer had her icy-blue eyes or soft features, you could still tell it was her because there were lines on her face that weren’t burnt- paths created by her healing tears as she cried for you, for herself. No one cried for you as much as she did.

You were careful piling the dirt on top of her, your last act as her caring daughter, perhaps even penance for inflicting so much suffering upon her. She had always told you to be respectful of the dead, be it an animal or human, their body should be cared for just as much as you would have cared for them while they were still alive. A proper burial is essential, each stone placed gently as to not wake the dead. Then the flowers, ones that they loved, ones that will protect them on the other side.

You scatter the last shovel of dirt on the grave before putting the shovel to the side to start placing the rocks. On the underside of each one was a rune, carved into it with your knife, and although you weren’t a protection witch like she was, there was still the possibility they did something- there is still the possibility it will stop the other members of the coven from desecrating her grave. The last stone was her headstone, you carve her symbol into it, a lotus, the representation of the cycle of life. The sound was harsh on your ears, metal scraping against hard stone shouldn’t ever happen like this, and usually it wouldn’t, would it? Nobody would willingly sit on the wet earth under the night sky and carve runes and symbols into rocks to mark a loved one’s grave, they would sooner do everything they could do to ensure their family survives than this. Why hadn’t you done that? Selfish girl. Monster.

You stand up, gathering the last of the flowers and laying them over the stones, “Everything returns to the earth with which we came,” you murmur. You wipe your face again, a terrible aching in your chest as the weight of the evening finally settles in your bones. You understood that there were people out there that lost their mother younger than you, and there was no doubt that was incredibly painful, but tonight- tonight you had lost yours. Then again, those children, those teenagers, they were not the reason their mother died, but you were. You are. Were you really burying her to protect her? Or were you doing that to assuage your own guilt? This was the most genuine thing you have done for your mother in a long, long time. Do not kid yourself, the flowers you gave her, the false apologies that left your lips as easily as milk flows from a cow’s udder, those were not sincere, those were not genuine. You are, and always will be, nothing more than a selfish, evil little girl that you heard your mother call you one meeting.

Just like it had earlier that day, the same darkness settles onto you, and while your cheeks were stained with tears, no more threatened to fall. The switch had flicked in your brain, and as you head back to the house you’d once called home, the bodies of the other witches go up in flames once more. If you closed your eyes, you swore you could hear them screaming and oh how that sent a shiver down your spine. Those women had it coming, always treating you like an outcast, a miscreant, and whispering in your mother’s ear about how you should have been left in the woods as a baby to be torn apart by wolves. You hum to yourself as you walk, your fingers moving down by your side as though you’re conducting a choir, the gesture soothing to you even as you feel the spark of magic jumping between fingertips. Maybe you should burn this town to the ground, get the few good people out with a warning sent on the wind, then sit back and watch the fireworks begin.

The front door was still open when you get back, a few leaves from outside having blown in on the breeze but other than that, there was no evidence of anyone damaging the property. You shut the door behind you, your eyes landing on the chair your mother had sat in, a few petals from flowers scattered around it, the color drained from them. You let out a bark of a laugh at that, pushing off the door then heading upstairs, each footstep hitting the floor with a heavy thud, the wooden steps groaning under the force. You didn’t know what to put in your bag, obviously you needed underwear- you had gone commando once or twice and the sensation was thoroughly unwelcome. But should you pack your laptop? Makeup? It seemed silly, really, to bring those things along with you. You couldn’t take your phone charger because you didn’t know when you’d next be in a building with a plug, maybe you could get one of those solar chargers on your adventure. You toss a few clothes into your backpack before going to your bed where you pick up the soft toy you’ve had since you were a baby, it had definitely seen better days, but it still provided you comfort. You stare at its black beady eyes, able to see your reflection in them and you looked so small in those little eyes, the black exaggerating the filth that you were covered in. Should you shower? It seemed rather pointless to wash the dirt and grime from your skin when you were about to spend lord knows how long wandering the great outdoors. You didn’t want to catch ubers to other towns as it meant waiting around for them to arrive which gave ample opportunity for the rest of the coven to lynch you.

You hug the toy close to yourself, closing your eyes as you breathe in your mother’s perfume that had been sprayed on it. The toy provided such comfort to you, your heartrate slowing down as you continue to take deep breaths, and if you let your mind wander you could almost feel your mother’s arms wrapping around you, her soft voice in your ear “You are kind. You are smart. You are my beautiful little girl. Never forget, mama loves you.” You wish you hadn’t heard that last part because how could she say she loves you then cast you aside to burn? How could she have admitted to the other members of the coven that she knew you were evil, agreeing with them when they said she should have left you in the woods then come home to you and profess her love? You didn’t understand. You grab the toys head with one hand, your other hand gripping the body and you start to twist it, the fire returning to your eyes, “If you want me to burn, then I’ll burn everything that once was mine.”

Try as you might, the threads holding the toy together did not budge, no fabric tears as the head twists three-sixty. You swear loudly, going to throw it on the ground when a glimmer catches your eye- only when you look closer could you see that the thread was gold. Of course, you think bitterly, of course. Your mother must have known from the moment you left her body that you would be an angry girl, that no amount of love she pours into you would make you calm like she was. No amount of food laced with calming herbs, nor drinks brewed with nothing but love would dull the volcano that bubbled deep within you.

You feel your hands warm up, not bothering to take deep breaths to calm the impending combustion, and soon enough you were holding the toy as it starts to burn- the flames licking up its sides, wrapping around the toy in a cloak, the smell of burning cotton hitting your nose. It was frustrating, watching it clearly on fire yet none of the fur was turning black, the beady eyes did not melt, and if you were being honest, that made it worse than actually destroying something that had once provided you such comfort all those years ago. “Why won’t you just die?” You ask it, voice barely audible over the crackling of the flames, “Just break. Break. Break.” Please.

You toss the burning toy onto your bed, gathering the last few items you wanted and stuffing them into your backpack before zipping it up and slinging it over your shoulder. The smell of burning fabric fills the room along with thick black smoke, the substance staining the white walls until they too were consumed by flames. There was a strange comfort in the warmth of the fire as they lick at your skin like snake tongues, tickling what skin was available to them and threatening to further ruin your clothing. You reach out, your hand hovering above the flames, your fingers moving as though you could make the fire dance the way you want it to. The heat stung, were you anybody else, your skin would be threatening to blister, filling with liquid then bursting, or perhaps it would melt off like it did those men. Part of you hoped that it would, maybe then you would understand why your mother had begged for you to stop, why the men had screamed so loudly with the echoes of all those that had perished before them. Maybe you did deserve to burn after all.

You let out a laugh and shake your head, don’t be so foolish. You did what you had to do, didn’t you? So what if a few men got hurt in the process, how many thousands of women have been hurt because of them for no reason? They had it coming. They only have themselves to blame. You leave your room, humming to yourself as you make your way downstairs, the burning inferno surging after you, spilling down the steps behind you and reaching out to wrap around your feet. You and your mother were the only ones to sing this song in your coven as the elder-witch had forbidden it, claiming it had been used for centuries to lure witches to their demise. How could a song do something like that? All songs have stories to them, it didn’t make them true. Yet, whenever you hum the tune, the ballad, you could feel your magic crackling under your skin, at the tips of your fingers like electricity- whoever created it knew what they were doing, and deep down, you didn’t blame them for using it to their advantage. People hate to see a woman succeed.

“You can burn the place to the ground, but it won’t hide what you’ve done,” a gruff voice says, a husband of one of the women whom you had killed at your attempted execution. He was holding a crossbow up, the sharp tip of the arrow pointing at you, the steel reflecting the fire that was starting to creep along the ceiling towards the only exit, the beast starved for oxygen. He narrows his eyes at you when you don’t flinch, instead, holding your head up higher, your fingers twitching by your side as the tips begin to glow. “You killed my wife,” he continues, “You turned my daughter against us. There is no space in this coven for someone like you.”

You run your tongue over your teeth as a smirk tugs at your lips, shaking your head slightly you then suck in a breath, “Me?” You ask innocently, putting your hands behind your back and shifting your body slightly like a child would when trying to get out of trouble, “Little old me?” A chuckle rumbles from your chest before escaping from your mouth, quickly turning into a cackle that makes the man step back, his crossbow wavering, “It’s not my fault your daughter saw you two for the sad, weak, pathetic little witches you really are.” If you twisted the knife a little deeper, he’d soon cave in to his base instinct, all men do and that made them terribly predictable. “Heaven forbid I treat your daughter better than any man could. What? Can’t handle another maiden treating her right? Is that because you were busy the next town over fucking someone her age? Tsk, twenty-three is a bit young for you, don’t you think?”

“You little bitch!” He yells, tossing the cross-bow to the side as he storms up to you, his hands coming up to wrap around your neck like a noose. His thumbs press into the center of your throat, his fingers squeezing and cutting the flow of blood to your head. He doesn’t even realize that your eyes fill with burning flames, nor does he swat your hands away as the grip his head, his anger fueling him to keep going even as your thumbs start to press into his eyes. “You can’t kill all of us,” he growls.

Your head was starting to pound, your face growing hot as you start to feel the effect of lack of oxygen, but as that happens, the build up of energy in you only grows. Your hands were burning, leaving handprint burns on his face, the heat traveling throughout his body and starting to boil him. Only then, only when his insides start to turn to soup does his grip on you disappear, the man clawing at his clothes and stumbling back as he tries to escape his fate. “You can’t-“ He falls to the ground, writhing in pain, “You can’t- You can’t escape what you are-“

You stand over him, your chest heaving as you grapple the overwhelming magic trying to find balance in your body, “What I am?” You laugh, the sound drowning out the crackling of wood and shattering of glass from the heat. “What I am?!” You crouch down, grabbing his jaw roughly with your hand and watching his eyes grow redder as his capillaries burst, “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you murmur, a feral look on your face. You push his head away before standing up, watching as his body is engulfed by flames.

You rub your throat, hissing as your fingers press against the bruising. How long would it take for them to fade? Your mother would have healed them, the skin looking perfect once more, but she was no longer here. She wouldn’t ever return. You didn’t know how long it would take for it to naturally go away. Would it be gone tomorrow? Or would it take longer? Maybe you could Google it, although that in itself was a bad idea. You adjust your backpack then hold the straps as you walk out the front door, the house caving in as its framing yields to the hungry inferno. You had no idea where to go, but you knew you couldn’t stay here. If he found you, it wouldn’t be long before others joined.

Long after the fire had burned, leaving behind smoldering embers of the house, only then did the witch dare to step out from where she had been lurking. She took a few tentative steps, looking around to see if there were any onlookers but thankfully, for their sake more than hers, there were none. She rolls her shoulders back, tilts her chin up then saunters towards the coals, each foot placement careful because she certainly didn’t want her shoes to get dirty, and this place was a tip. Why hadn’t you tidied up a little bit, hm? Your mother would be so disappointed, and besides, it’s not like you had anything better to do with your time. Ha! Oh, she makes herself laugh. She is terribly funny, a comedienne if you will.

She uses a stick to poke around the in embers, letting out a huff every time she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. She isn’t a very patient woman, and this is certainly testing every single ounce of patience she has. She was close to giving up, even though she would never actually admit to it, when she sees a glimmer of gold, “There you are,” she murmurs, flicking her coat out as she crouches down to pick the sooty toy up. She dusts it off with a grimace, the ash falling off with ease until the toy looked normal again. The beady black eyes stare into hers, a chuckle rumbling from her chest, “Take a picture, why dontcha? Get my good side.” She turns her head before laughing, “Oh who am I kidding? Every side is my good side, you flirt.” She winks at it before making her way off the rubble, dusting herself off and letting out a sound of disgust. Why did everything involve so much fucking dirt??

The witch looks at the toy once more, she could feel the protection spell emanating from it and she, better than anyone else, knew that it comes from the purest thing out there- a mother’s love. It made her sick. How could someone claim to be a good mom and do what yours did? So what if you were a little- psychotic, all the best women are! There’s nothing wrong with a little murder every now and then, it’s what makes life more interesting. And so what if you got a little pep in your step after because their energy is intoxicating? More power to ya! She loved a little energy drink too, and she certainly isn’t talking about redbull. There she goes again, making herself laugh. Her humor never ceases to amaze her.

“Who are you?” A voice asks her, making the witch whip her head around in the direction it came from. “You’re not from here. I know the faces of all the women in our coven- Well, the ones that remain, and you’re not one of them.”

A young little thing, how sweet. A little bit too big for her britches though, brazen in asking the [Redacted] who she is. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, little girl?” She asks the young woman, her eyes running over the figure before looking at her once more. “Don’t tell me… Your mother was burnt like an over-cooked chicken wing, huh? Maybe if you add a little hot sauce she’ll come back, the little zing might just-“ she gestures with her hands like she was shocking someone, “Zing her back to life.”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that,” the young woman bites back, clenching her fists beside her. She knew the risk her mother faced because she had pleaded with her not to do it, but there are laws in covens and they need to be followed, no matter the personal cost. “You can’t be here. You need to leave.”

“Aww, did I touch a sore spot, hm? Maybe I should have called her one chicken nugget from the pack of- what, seven? Did the McDonald’s workers toss an extra one in for good luck? And where’s the sweet and sour sauce?” Her own fingers were twitching by her side, the toy now safely in her pant pocket. "What is a little thing like you gonna do about it? You’re no bigger than a French-fry.”

“Stop!” The witch screams at the unknown woman. She takes a few breaths to calm herself, letting out a sigh after, “My mother told me about witches like you. I won’t let my anger make me a victim. You’re not welcome here. You must leave before the men find you, they don’t take kindly to strangers.” She takes one more look at the mystery woman before turning and heading back to her home, she would tell her father about this if she remembered.

The mystery witch lets out a frustrated groan, stomping her foot, “Ugh!” What is it with people being taught how to regulate their emotions these days!? What was wrong with the good ol’ pure unadulterated rage!? Pathetic. She rakes her fingers through her hair, the gesture soothing her before she heads on her way, the toy heavy in her pocket. It wouldn’t take much for her to find you, just follow the ashy road. Maybe she could make a song about that- follow the ashy road. You’re off to see the- the… fuck. Who were you after? Ugh.

#Agatha Harkness x reader

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ameagrice · 18 days ago

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percy jackson x fem reader

chapter thirty-seven | out of the grave, into the woods.

It’s September 9th, and two days have passed since Percy. Chiron tells you to have hope; maybe he escaped before the place went kaboom. You didn’t see a body, so you should keep the hope alive. You viciously respond that no, there wouldn’t be a body if it was blown to a million pieces, would there?

You eat more than you ever have. The week that passed in the maze had been particularly busy, so much so you’d scarcely had time to eat anything proper. It’s nice to stuff your face, sitting with Annabeth in comfortable silence.

Everyone knows. Everybody knows what happened, by September 9th. Chiron holds a small meeting and explains exactly what happened to the others. Some suggest sending searchers down into the maze to continue what you couldn’t, but Chiron declines the suggestion under the excuse that it’s too dangerous as of late. Percy will turn up eventually, he concludes.

“Have faith,” he sighs, looking around the room. His eyes land on you, where you sit with folded arms and bloodshot eyes nestled between Annabeth and Travis.

It’s hard to do when your mother refuses to answer your prayers. You pray every night for Grover and Percy’s safe return, all week, every morning. You beg any god that will listen to just grant you this one thing, and allow Percy to still be breathing. A tense week passes, and at the week mark—September 14th—since you came out of the maze, hope is beginning to wane. You see it in Chiron’s face with every falsely enthusiastic speech, and in your friends. Annabeth helps you to make a new weapon in the armoury, a lean, light sword made of celestial bronze. You’re working on convincing one of the other campers to charm it to make it smaller, taking inspiration from Riptide. Convenience is key.

By September 15th, people have lost hope. A whole week of people trying to come home should have shown some signs, at least. Another week passes, with no such luck. And then a third. You barely move from the Big House, not really feeling much up to participating in activities and practice fights. You’re just getting into reading a new book, scrunched up in the chair on the porch, when Chiron approaches you, with a solemn look on his face.

“Another book?” He tries for a smile. You see right through him, raising your eyes above the line of your book. There seem to be more stress lines under his eyes. “That’s the third this week alone.”

You raise it a little higher. “I like reading. You can get lost in books pretty easy.”

“I like a good read myself,” he admits. “Maybe not three six-hundred-pagers a week, though.”

Now, you do smile. Just a little.

“I didn’t come here just to halt your peace, my dear. I wanted to talk to you about Percy, and Grover.”

Of course. It’s all anybody wants to talk about with you.

You snap shut the book and pay Chiron all your attention. “Okay.”

He eyeballs the ground for a second. “I think it’s time that we begin to build up a burial shroud for Percy, and begin the proceedings for Grover. Three weeks is…it is unlikely for them to come back to us now. A week, a week and a half at most, is the usual waiting time for heroes to return. I’ve seen this many times before, my dear. Three weeks is too long. It’s time we pay our respects to our friends.”

It’s a hard pill to swallow. You feel your heart stammer in the ribcage, tiny shooting pains going haywire. You’ve had these pains all of three weeks—Chiron calls them a reaction to stress, and grief. It’s why he encouraged so much rest, so little training. Your eyes fill with strong tears and your throat thickens.

“Okay,” you manage. A leaded weight pulls your innards down, and something else grinds them together. You feel overcome with hopelessness, a feeling alike deep and terrible sadness, gut-wrenching. You only want to cry until you can’t cry anymore.

“As Percy’s longest friend,” he continues with a hard swallow, “I wanted to ask you personally, if you’d like to create his burial shroud. As an honor to him.”

You want, in that moment, your dad. You want the comfort of a parent, even though you know you won’t get so much as a hug from him. You want home.

You ask Annabeth to help you in making Percy’s burial shroud. A heaviness settles over camp the next day, and everyone you talk to or pass by offers you a sympathetic look, a hand on the shoulder. Together, you pick out sea-green fabric, and tie in some gentle details of deeper greens and little dashes of blue. You find it in yourself to delve bravely into his left-behind cabin, and dig a seashell from the wall beside the statue of his father. It’s a creamy-pale colour, and lined with streaks of red and pale peach, engrained with bits of sand like it had just come directly from the beach. You weave a few into the fabric until your fingers are sore and pricked with blood. It’s all very factual, death and its proceedings. You find yourself zoning out, staring at the soft material in your hands and thinking of absolutely nothing, at times. Annabeth gently says your name, and pulls the needle from your bloody finger. It takes all day to make it perfect, but you finally complete the burial shroud, and tie it off with a pretty bit of creme ribbon and sea rope.

For Grover, it’s different, and Annabeth carries this one forward better than you because she’d known him for a long time, a hell of a lot longer than you knew Grover. She sits down on the sofa, and almost tears the earthy-green and gold fabric with how forcefully she grips it. Annabeth acts normally, but her lip trembles. She presses them together to stop it, reaching out to the table between you both for the needle.

By evening, just as the sun is going down and the sky is burning orange, you’re finished with Percy’s shroud, and Annabeth is finished with Grover’s. They’re not due to be burned until tomorrow evening, but Chiron said it was in everybody’s best interests to finish them sooner rather than later. It would make the process of burning them a lot easier to handle, apparently. You’re but a second away from blowing up, taking action with screaming and hacking at the strawberry fields; so, anything to lighten the situation, really.

“We should really get some food before curfew,” Annabeth set aside Grover’s shroud. “C’mon. They’ll be looking for us if we don’t turn up, and you know what Travis has been like, worrying this week.”

You huff a short laugh. “Guy hasn’t stopped.”

It was true. He’d been so attentive to your every want and thought that you felt somewhat guilty for dropping him the way you had done to accompany Percy into the maze. You felt like such a terrible friend, recently. But if Travis was holding it against you, he didn’t show it a bit. Ever the selfless.

Your stomach growls painfully, prompting you to stand and hold Percy’s shroud for another second or so, before dropping it safely next to Grover’s. The silky material slips from your fingers and hits the table carefully. The clock above the door tells you it’s nearly seven o’clock at night, and you haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast.

Annabeth is long gone by the time you force yourself to leave the room. You can see her in the distance, walking to the dining pavilion. You stop against a wall, breathing deeply and exhaling heavily, just taking in the air. It smells of pine trees and strawberries, and something warm. The sky is burnt orange and lined with golden clouds. An otherwise perfect evening, if you weren’t hearing Grover’s voice in the back of your mind.

He’s shouting your name, so distantly it feels like he isn’t even there at all. You wish you could help him. His voice grows louder, and closer. You begin up the hill just as you hear breathing—hard, heaving breathing like the person it’s coming from has ran a marathon.

You spin, somewhat startled, and your jaw drops so hard you think it might have landed in Tartarus. “G—GROVER?!” He’s really here. Really! With sweaty hair, missing a sleeve of his jacket, but he’s here in person. Grover is alive. “Holy cows. Holy cows. Holy cows—”

“I did pray to some holy cows, actually,” he nods out of breath. Grover puts his hands on his hips, tilting his head back. The sun is setting very quickly, and really it’s nothing special tonight compared to every other night, but to Grover, it must be amazing.

All the breath he gets back in his lungs is swiftly knocked right back out again. You lunge for him, the relief falling like a heaviness from your shoulders. Grover is a little bonier under your hugging arms than the last time you were together, but he’s in one piece and here in front of you, and it’s more than you could ask for given the circumstances.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you breathe. With your heart beating ten-to-the-dozen, it’s difficult to discern whether you’re about to have a heart attack, or if you’re developing some sort of condition from all the scares. “Really. It’s good to see you.”

He’s shocked. Of course he is; you’ve barely shown even camaraderie towards Grover before. You think it might be time to change your tune.

“I wasn’t sure you’d gotten out,” he sighed, pulling back. “I’m so sorry for leaving the two of you, but look—I found him. I really did. I found Pan.”

You blanch. Not solely from his insinuation that both you and Percy got out, but that he found what he’d been looking for. You can’t help smiling.

“Really? You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent!”

“We should go tell Chiron, then.”

Heaviness settles in your gut the closer you get to the dining pavilion. You figured that’s where Chiron will be—eating like nothing’s wrong. You haven’t eaten properly in days.

Everybody is seated by the time you arrive. Chiron is, as you’d guessed, at the table and eating as well. It must be the movement from the corner of his eye that turns his head to face you, and it’s a result: he sees Grover; tired, drooping-at-the-shoulders Grover. Chiron stands so abruptly that the table shrieks, the legs scraping against the floor, and campers groan and cover their ears, turning to face the commotion. They follow the leader’s direction, and see him too. The sky is burning, the clouds on fire, and fire in the heart flickers.

A great deal of clamour comes next. It’s all very factual, in the after. They yell Grover’s name and people come running, some in relief, some in disbelief, and some in excitement.

He eats his heart out at the head table, and nobody bothers him. You sit together and for a little while you laugh. Annabeth smiles so hard her cheeks must hurt, and the three of you manage to relieve the last few days and weeks with some joy, especially now Grover has found what he’d been looking for.

It doesnt change the fact that you go to bed with a heavy heart and a sorrowful stomach, and don’t get a wink of good sleep, tossing and turning until the cows come home. When morning comes, you’re sore-eyed and sore of heart, dressing in jeans and a sweatshirt despite the warmth of camp itself. On a day where all eyes will be on you, it’s comforting to feel somewhat sheltered by sleeves and neckline.

You don’t eat breakfast, though your stomach grumbles and whines, and you can barely manage to get a glass of apple juice down. People are casting you looks from every table, because they all know what you’re about to do. After all, his burial shroud is only metres away, folded neatly in a small box before the open fire pit.

Finally, after breakfast of little words to anybody, Chiron smiles somewhat skewedly and directs everyone to crowd at the pit. A few girls from the Aphrodite cabin are crying crocodile tears, pretending they’re oh-so-sad over the loss of Percy, though they haven’t spoken to him before, or if they have—only to ridicule him for tripping during track, or letting an arrow fly too early. Silly little things really, that make Percy, Percy. And you miss him.

You barely notice that Chiron is speaking until he’s finished. The soft blue is in your hands, palms up to the sky. You hope they’re watching.

It smells of smoke that will stick to your hair and clothes, of flames that burn your hands even this far out. Orange, yellow, and wicked red all dancing together in the grate like it’s a terrible little party just for Percy.

You have to clear your throat out hard, it having been in disuse since yesterday. Sets of eyes are on you, big and waiting. A few Aphrodite girls are pulling sneering expressions, because they’re not fans of other girls being the centre of attention.

“Uh—well,” you start, wondering why on earth you hadn’t prepared something earlier. There’s a hard lump in your throat, rolling around and around and around and you think you might choke on it. “Percy was my best friend. He meant a lot to all of us, a great deal, actually. I can’t think of one moment where Percy…”

And suddenly you can’t think at all. There’s pressure behind your eyes burning away like the fire in the grate. Your stomach hurts because you’re so hungry you’re starving. The brain fog because of this is alarming, and you can feel the casual facade start to falter. Why can’t you find the words.

You cough a jarring laugh. Annabeth whispers your name from just the front row, moving to get in your line of vision, concerned. She’s upset but she’s holding it together much better than you are.

The blue in your hands is beginning to absorb the sweat from your skin. “Percy was…there are no words. I think his actions said more, anyway, if I’m honest. Truth be told,” you finally look up from your shaking hands, “truth be told, those of us who knew Percy properly already knew that. Percy was just—”

When you lift your eyes just behind the crowd, you begin to notice something strange. A figure. A boy, in immaculate clothing and tanned like he’d just spent a week at the beach. His shirt is ironed and crisp, and a thin circle of white shells is clasped around a wrist.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Annabeth urges. Her voice shakes when she carefully pulls you aside. “You don’t have to do this. It isn’t fair.”

But your eyes are stuck glued to the boy getting closer, so close that you can make out the green of the eyes you’d recognise absolutely anywhere.

“He’s right there.”

“I know, it’s fine, I can take this.”

She attempts to pry the material from you, but you’re not having it. Clenched in your fists, you nod to the distance, as the lightheaded feeling grows.

“Percy’s here. Percy’s here.”

Heads turn. Bodies shift. Chiron moves through the crowd and pales considerably because he sees what you see. At last, people gasp, people yell out, people rush forward to surround him. But he only has eyes for you, and they’re glossy ones at that.

Your head spins. “Dear god, I think I need to sit down.”

And indeed, down you go.

—

This chapter’s title is taken from the song ‘the let go’ by Elle King. https://youtu.be/RcnUJTIyjXs?si=HO1lzccJfsaF6SbQ (1.18 seconds)

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mxtxfanatic · 8 months ago

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Fandom Gripe #22: I wish the novel fandom would stop ascribing to Jiang Cheng things that he did not do (at least not alone) to make his character seem like some outstanding model citizen who pulled himself up by his bootstraps instead of the rotten product of wealth and nepotism that he is.

No, Jiang Cheng did not rebuild Lotus Pier on his own. In fact, Lotus Pier didn't need to be rebuilt at all because it was never destroyed. Wen Chao was using it as his supervision office, which is why Wang Lingjiao showed up in the first place:

Wang LingJiao spoke in a tender voice, “Young Master Wen, congratulations for moving into Lotus Pier.” Wen Chao, “What Lotus Pier? Change the name. Bring down any door carved with the nine-petaled lotus crest and replace them with those with the QishanWen Sect’s sun crest! JiaoJiao, come dance for me your best song!”

—Chapt. 59: Poisons, exr

If anything, any "rebuilding" that was done happened after Wei Wuxian defected, as Jiang Cheng remade Lotus Pier to be more extravagant than it originally was:

It was perhaps because too many places had been renewed. The training field was two times larger. Each new building seemed to be taller than the previous, adorned with curving roof decor. It seemed grander than before and had more splendor. But, compared to the Lotus Pier of his memories, it had changed too much. Wei WuXian felt a sense of loss from deep within. He didn’t know whether the old buildings from the past were blocked behind these impressive new buildings or if they were torn down already.

—Chapt. 85: Loyalty, exr

No, Jiang Cheng did not recruit new disciples on his own. He was recruiting on his own during the war for the 3 months that Wei Wuxian had been trapped in the Burial Mounds, as per Wang Lingjiao's musings:

...leaving only Jiang Cheng, who was younger than even Lan XiChen and was still a child born yesterday, who had nobody in his hands but still dared call himself sect leader, holding up the banner of rebellion as he recruited new disciples.

—Chapt. 60: Poisons, exr

But after Wei Wuxian returned, Wei Wuxian had a large hand in disciple recruitment, specifically because of the interest his ghost path garnered amongst cultivators at banquets where they were recruiting, such as the Phoenix Mountain Hunt:

One of the sect leaders spoke in a sour tone, “This time, Lotus Pier is really the center of the show. Almost all of the spirits and corpses were summoned to the YunmengJiang Sect’s grounds. There’d definitely be a number of cultivators interested in them.” ... Someone sneered, “Huh? Interested in them? I don’t think so. To put it simply, they’re interested in Wei WuXian, aren’t they? Didn’t the YunmengJiang Sect grow in fame during the Sunshot Campaign only because of Wei WuXian?”

—Chapt. 70: Departure, exr

Despite the above quote being gossip from jealous cultivators, we know this to be true because after Wei Wuxian defects, cultivators begin to flock to the Burial Mounds to ask to be his disciples, still:

After he found himself in the limelight during a few night-hunts, there really were quite a few people who came for him, hoping that they could be accepted by the ‘patriarch’ and become one of his disciples. The mountains that used to be so deserted suddenly became crowded. None of the fierce corpses Wei WuXian set up on patrol down the mountain would attack on their own. At most, they’d send the person flying and roar their throats out. Nobody got hurt, and so more and more people gathered down Burial Mound.

—Chapt. 75: Distance, exr

No, Jiang Cheng did not raise Jin Ling on his own. First off, Jin Ling is the heir to the Jin Clan, so him being raised wholly by Jiang Cheng would make absolutely no sense. Which is why nowhere does the novel say this happens; Jin Ling spends his time split between Lanling and Lotus Pier:

When Jin Ling was young, he was brought up by two sects. He lived at the LanlingJin Sect’s Jinlin Tower half the time, and the YunmengJiang Sect’s Lotus Pier the other half, so he should be carrying belongings from both sects.

—Chapt. 38: Grasses, exr

(However—and this is just my conjecture—I doubt the overtly homophobic and sexist Jiang Cheng would personally go about changing the diapers of a child who only knew him to be merciless and cold:

From the beginning of his memory until now, Jin Ling had never seen such a look on Jiang Cheng’s face before. This uncle of his who led the prominent YunmengJiang Sect ever since a young age had always been cold and dark. When he spoke, he was willing to neither show mercy nor do good.

—Chapt. 23: Malice, exr

Rich people have servants for a reason.)

No, Jiang Cheng does not spend his time helping the people of Yunmeng. He really does spend a good deal of his time fobbing off his duty to the people (not unusual for a large sect) in favor of hunting down and torturing people (very unusual, the reason why his citizens prefer to pray to gods) who either had the surname Wen or that he suspected of either being possessed by Wei Wuxian because they remind him of the latter, which extends to people who use his inventions:

Jiang Cheng spoke grimly, “Break his legs? Haven’t I told you? If you see this sort of evil and crooked practice, kill the cultivator and feed him to your dogs!”

—Chapt. 7: Arrogance, exr

Zidian definitely wouldn’t deceive [Jiang Cheng] or make a mistake, so he quickly calmed himself and thought, this doesn’t mean anything. I should first find an excuse to take him back and use every possible method to get information out of him. It’s impossible for him to not confess anything or give himself away. I’ve done things like this in the past anyways. After thinking it through, he made a gesture. The disciples understood his intention and came over.

—Chapt. 10: Arrogance, exr

The owner, “Young Masters, you’re not from Yunping City so you don’t know. The Jiang Sect is responsible for all of us along the Yunmeng area. The Sect Leader’s got quite a bad temper. It’s almost frightening. His subordinate’s said so a long time ago. Only one sect is in charge of such a large area. Each day, there are almost a hundred cases of small ghosts or other creatures pulling pranks on the living and all that. If every single small thing had to be dealt with immediately, would there be enough time and energy? Those that don’t kill anyone aren’t malign spirits, and we’re not supposed to disturb them with trivial matters that aren’t malign spirits.” She complained, “What is this supposed to mean? Wouldn’t it be too late if we waited until somebody’s died to find them?!” ... The owner continued, “On top of that, Lotus Pier is truly a scary place. How would anyone dare go there again?” Wei WuXian moved his gaze from Lan WangJi’s calm face with a short pause of surprise, “Lotus Pier is scary? How could Lotus Pier be scary? You’ve been there?” The owner, “I haven’t been there myself, but I know someone who went because his house was being badly haunted. But it was all bad luck. That Sect Leader Jiang was cracking a glowing whip right on the training field. The victim’s flesh and blood flew as high as his screams! A servant secretly informed him that the sect leader caught the wrong person again, that he hadn’t been in a great mood, and that he definitely shouldn’t be irritated in any way. He was so scared that he dropped off the gifts he brought and fled at once. He never dared visit again.” Wei WuXian had long since heard of how Jiang Cheng had been searching for cultivators of the ghost path who seemed like they seized another’s body, taking all of them into Lotus Pier to be tortured and questioned. The owner’s friend probably just happened to have ran into him when he was letting off steam. It wasn’t hard to imagine how hideous Jiang Cheng would’ve looked, so no wonder a normal person would make a run for it. ... The owner, “No, no. It was his misfortune. The person’s surname was Wen, and that Sect Leader Jiang’s archenemy happened to have the surname of Wen as well. He’s hating on everyone in this world whose surname is Wen. Whenever he sees one, he’d grind his teeth in hatred, wanting to skin them alive. How could he give a single friendly look to...”

—Chapt. 92: Longing, exr

The time he isn't spending hunting down people to torture, he uses to trail after Jin Ling on nighthunts to make sure nothing happens to him.

Wei WuXian, “Huh? Jiang Cheng? How did you run into him while night-hunting?” Lan SiZhui, “We invited Young Master Jin to join our night- hunt last time, so...” Wei WuXian immediately understood. One could even guess that while Lan SiZhui led the group in the night-hunt, Wen Ning naturally wouldn’t be idle either. He must’ve followed them in the dark to protect them, so that he could provide assistance when they encounter danger during the night-hunt. Jiang Cheng must’ve been sneaking behind Jin Ling as well, scared something would happen to him again.

—Chapt. 116: Banquet Extra, exr

Any other "single jiujiu!jc who don't need no man!" fanon I'm missing?

#human gripes at fandom #mdzs #feel free to add any quotes i forgot #but quite honestly some things are said too often #for it to make sense to add every quote #i'm not adding every 'jc tortures people' quote #i also gave up on every 'jc trails after jin ling' quote #because in the entire story the only time jin ling is not with jc #is when they get into an argument and jin ling runs away #for someone who is incapable of showing any sort of affection to his own nephew #jc is surprisingly a helicopter parent #canon jiang cheng

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