#cause your pain is a tribute the only thing you let hold you

[geminison]

Third eye by Florence and the Machine is for dh1 Corvo

[yanqings]

airing out what kind of issues i have by saying which fatm songs are my favorite lmfao

[codfanficedits]

Final tribute

If you're looking for a sign to stay alive, this is it.

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

Summary: Suicide.

Wordcount: 4968| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: SUICIDE, mentioning of self-harm, mentioning of shoplifting, mentioning of a fucked up childhood.

A/N: Today (third of November) marks the 9 years anniversary of my best friend killing herself. It has taken me years to come over the guilt, and even 9 years later I still wonder if I could've prevented this. But I couldn't and she is gone. In a way I hope she'll live forever through me and my stories. We were teenagers, having to cope with shit that adults couldn't even cope with. I love you and even though you'll always stay 19 you're still my best friend. Until we meet again. A/N 2: If you're struggling yourself. Please know that life will be worth it, the sun will shine on you too one day, and you'll find the joy in life once more. I've struggled with suicidality and sometimes I still do. But. It. gets. better. I promise.

The silence lingers in the air as he sits on the chair next to your bed. You’re sleeping, getting some much deserved rest, but he can’t help but be angry at you. Angry for attempting, angry for not sharing what was going through your mind, angry at the professionals, for just letting you go again. But his anger gets replaced by guilt as he watches you sleep. Because if you were to die, it would’ve been his fault, at least to Simon.

Except that it wasn’t his fault. You just weren’t made for life and you knew it. Depression had been weighing you down since your teenage years, following you like a ball and chain into adulthood. No matter how much you tried, how hard you tried to fight it, it was a losing battle. A cruel dance with fate. Simon’s eyes wander around the self-harm scars that cover your body, a reminder of your battle, a reminder of every time your mind won the battle against your will to live.

As Simon’s guilt deepens, tears fall from his eyes. You always used to tell him “a cry a deep keeps the demons away.” So, he cried. You had always used your humour as a shield to cope, as a shield to keep people out of the dark abyss of your mind. No one would suspect a thing if you just kept joking about it.

It was a painful realisation – the guilt, but also the truth in those words. It was what he missed most about you, your smile, your warmth, your kindness. He misses your wisdom the most. Maybe if he had tried to understand you more, none of this would be happening. His heart ached with regret and longing.

Simon felt lost. He remembered your humour, but he could never make the thoughts leave his head. How you were always so lively and funny, but had suffered in silence for so long.

This had worried you the most. Not the dying alone part, you had made peace with dying alone a long time ago. But the failing of your plan, and how it would hurt the people around you.

He knew you hadn’t meant to hurt him, but he didn’t think he could find the way to forgive you yet. As for himself, he felt he could never forgive himself for not noticing earlier. How close you had been to death. How far he had allowed this to go, without a single moment’s notice. Not that this would’ve changed anything for you, you would’ve done it either way. With or without him noticing. The depression that had been brewing in you for more than a decade was a ticking time bomb, being set off without anything mayor happening. But this had been a messy attempt, your mind too crowded to think properly, the pain of being alive too much to bear. So you had made mistakes, mistakes that caused your attempt to fail. Mistakes that would make you hate yourself even more. Mistakes that would be carved into your skin the moment you had the chance. Simon couldn't help but feel your attempts to hide your depression had been his fault. Had he not made you believe you had to? Or was this merely some cruel trick his mind was playing on itself? He wanted to hold your hand so badly, to feel your warmth, to tell you he loved you. But you were sleeping. His guilt consumed him. He began thinking of every moment you had been depressed, every instance he hadn't helped, every time he hadn't noticed a thing. But truth be told, you would never had let him help you, your depression had been weighing you down, pulling you under the surface while you desperately tried not to drown.

But drowning is a silent thing to do.

And you, you felt as if the whole world had to be carried on your shoulders. Professionals had failed you, and friends were not made to carry such a heavy load. So you carried it all by yourself, allowing yourself to slip under the surface of the water. Simon was terrified. The idea of you suffering in silence hurt him more than he ever imagined it would. He wanted to tell you how much you affected the lives of those around you. How he had looked up to you for your wisdom, your humour, your honesty. How you had brightened his days just by being there. He also wanted to say how sorry he was for not noticing your depression sooner. But you weren't awake. So he stayed beside your bed, waiting. Hoping. Praying that you would live.

The disappointment of being alive would wash over you soon enough, and you would have to live with that disappointment, a disappointment to yourself and your friend. Your eyes flutter as you begin to wake up, the sunlight burning through your closed eyelids, the pain you feel a reminder that you’re alive. But you don’t want to open your eyes. You can’t face reality, not yet. A wave of relief washed over Simon as he felt you stir. He was still angry, worried, confused, but he couldn't keep the smile from his face. He reached for your hand, wanting to hold on to the life he had thought he lost. Wanting to hold on to you. Wanting to let you know just how much you meant to him.

"Don't leave me again."

You can’t answer him, not yet. You have to deal with the disappointment of being alive first, before you can tend to him.

Fuck

How you wished you were dead, how you wished that you had succeeded, how you wished you had finally found your peace. You turn to your side, curling up as a ball, the sobs that leave your lips are raw, violent even. As if your soul got broken open and you can’t stop your feeling from pouring out. As Simon watched you curl up into a ball, his heart ached. He could feel your hurt, your anger, your pain, and wished he could take it away from you. And he felt you needed this, this release, this raw feeling. But he also understood how much you disliked your existence. How unfair this life had been to you. How many times you had been disappointed by it all. By other people, probably. But he hoped in the end, you would know how much he appreciated and cared for you. Your tears didn’t stop, by all means they just poured harder, more violent. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why did you have to be alive? Your feelings turn into anger, angry at yourself for failing, for staying alive, angry at the universe for playing these cruel tricks. “Fuck, Simon.” You sob. “I can’t do this.” Simon felt his anger dissipate, replaced by worry. He couldn't see you this way. So hurt. So depressed. So angry at the world, at life. That anger had always been the first thing he thought of when he pictured you, but not like this. Not the world's anger. Your own. "Hey hey, it's alright." He sat down next to you. "We can get through this together. Just me and you, like always." And that was when, for a moment, he almost believed it.

But you can’t, you don’t want to. You had been trying to get through it, with him, without him. But you’re tired. Tired of trying not to drown when the world is pulling you under. So, so, so tired. “I don’t want to, Simon.” You whisper and your voice sounds tired, as if you’ve been up for days. “I can’t fight anymore.” "Stop." he whispered, his heart aching. This wasn't the reality he wanted to admit, but it was one that was hard to deny. "Please, can't you see how many people care about you? I'm not talking about friends and family, I'm talking about me. Don't you think seeing you like this hurts me?" He knew you were tired. He knew you wanted to just disappear from the world of pain and suffering. And so he tried one last time. "Don't disappoint me." You squeeze his hand, to the point that your own hand starts to hurt from the power. You could see the pain in his face. The pain you had caused. And the guilt hit you like a ton of bricks. You feel so selfish, like you always have been.

“I’m so sorry for putting you through this.” "Stop... stop apologizing." He felt you squeeze his hand, and took it as a sign of hope. Perhaps there was still a chance, even at your lowest, to fight for life. "I'm your friend. I'll always fight with you, even when you can't fight anymore. Especially then. Maybe we can learn how to fight this together." He hoped it wasn't too far gone. He didn't want to lose you to the darkness. But what would you do if it wasn’t apologizing? It was all you did. Apologizing for existing, apologizing for not being good enough, apologizing for being depressed. For being alive. You give his hand a softer squeeze. “Thank you, Simon.” You mumble. “Thank you for being here, and I’m sorry if I’ve let you down.” "You've never let me down," he whispered back. His eyes were soft, and his expression gentle. All the anger, guilt and disappointment had vanished. He was thinking of you, how hard you had tried — harder than most would. He knew this. He felt this. He couldn't blame you for wanting an escape. An escape he wished he could provide.

"Don't you see? You're the strongest person I know. You're the last person to need to apologize."

His words. No matter how kind they were. They didn't register. You understood them, they were words you could even tell to others. But those words weren't meant for you. Not to someone like you.

So you laid there, curled up in a ball, the disappointment of being alive weighing on you. But they were meant for you. They were for you. Because even when you felt broken, he saw you as strong. When you were tired, you were resilient.

"Let me come a little closer." Simon shifted closer, trying to place his hand on your arm. He wanted to hold on. He wanted to feel you. Your warmth, your touch, your comfort in his hand.

You were hurt, but he wanted to hold that warmth, hold on to you. Because it felt like a treasure to him.

"Rest," he told you. And he meant it; he wanted you to take a break. You were so tired, so full of self-destruction.

He stayed with you in that bed, even as he felt your strength slip away. He wouldn't leave you until he was sure you could fight back. You would fight back, and he would do whatever he could to help you, to make the world a more bearable place. To give the light inside your soul room to heal.

And so your first attempt ended like this. With Simon holding you.

But you were broken, broken beyond repair, and one attempt turned into two, turned into three. All while Simon's life just continued. His missions, his deployments. And there you were. Feeling like a burden again. Simon felt his heart sink with each attempt, his anger growing with each disappointment. It made him feel powerless, unable to help you get better. To show you how much the world needed you. How much he needed you. "Not again..." His voice trembled with tears, a look of desperation on his face. He wanted you to recover, but felt hopeless. He felt that maybe he had already failed you, but didn't dare think it. Because if there was a chance for you to survive... he wanted you to take it. It must've been exhausting for him too. Not knowing if a call from you was just to catch up, or if he would hear just sobs, and rambling about how you couldn't take it anymore. How he had spent hours and hours talking to you. Unable to cope with the guilt of something would've happened to you.

But he was only human, and humans can only take so much.

You look at your phone. Tears streaming down your face as you had called him. You could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing..." He sighed. "I can't take this anymore. You can't keep doing this. Can't keep hurting yourself, can't keep hurting others, can't keep hurting me."

He didn't want to shout, but for the first time his anger began to surface. He wanted to see you get better, but his hopes were dwindling. "Just... please." Simon was at a loss of words. "How can I make you feel better about all this? What do you need?"

His anger was justified. In your attempt to stay longer on this earth you were dragging him along your misery.

"I'm sorry!" You repeat again, as the tears roll down your cheeks. "I don't know Simon." You hated that you had called him, once again. He was on deployment, unable to help you.

"Can you let me go?"

Simon felt his stomach knot. "Absolutely not." He knew his anger could hurt you, but had to hold on to his hopes of saving you. Because he had promised himself he wouldn't let you escape like this.

"No. No way." He let his voice raise, his anger making him feel stronger. "I am not letting you go." He would not hurt you further, but he would also not let you give up. He had to try.

A decision was made.

And you took a deep, deep breath. "Right." You mutter. "I'm sorry, again."

You wipe away your tears. "I know you're busy. And I really don't want to bother you. But can we just talk? Talk about our time at high school?" "Always." Simon smiled softly as the knot in his stomach disappeared. He felt more hopeful now that he had gotten your attention, and felt his anger melt away. "You know you're never a bother. How I wish the only thing I had going on was to speak to you." He tried to joke, but his concern for you clouded his humour.

"Tell me the first thing that comes to mind. High school. Any memories."

A soft sigh left your lips. You could hear his concern. You could hear your heart crumble when he joked about all the things that were going on, and how you were just another add on to that pile. But you pushed it away. This phone call had to turn into a light one. One without more worries.

"Remember how we met?" You ask. "In our self-defence class. You were brand new and I was a black belt. We hit off immediately, and then it turned out we went to the same high school." A smile formed on your face. Better times.

"I remember us secretly smoking behind the building." You snicker. Simon's smile broadened, the memory coming back to him as if they were there a second ago.

"I've always wondered what would have happened if I didn't go to that class." The smile faded again, replaced by thoughtfulness, as Simon considered how different his life would have been. He likely would have never met you. "I wasn't as tough as you remember, I was just taller." He chuckled. "I remember my first day, and you told me about your past. And you asked me about my life — which I was very quiet about then. What else do you remember?" You can’t help but chuckle. "Yeah we definitely did some trauma bonding. Two people with a fucked up childhood."

You clear you throat. "I'm glad we both managed to escape our homelife."

At the mention of trauma bonding, the smile dropped from Simon's face. It was true, it was how you had bonded. And it was one of the worst ways to bond. But he knew you were still thinking about it, and didn't want to change the mood of the call. "Don't think about that," he said. "Come on now, we can't let a shitty childhood ruin our lives." He was one to talk. Running away at eighteen to join the military. You both knew that your childhood would haunt, till the end of times. But you dropped the subject. Not in the mood to ruin this phone call. "Yeah yeah." You mutter.

"I remember you sneaking out of school to shoplift a can of coke." You laugh. "I was so goddamn worried you'd get caught." "Not as worried as me." Simon laughed. "I didn't get caught, though. So my criminal record is still clean... for now." "Although it is a miracle you never got caught. I don't think I've paid for a single can of coke in my last year of high school, thanks to you."

Simon felt his spirits lift, as he recalled all the stolen sodas you and him had split. It had gotten harder to sneak them in as you went up the year grades, but you had enjoyed those stolen moments of sweetness together.

For a few moments, it was as if you were still in those high school halls. Stealing drinks, telling each other about your past, and trying to escape your family life by spending all your time together. But now you were far apart, and there were other problems in your lives. Life had changed. "God. We were idiots." You sighed. "The amount of times we skipped school just to hang in the park and smoke."

"I still don't get how we graduated." You add with a smile, the phone call was helping to take your mind off things.

"We were almost too late for our math final." "We were extremely late for our maths final," he corrected. "But it got us through, didn't it?" He chuckled nervously, thinking of how close you came on several occasions to being kicked out.

"We weren't idiots. Life was just hard." He sighed, his eyes growing softer with each word, "We just needed to find ways to escape. And somehow, we made it." He knew you were feeling better, and thought for a moment. Perhaps he did want to push you a bit, to help you heal.

Of course you remembered, life had been hard for the both of you, yet somehow he had managed better.

"Somehow we made it." You repeat. "Thanks for staying on the phone with me, Simon. I know you're busy, and I'm feeling better right now. I'll keep you updated through text, okay?" "The day you don't call me on your lowest is the day you stop being my friend." Simon tried to joke. He wanted to lighten the mood, but also make you feel wanted. It was important to him that you did not feel like a burden.

"And don't apologize. Your emotions are the most important to me... don't push them away. I just wish I could be there to hold you through it all."

"You don't have to rush." Simon added, a sense of finality to his words.

"You staying on that call meant more than you'll realise." You said. "I'll text you soon okay? Take care Simon."

You ended the call, with a soft smile. Outgoing call: 57 minutes and 26 seconds. It did you more good than you had expected.

Simon sighed. Although it had been a long call, it felt like it had gone by in a flash. He kept thinking about that joke he made, about the day you stopped calling him on your worst days. And how he didn't want that day to ever come.

He knew you had been hurt too much in your life, so he was happy to keep being with you. To keep talking, to keep lifting you up again. He thought he had succeeded, too. Maybe you wouldn't try to hurt yourself again.

"I'll talk to you later." He muttered to himself.

You did feel better. Your house got cleaner, you started going out more. No longer calling in sick to your job that often.

You snapped a pick of a sunrise, sending it to Simon. "Made me think of you." You texted before you went on with your day. A little check in to let him know you were okay. He smiled as he read the message, feeling his heart lift as he read it. It was more than just a little message to Simon. It was what he needed to see, to know you were recovering, and happy. To know that all of the time and effort he put into helping you was paying off. He wanted to tell you right now that he was proud of you, that he was happy for you. But maybe you didn't need that yet. So, he kept it to himself for now. He responded with a simple "Thanks" message.

You did it every day. Usually in the morning. Sunrises. A flower. A dog. Anything that made you happy. And he usually responded with a "Thanks." But that was enough for now.

Your therapist applauded it, and that made you happy too.

You crouched down during one of your walks. Making a picture of one of the first fungi you had spotted during her walk. You send the picture to Simon.

"First one! When is your next deployment?"

Simon was glad for the daily pictures, and did his best to keep it up. He wanted you to feel like you were important to him, so he had to try and be more attentive to your messages. He stopped in the hallway as he read your latest message.

"Uh, this weekend. For three weeks." He texted.

He wondered if he should say more, but did not want to overwhelm you. He was happy already. You were alive, and looking at flowers and fungi. You were feeling better.

Ah. Three weeks. You knew he didn't have any service while deployed. Something with safety and all that. But you didn't mind. The cold November air hit your face, and it made you feel alive. You took a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill your lungs.

"That sucks :(. I'll keep sending you the nice things I find on walks, even if you can't see them right away." You texted back.

Simon was glad you understood, and didn't want you to think he didn't care. He tried not to think about the length of the deployment, or the fact that he would likely not be able to talk to you for three weeks. But it didn't matter, because you were recovering.

"Send whatever photos you want, I won't be able to respond, but I will love looking at them." He texted. "Three weeks go by faster than you'd think. I'll be home before you know it."

You did the math. He would be gone on the first of November. And he would be back around the 22nd.

"Do you think you'll be home for Christmas? It’s been a while since we celebrated together." You texted him back.

Your text felt like a punch to the gut. It was true, it had been a while since you had celebrated Christmas together. Your last Christmas together had been two years ago, and it had been an awkward one at that.

Simon tried to put on a brave face. "I'm going to try." He texted. "If I'm lucky, I'll be back late December... maybe even early." He wondered if you would take these answers well, or if he had just made things worse.

"That's great. We'll work the details out when you're back from deployment, no worries." You texted back. There was a light spring in your step as you walked to your job. As if the weight of the world had fallen off your shoulders. "I'll text you tomorrow before you leave for your mission :)"

"Sounds good." Simon was glad to see you in high spirits again. "Talk to you soon."

You and Simon continued to exchange photos for the remainder of the week. He sent you images of training exercises, and you sent him photos of birds, and flowers. It was the highlight of both your days. On Saturday morning, the day before Simon was to depart for the mission, he sent you a voice message. He was standing in his room, as he talked.

"Hey. How are you today?" Some days you just exchanged pictures. The others you had whole conversations. But that was okay, you understood he was busy, and you didn't need his attention all of the time. You smiled when you got his voice message, it was nice to hear his voice again.

"Simon! I'm good, best I've been in a while." You answered through a voice message. "How are you? What time are you leaving?"

"I'm glad." That was always Simon's response, when he heard you were doing 'well.' He had grown to love seeing your photos, and the few conversation you had together throughout the week kept him going. He sounded excited when he spoke, and you could hear a little of the anticipation in his voice.

"Leaving in 20 minutes." He sent. "I'm feeling pretty good, to be honest. A little nervous, but I'm looking forward to the mission."

"You're a good soldier, Simon." You responded through your voice message. "Those three weeks will be over in no time, and when you're back we can go plan Christmas. In the meantime. I'll send you my daily pictures, so you have something to look at when you get back." You added in another voice message

Simon smiled when he heard you call him a good soldier. It felt nice, to be recognized. And to be seen.

He sent back one message that simply said, "Thanks."

He got ready for the mission, grabbing his gear and getting into his squad vehicle.

As he drove in quiet, he thought about planning Christmas. It felt nice, looking forward to things. Maybe you and him could go on a little trip, or do something fun together.

He was optimistic, and couldn't wait for the next three weeks to be over.

On November first you send him a picture of a sunset.

"Reminds me of you. I miss you :)"

But you got no answer, knowing he was out in a mission and had no reception.

On November second you send him a picture of a dandelion, a cat, and the moon.

"Even though we're apart we're looking at the same moon."

And again you got no answer, but you knew he had no reception.

On November third you send him a selfie, a smile on your face.

"I will miss you Simon. Take care. I will always love you. You've been a great friend. You've been my best friend."

On November third you put your phone back on your desk before you left your home. The walk to the train station was short. You had led them all on, but it was your time to leave.

You had held on to life as long as you could. But you were done. You were tired. You couldn't live another day, but at least he would have some good memories of you.

"I'm sorry." You mutter as you saw the train approaching.

One deep breath.

You and Simon always had a habit of sending photos to each other. Especially of the sky. Simon felt a sinking feeling come over him as he saw your last pictures. It was a beautiful sunset, but the words you chose had taken away much of its beauty.

"God damn..." He whispered as he read your message. "Is this what I think it is?" He started getting a thousand thoughts at once, all flooding through his brain.

What could he have done?

Should he have said something different?

You were going to be okay. You were getting better.

Nothing. Nothing could've been done. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't the fault of your therapist. No one was at fault.

Some people just weren't made to grow old, and you were one of them. Your depression had haunted you and had finally taken you to the dark abyss. You were finally at peace.

Simon tried to push away the thoughts of all you were going to miss. All of the life you were going to miss. He could not believe it. He simply couldn't. The person he tried to cheer up, was gone. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault... He kept repeating that to himself, but deep inside he knew that had always been true. He had done all he could. All he had been able to. And that would never be enough to make you stay. Simon's eyes were growing red, but he tried to keep himself strong. It had only been hours after you died, and he was already questioning everything.

"I'll remember you." He said, to no one. He thought of all of the times he tried to help you, the pictures you sent him. The jokes. the little conversations you shared. He couldn't believe it. Simon tried to dial you, to call you, to call for an answer. But he knew that there was nothing he could do now. Nothing but hope that heaven was real. Nothing but hope that he would see you again. Nothing but hope that this was all a horrible joke, a sick nightmare.

The photos of the sunset, the cat, the moon, all lay in front of him. They looked like a cruel joke. Like reality's cruellest and sickest joke of all.

You weren't supposed to end.

[ilguna]

lmao finnick and number 29 please 🎉 -🪐

☼ exhaustion (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; Finnick tells you to stay home after realizing just how tired you are.

warnings; swearing, death mention.

wc; 1.1

prompt: 29. “You're not up to this, you can barely stand!”

–

If there’s one thing you could go for right now, it would be the best sleep of your life. You think that you’d drain everything you’ve saved up since you won, just so you can sleep for twelve hours straight, and wake up in a warm bed that you don’t want to leave. Preferably, Finnick would be in that same bed, holding onto you.

You can't, though, between the past two and a half days, you’ve only slept for about five hours, total, and that might be an overestimation. You’re not entirely sure, because you’re not keeping track. You don’t have time to.

It’s partially your own fault, you could make a harder effort to get some sleep. You’re afraid of the consequences that will follow. Each time you lay down for thirty minutes, close your eyes, get comfortable—some tragedy inside of the arena happens. It’s not your tributes every time, but that doesn’t matter. 

Whatever they’ve done to the arena this year, they’ve rigged it too well. The mentors can’t sleep, the tributes can’t sleep. You’re not entirely sure how anyone is supposed to go on with a peace of mind, knowing full well that their tributes could die at any moment without notice.

It’s a chain reaction that they’ve set up. One tribute will step into a trap, trigger an animal, make a wrong decision, and everyone else inside of the arena will suffer that exact same pain. 

They’ve started fires that have lit the forest on fire, which caused a stampede of the largest animals, which drove all the food away. That caused the predators left over to turn around and begin hunting tributes instead. Mentors panicked, now there’s too many weapons inside of the arena.

At least one tribute has died every day since the bloodbath, which was five days ago. You think this year they’ve made history, because you’re already down to the final eight, causing another round of interviews by the press. You were hoping that you’d have a few more days before having to appear on screen in front of Panem, praising your tributes for surviving this far.

You’ve seen yourself in the mirror, and it’s horrible. 

This wouldn’t be so hard if you had Finnick with you. And technically you do, he’s here somewhere in the Capitol. Only, he’s been Snow’s errand boy from the second you two stepped onto the train station. You were able to speak to him briefly two days ago between his next client and you coming back to power nap. Apparently, everyone has decided that he’s the hottest victor, yet again, and his schedule is so packed that he barely has time to pee. Much less, come and help you in the betting room.

You’ve tried to feel bad for him, but it takes more effort than you’re willing to give right now. You’re juggling fucking everything, a task that’s hard for even two amazing mentors on a good day. You’ve got your eyes on both tributes, the sponsors, the stylists, the escort, the media, and yourself. You don’t have time for Finnick, which is a first for you.

You close your eyes, letting the warm water rain onto your skin. You can already feel yourself growing drowsy, and even though you tell yourself repeatedly to change the water to cold, you sit there, basking it in. It would be so easy to fall asleep in here and ‘accidentally’ forgetting to go do the public statement.

It’s important for one reason: for the collage video in the chance that they win. They’ll insert the clip of you talking about you on the edge of your seat, rallying sponsors, cheering them on. Depending on the act they’ve decided to put on for the Capitol, your reaction to their survival changes.

You’re not entirely sure how you’re supposed to do this half-asleep, but you’ll figure it out.

A knock sounds at the bathroom door, your eyes open, suddenly awake as you turn to watch the door open. You see Finnick’s reflection in the mirror and relax, sitting against the wall again.

“Hey, I thought you were busy tonight.” You murmur, yawning.

“Last minute cancellation because of the statements being made, Snow let me have the night off.” He closes the door, leaning up against the bathroom counter while watching you. “Are you doing that tonight or do you want me to do it?”

“No, I got it.” You blink, eyelids heavy. You force your eyes open and to focus on Finnick’s face, which is laced with worry, you think. You can’t really tell, neither do you care at this point. “You go and rest.”

“You know that you have to be there in an hour, right?” He asks.

You shoot upright, “Fuck, how long have I been in here for?”

Your hand slams against the button on the wall that shuts the water off. You get to your feet, almost slipping in the process. Finnick jerks forward, prepared to catch you, but you push his hands aside.

“I don’t know, I just got here.” 

You throw a towel on the floor to dry your feet while you towel down your body. When you move to grab your clothes from off the counter, you slip. Finnick grabs under your arms, steadying you.

He eyes your face, eyebrows drawn in, “Are those bags under your eyes?” He reaches to touch the purple bruising, you move your face away.

“Yes, and I’m fine.” You move to pull on your underwear. 

“When’s the last time you slept?” He asks.

You let out a nervous laugh, knowing that you’re about to get a lecture from him if you answer that question. Finnick deadpans, because he’s heard that exact tone before when you’ve admitted to unhealthy behaviors in the past.

“(Y/n).”

“I don’t have time to sleep, babe.” You tell him, “I barely have time to shower, let alone go do an interview that won’t matter. Sleeping for more than an hour at a time is like winning the Games twice.”

“You should stay here, I don’t mind going.”

You give him a look, “That is not happening.”

When you begin to pull on your black slacks, one leg at a time, you throw yourself off-balance, hopping on one foot. Once again, Finnick reaches for you, and catches you before you hit the floor. 

You sigh.

“You’re not up to this, you can barely stand.” He tells you, moving your hair out of your face, “So you’re going to stay here and get some sleep. I’ve got the interview covered.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, shoulders dropping.

“I am, darling.”

[lovepersevering13]

Can I request something Everlark?

I have this idea about them on victory tour, but it's a bit raw. The prompt is "Well, I can't read your damn mind, sweetheart!" And it's about them having a fight shortly before they arrive in D1, which was tough for Katniss because of Glimmer and Marvel. And she is really struggling and starts a fight with Peeta on the train, but they make up again 🥺🥺🥺 thank u ✨

Haunted - Everlark

Thank you so much for this request!!! It’s longer than I originally planned it to be but I just kept wanting to add more… :)

Summary: The stress of the victory tour causes some tension between Katniss and Peeta

Warnings: Survivors guilt, guilt, arguments, mention of character death, minimal editing so there are probably some issues here… (Please let me know if there are any more I should add)

Word Count: 2164

There wasn’t much to enjoy on the victory tour. The repetitive, tedious and depressing routine caused each miserable day to blur together into a whirl of torture. Katniss constantly tried to remind herself that she was doing absolutely everything she could but in all honesty everyone knew by then that no amount of kissing, hand holding or giddy smiling at Peeta was going to pacify the rioting districts.

On top of the helplessness she felt surrounding the threats from president Snow, she was hit each day with a violent and guilt ridden reminder of each tribute who should’ve been in her place.

It really did feel as if the one and only thing stopping her from going completely mad was the undeserved, dutifully loving and gentle presence of Peeta Mellark by her side through it all.

As the train sped along steadily he lay sleepily next to her. Peeta didn’t have to be in there with her, but he was every single night without fail.

Always.

Katniss was grateful for Peeta. She really, truly was, even though she didn’t have the strength to tell him as much.

Usually she could sleep perfectly fine with Peeta next to her but even though she was curled up in her bed with Peeta’s sleeping face mere inches from hers she couldn’t rest. Her stomach was too heavy with guilt to do anything but lay paralyzed and count the seconds between his breaths.

The train was steadily but surely approaching district 1, Katniss found herself unable to think of anything but their tributes from last year. Before the games started Glimmer and the boy from one had the odds stacked in their favor (As much as they could be in the games) but somehow… She killed them both.

What tormented her the most on this night was that tomorrow she would look into the eyes of their loved ones and know that she was the reason their children were not in her place.

It was the one thing she couldn’t talk about with Peeta. He understood so much of what she’d been through but he hadn’t a drop of blood on his hands. Some days Katniss was so covered in the blood of others that she was practically choking on it. Like tonight.

Peeta rose with the sun every morning, a habit from the bakery. So when the blurry orange hues began to paint the sky out of the train window Katniss was not at all surprised by Peeta stirring next to her.

In the mornings Peeta looked so peaceful that it brought a sense of ease to everyone around him. At least it did for Katniss.

“You’re awake early,” He murmured softly, staring at Katniss with hazy blue eyes,

“So are you,” She stated, Peeta smirked and rolled onto his back,

“I’m always awake early,”

“I know,” She rolled onto her back, mirroring his position. Despite how close they come in sleep, the morning always brought a painful amount of awkward distance.

“You didn’t have a nightmare last night?”

Katniss answers silently with a large yawn,

“You didn’t?” She questions,

Peeta smiled, masking his worry over Katniss’s lack of sleep, “Not with you here,” He answered, turning to face her. Peeta shamelessly admired her.

The way the light brought out the prettiest of shades in her hair, the way her flushed, sleepy cheeks contrasted her deeply tanned skin and the way she let him find solace in her presence.

Peeta’s admiring was cut short by a rampant knock on the door,

“Katniss, we have a big, big, big day ahead of us!”

Then the day started. Breakfast, makeup, hair, a beautiful dress lined with cascading golden jewels that only Cinna’s trustworthy hands could craft. Katniss glimmered (pun not intended) on every light she touched. The dress wasn’t too heavy, itchy or revealing as per usual, and of course it looked beautiful. She looked beautiful.

Carefully Cinna adjusted the complex braid which was wrapped in a majestic crown around Katniss’s head. He placed three palm sized cards on the vanity in front of her.

“Here are the cards from Effie,”

“Thank you,” Katniss sighed. She had long ago given up on trying to deviate from the cards - even Peeta who was much better with speeches stuck to the cards.

“Now, show me that smile,” Cinna urged, one hand comfortingly and firmly placed on each of Katniss’s jewel studded shoulders.

Katniss would never perfect the art of forced smiles.

She moved on autopilot as she made her way to the justice building. Peeta took her hand, Peacekeepers opened the doors and Katniss stepped out into the blaring sun. Marvel, she noted, was the name of the boy. She killed him and didn’t even know his name. Her next breath took more effort than her last. Katniss had learnt days ago not to look at the family no matter how much she wanted to. Instead, she stared at the shimmery photo of Glimmer, Glimmer stared back at her.

Katniss was going through the motions but her mind was miles away. Specifically, up the top of a tree in the middle of the arena, Tracker jackers buzzing irritatingly around her head. On her skin.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Sting. Sting. Sting.

Katniss gritted her teeth and tried desperately not to reveal herself by swatting at the Tracker jackers.

She kept going, reading the cards, kissing Peeta’s cheek.

Sting. Sting. Sting. Her skin was bloating and her throat was closing in. Katniss kept her face placid. They couldn’t see her pain.

They couldn’t see.

They couldn’t see.

They couldn’t see.

The door slammed shut behind them with a thud just in time for Katniss to suck in a violently loud breath.

Peeta was still linked to her side- suffocating.

In panic, Katniss shoved Peeta off her, simultaneously stumbling back against the wall.

Effie shrieked.

“Katniss,” Haymitch hissed in warning. Katniss glanced at Peeta, his face was almost blank but his eyes scanned the room for people who saw Katniss’s small outburst.

Katniss took slow breaths, averting her eyes from everyone in the room. She spread her palms against the wall behind her, slowly tracing her fingers over a golden jewels implanted in the wall.

She stayed like that for a moment, those around her sharing weary looks until Cinna placed a hand on her arm and led her away.

Once Katniss wa re-dressed and designed for dinner, another extravagant golden dress, skin tight and floor length, accompanied by flowing sheer sleeves, a white shawl made of fox skin and a light golden glitter on her cheeks and eyelids which served to feminize her like the most delicate jewel. She sat at the vanity, swallowing her nerves thickly.

There was a knock on her door, Effie, she suspected.

“Come in,” Katniss called sitting up straight, she really couldn’t handle a lecture from Effie right now.

Peeta creaked the door open slightly, just enough that Katniss got a glimpse of his shimmery outfit, seemingly cut from the same length of golden fabric as hers. And, if it wasn’t just a trick of the light, his blonde curls were dusted with gold. Peeta was also not exempt from the makeup, he wore dark heavy eyeliner and his prep team had accentuated his jawline and cheekbones to such an extent that he looked nothing like the gentle Peeta she’d woken up to that morning.

“Cinna did a good job on your dress,”

“And Portia on your suit,” Katniss responded quietly. Peeta nodded and entered the room, he closed the door behind him, preventing passer-bys from overhearing whatever he wanted to discuss.

Peeta wanted to clear the tension before they had to spend the evening madly in love, it had proven much easier when they were at least friendly with each other. He also didn’t want to sleep alone that night.

“Can we talk about earlier?” He asked hesitantly,

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She stated,

“Look Katniss, this works better when we’re open with each other,”

“Agreed.”

Peeta waited momentarily, assuming her agreement would evoke further comment.

That was the thing with Katniss though, you could never assume anything.

Peeta grew impatient with every passing second,

“Well I can’t read your damn mind sweetheart,” Katniss recoiled at the term, Peeta knew that name got under her skin.“Look Katniss, I get that this is hard for you but we can’t get through this if we don’t work together.“

“You don’t understand Peeta,” She snapped dismissively,

“Help me understand, I want to understand Katniss!” He snapped back, running a hand through his hair, erasing what was probably hours of work.

Katniss pursed her lips, staring blankly at Peeta, how could she even begin to make him understand. She didn’t want him to ever have to understand the crushing weight that she carried constantly.

“You just wouldn’t get it.” She stated, with a sense of finality that Peeta couldn’t be bothered to argue with.

Peeta left, though he was cautious not to slam the door and immediately don a charming smile.

Katniss and Peeta made sure that they acted the same as usual all through dinner, though there wasn’t much of a difference: it was always an act anyway.

The main difference occurred after dinner, when Katniss sat on the edge of her bed waiting for Peeta. As more time passed she began to feel increasingly foolish. She had just expected him to apologize like he usually would, though she knew it wasn’t his fault. Katniss was so used to him doting upon her that it was easy to pretend she was always in the right.

Exhaustion and fear began to overtake her. The lack of sleep from the night before was beginning to catch up to her but she couldn’t handle the darkness of night alone. Without Peeta.

She did feel terrible for the things she’d said in the moment, she knew Peeta had been under similar pressures, she just felt jealous that he was able to handle it better than her.

The guilt of yelling at Peeta was the last unsteady brick needed to bring her crumbling down.

Katniss slipped on a deep green cardigan over her silky gray t-shirt and lounge pants before heading towards Peeta’s room. It was empty, bed made, shoes neatly lined by the door, bathroom door wide open- also, empty. Katniss had never really seen Peeta’s room before, he always came to her. It looked identical to hers, only she doubted it had ever been destroyed in a fit of rage.

Katniss continued her search, going to the next logical place- despite it being her least favorite room on the train. The door to Peeta’s studio was cracked slightly open and she could smell the paint fumes leaking out from it. She knocked on the door,

“Peeta?” She called weakly,

Peeta appeared at the door.

Peeta’s long sleeved cotton shirt and linen pants were speckled and splattered in paint- primarily, greens and reds. Katniss noticed Peeta’s leg was detached and perched against the wall. He clutched an elegant golden walking stick to support himself.

“Peeta-“ She started, “I’m sorry,”

“No, I am,”

The two clambered over each other to apologize.

“No Peeta. I’m sorry. I’ve been really stressed recently and I was just…” Katniss struggled to put words to her feelings.

“I get it Katniss, I’m not mad. I know you’ve been put under a lot of pressure recently,”

“I’m still sorry,”

“Thank you.” Peeta smiled, limping to the stool in the middle of the room.

Katniss lets herself in, keeping her eyes trained to the floor- a fear of nightmares written on every walk in this room. She sat cross legged on the floor in front of him.

“We should talk about it though, when you’re ready?” Peeta suggested,

“I know,” Katniss nodded, this time deciding she probably ought to continue.

“Glimmer and Marvel… I killed both of them. Their blood, it’s in my hands.”

Peeta’s brows furrowed thoughtfully. If he believed the train wasn’t bugged he’d assure Katniss that the only hands stained crimson were Snow’s. However, Peeta wasn’t stupid.

“I killed Foxface,” He murmured instead.

Katniss was shocked, her illusion of loneliness in guilt being shattered around her was enough to make her look up to meet Peeta’s eyes despite the horrors all around them.

“What? Peeta, no. She ate those berries, it wasn't your fault,” Katniss corrected him.

“If I hadn’t been gathering them…”

Katniss couldn’t help but reach forward and gently rest her hand against his one knee.

“It wasn’t your fault Peet,” she promised, horrified at how someone as perfect as Peeta could be plagued by the same guilt she’d carried for so many months.

“Then it wasn’t your fault either,” Peeta took Katniss’s hand off his knee and cradled it in his hand,

“Promise me you won’t blame yourself for their deaths Katniss,”

“I promise,” She sighed, unsure how she’d ever truly keep that promise, but for Peeta she was willing to try.

(Let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is welcome)

[lnaax15]

Another day to live - Cole one shot (Kirby Morrow tribute)

Warning: Spoilers for March of the oni

“Hey, folks, need a lift?” Cole asked as he and Jay jumped off the ladder and faced the NGTV news workers. 

“Boy, are we glad to see you guys!” Vinny exclaimed as he and the others began to walk towards the two ninja.“Thanks!”

“Our pleasure! Mind your step now.” Jay said as he and Cole helped the people get on the ladders.

Cole heard a whooshing sound and turned around to see the black wines and fog creeping up the side of the roof. His eyes widened. Not good. “Uh, a little quicker, folks?” 

Jay also noticed as he ushered the people up. “Creepy black vines closing in!” He warned.

Gayle ran up to one of the ladders but stopped and looked at Cole with an annoyed look. “You should know, you just ruined a heck of a broadcast.” She said before climbing up the ladder.

Cole stared at her dumbfoundedly before scowling. Why are people so ungrateful? We just saved their lives! He snapped out of his thoughts when he felt a familiar chill. He looked at his feet and saw the black vines creeping up to him. “Ah!” 

Cole and Jay quickly scrambled up the ladders. “Okay, Water! Get us out of here!” Jay called to Nya, the water ninja. Since there were people on the ship, he couldn’t say her real name. That was also why everyone had their masks pulled up.

“You got it!” She shouted back as she quickly made her way up to the helm. She quickly got the ship ready to blast ahead and pushed the lever up, only for it to blast in the wrong direction. 

Cole felt the heat of the thruster and looked up to see it pointed towards him. Uh oh! The thruster started up and messed up Cole’s balance, making him lose grip of the ladder and descend. He screamed as he fell but was saved when his legs got stuck at the end of the ladder. However, one of the ropes snapped, so the ladder was barely holding his weight.

“Black!” Jay called as he noticed his friend hanging off the end of the ladder. Cole’s head bumped against the roof of one of the buildings, giving him a wound and making him dizzy.

“Ugh! I keep forgetting that!” Nya facepalmed before pulling the lever down.

The bounty stopped for a moment before blasting ahead. Cole bumped around the roofs of the building due to the turbulence, earning more wounds. The upper part of his body had become bloody and bruised. Ugh, I’m going to get a concussion if this doesn’t stop. I feel so…dizzy. 

“Hang on, Cole!” Jay exclaimed as he tried to reach for his friend with a panicked expression on his face. He was too panicked to realise he had said the black Ninja’s real name but to their luck, his voice couldn’t make it to the deck due to the commotion caused by the thrusters.

Cole tried to reach up for the ladder and make himself upright. “I got it! I think I did!” He exclaimed as he managed to grab the ladder. But his eyes widened in fear when he spotted the broken rope. Oh no. 

Suddenly, the rope snapped, and Cole began to descend. 

Jay’s eyes widened in fear. “COLE!” He cried as he saw his friend fall. It was as if everything was going in slow motion. 

Zane, Kai and the people on the deck heard Jay’s cry, but couldn’t make out what it was, but they understood immediately when they looked down to see the black ninja slowly disappear into the black fog. 

His friend’s faces were the last thing he saw before his vision was clouded by pitch darkness. He felt all the heat drain out of his body. 

“This one seems to have a strange energy about him.” Cole heard a slightly distorted voice speak. “Similar to that foolish child.”

“Then let’s get rid of him, before he can cause problems for us.” Another voice responded.

Suddenly, Cole felt immense pain all over his body, as if his entire being was being shattered. But it only lasted for a second before stopping completely. 

Cole’s eyes shot open and he gasped. He immediately sat up and saw…light?

Huh? What is going on? 

He got to his feet and began to walk ahead as he looked around, only to see blankness around him. The light increased suddenly and Cole shielded his eyes. So bright!

The light dissipated, and Cole found himself at the monastery of Spinjitzu, all of his friends were standing in front of him, with looks of determination.

“It's been fun, guys.” Nya said.

“It has been an honor.” Zane nodded.

“Let's go out with a bang.” Jay said as he got his nunchucks ready.

“Yeah. Let's give 'em—” Kai began but was cut off by Lloyd.

“A tornado!” He said in realisation. 

“Yeah! Let's give 'em a tornado!” Kai shouted and ran ahead before skidding to a stop and backing up. “Uh—wait, what?” He asked in confusion.

“What's the opposite of destruction? Creation!” Lloyd said as he pointed at the painting of the Tornado of creation. “Don't you get it? Creation- The Tornado of Creation! It's the one thing that can defeat the Oni—the power of Creation!” He said enthusiastically. 

“How do you know?” Jay asked. 

“Yeah. It was a miracle it worked the first time!” Kai exclaimed. “And we had Cole then.” 

Wait, what? Cole thought. 

Lloyd wavered slightly. “You’re right. But what do we have to lose?”

“He's right. We have nothing to lose.” Zane said.

“I love crazy ideas. Let's do it!” Kai agreed.

“Let’s do it for Cole!” Jay added as he looked at Nya, who nodded with a determined look. 

“Wait guys! I’m right here!” Cole called out to them, only to find his voice uncharacteristically distorted. “Huh? What’s wrong with my voice?” His voice echoed slightly as he spoke. “Uh, what’s going on? Guys!” He called out again, only for no one to look his way. 

“Ready?” Lloyd asked. Everyone nodded. “Ninja, Go!” He exclaimed as he started doing Spinjitzu, the others following his lead. 

What is going on? Cole looked at his hands and gasped. “My hand! They’re…transparent?!” He exclaimed in panic. “What’s happening to me?” 

That’s when a terrifying thought hit him like a ton of bricks. “Am I dead?” 

He looked up and saw the ninja merge their Spinjitzu, forming a golden tornado, but it was flickering slightly. 

“They can’t do this alone!” Wu exclaimed. “We have to help them!” He looked at his brother who was staring blankly at the tornado.

“It won’t work.” Garmadon said.

“We have to try!.” Wu exclaimed. “Ninja, go!” He performed Spinjitzu and merged it with the golden tornado. Garmadon sighed before doing the same as his brother. The tornado grew, but it was still flickering. 

The oni barged into the monastery gates and saw the tornado. 

“Fight it!” Their leader, Omega ordered. All the oni raised their hands before a violet flame covered them. They shot up that flame, gathering it up to form a massive sphere. Omega chuckled. “You are powerless without one of the elements of creation.”

Cole’s eyes widened. “No!” He exclaimed. But it was futile. The oni shot the large sphere at the Golden tornado, causing a large explosion as the entire realm became covered in a black fog, destroying everything it touched. 

Cole felt his eyes well up with tears, and a few slid down his face. “No…”

It’s all my fault. If i was there, i could’ve helped. It’s all my fault. 

An eerie laughter echoed around him. 

“That’s right, it is your fault.” A raspy voice spoke. “Because of your tardiness, the entire realm has to pay the price.”

“Who’s there?” He asked, trying to keep the fear out of his voice as he wiped away his tears quickly. 

“The most powerful force to exist, the only thing that holds you back;” The voice responded with a laugh. Suddenly a black figure with smoke around it appeared in front of Cole. “Fear.” It said with a smirk. 

Cole’s eyes shot open and he immediately sat up. He panted as if he had run a marathon, sweat beaded his body. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “Calm down, Cole. It was just a nightmare. You’re alive. Everyone is okay.” He reassured himself. But he couldn’t stop the fear and helpness that flooded him, the same emotions he felt when he was falling. 

I could’ve died. 

I could’ve been the cause of the destruction of Ninjago. 

I am so weak and pathetic. 

Cole subconsciously left his room with these thoughts going around his head. He made his way out to the training ground but was surprised to see Nya sitting on the stairs. He heard a small sniffling sound from her. Is she…crying? She must've had a nightmare.

“Nya?” Cole called her softly. She perked up and immediately shot a punch at him. Cole immediately blocked the attack. “Calm down, it’s just me.”

Nya’s eyes widened. “I am so sorry!” She whispered. 

“It’s fine-”

“I am so, so sorry.” She sobbed as she launched at Cole and hugged him. “I almost hurt you again. All I do is mess things up.”

Cole frowned before wrapping his arms around Nya. “Hey, calm down. It wasn’t your fault. I’m okay. See?” He tried to reassure her with a smile as he used one of his hands to make her look at him. 

Nya stared before her eyes welled up again. “But what if you weren’t? What if you-” She took a sharp breath. “What if you died?” 

Cole frowned before pulling her into a hug. “Don’t think about what could have happened. I’m here, aren’t I? That’s all that matters.” Cole said. 

After a few minutes, Nya pulled away. Her crying had died down. Cole smiled at her.

Nya smiled before realising something. “Why are you awake at this time?” She asked.

“Oh, uh… I couldn’t sleep.” Cole replied as he rubbed his head nervously. Nya gave him a sceptical look. Cole sighed. “I’m just…having trouble digesting the events of today.”

Nya hummed. “Yeah, a lot has happened.”

Cole nodded in agreement. “Still, I’m glad things worked out in the end.” He said. “But I'm pretty sure we’ll be doing this again sometime soon.”

Nya sighed. “We can never seem to get a break from trauma, huh? We probably need therapy. All of us.”

Cole smiled. “I’m pretty sure that won’t work. The therapist will need therapy after he hears a quarter of what we’ve been through.”

“True.” Nya chuckled. “It’s a surprise we’re still sane.” 

“Nah, I’m pretty sure Jay isn’t.” Cole joked. 

“Hey, that’s my Yin you’re talking about!” Nya said with fake annoyance as she punched his shoulder. 

The two laughed before sighing. 

“I think we should go to bed.” Nya said.

“Yeah.” Cole agreed. 

Nya then began to head inside but she stopped at the door for a moment. “Thank you, Cole.” 

Cole smiled. “Don’t mention it. What kind of brother would I be if I wasn’t there for my sister?” 

Nya returned the smile before disappearing inside. 

Cole began to head inside but stopped and looked back at the mural. His eyes landed on the most recent painting, the one with the ninja’s hand prints. He then looked up at the sky. Thank you, First Spinjitzu Master, for giving us another day to live.

-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Author's note: Hey, Lnaax here! Just a little one shot basing on the aftermath of the Oni battle. The picture is not mine Btw, i found it on google.

[all-eyes-on-lye-tonight]

“Third eye” by Florence + the Machine reminds me so much of ORV that its physically painful.       

  “ Don't make a shadow of yourself, always shutting out the light Caught in your own creation Look up, look up! It tore you open ”  !!!!!!!   

  “ You don't have to be a ghost here amongst the living You are flesh and blood And you deserve to be loved, and you deserve what you are given “!!!!!!!

“ 'Cause your pain is a tribute The only thing you let hold you Wear it now like a mantle Always there to remind you “ !!!!!!!!

“ 'Cause there's a hole where your heart lies And I can see it with my third eye And though my touch, it magnifies You pull away, you don't know why “!!!!!!!!!

“ I'm the same, I'm the same, I'm trying to change That original lifeline I am the same, I'm the same, I'm trying to change Original lifeline I am the same, I'm the same, I'm trying to change That original lifeline I am the same, I'm the same, I'm trying to change Original lifeline “

IM NEVER EVER GETTING OVER THIS

[wakingstarstuff]

when Florence Welch said ‘cause your pain is a tribute, the only thing you let hold you, wear it now like a mantle, always there to remind you

[captainkurosolaire]

Resolute Once More, Forever Lastly.

Heading back to create a lot of writing and stories this year throughout. Return to what foremost matters. But within every New Year resides a newly grown sprout of light; hope. However intense we set our resolutions and tough forth with action is how well that hope blossoms into something worthy enough for memories... What I'm setting myself too is simple, but altering to my essence.

Now officially, a decade ago, upon this time. I endured my meant trial a very close touch to death. Young and not determining value yet, I threw myself numerously towards surgeries and just carelessly towards the voices that were experts in treating me for the better, and while true. Every-time I seemingly fearlessly showed while others were frightful of mere needles, I turned blank like stone, uncaring letting my life become the epitome of waves. Hell, I never used my voice even towards what mattered, spoke out, for myself before that time. I was just a simple-minded creature that lives off only habit.

But at the same time all that happened and I was in my critical state only relying on hearing what my surroundings brought. Graced by potent dreams brought on by some powerful painful medicine. I still felt my soul, linger. I heard and felt, every day even when my eyes could not open or my body wasn't in my control, the noise warped my realities and nothing felt, real as it wasn't, but was. There was no way, I couldn't bring up in my mind, was this it? And that is where and when, everything flashes. Confronted what fulfilling things you brought in your time alive? I knew for one thing wasn't definitely, not enough. So why didn't I fight, be tougher, challenge myself, explore, think. To accept death isn't brave not when you can still run marathons. I survived. Told myself I would never again place myself into that position when I awoke and could finally rise to a daybreak, I would hold against myself more. Reinvent, discover, figure out what drives me, challenge, I would tangle and wrestle life itself, cause it wasn't ever going to slip against me. Long as I drew breathe from lungs. In almost the same vain, when I couldn't find value within his own life. A friend who had life's endless potential, accolades, credentials, smart, the type of smile that warmed a whole school, avid wrestler too, just easily liked. Unforeseeable, accidentally and most definitely could been evaded died around when I was recovering and emerging. Two opposing spectrum's, stances. Took that personal, harder than seemingly anyone, just because it was practically a brother, a first friend who saw and knew me beforehand, type you never forget, someone you clung and loved quite simply. So now I get to thrive and before I even jogged out, I now had to collect myself again. Many avenues, paths, could've taken. I could've slipped just gave up found myself quickly back where I started... but instead I spit in the eyes of fate and stubbornly, said I will live a life worth two, or as many as it takes to make up for it, I forced my eyelids open to the light, even when all the power was turned off! I turned my entire soul into a pledged tribute. And that made me rise against being shy easily, to become more engaging, even when I was told to rest, I kept going until I strained myself continuously back to hospital visits, in heaps of pain, but never once undetermined. Took up writing and never looked back, threw and went against pills, never wanting it to be a new way I was defined, or have some excuse so I invented my own cure, what better place, to live many lifetime's over, but to create them? To build them and aim to make them raw. Lead to writing, I could express and be myself, showcase parts of me and be my voice as much as needed, learn and acquire everything I lacked previously. Often we become the stories we tell ourselves. It awakens and alerts us to parts we never subconsciously had deep meaning or connected. There is a bountiful and lifetime amount of stories I have yet to write and to create, dramatics, fights, ups and downs, to dabble into things not in my nature or character, that doesn't discern someone like me. Because writing, no... creating is to know the existence of infinity. Might be asked why I spilled and always go into such elaborate lengths into everything I do. Now in days, if want people to know your story, it's say it under less than ten words. But that's not me. If you understand anything from why I am, who I am. You'd know I think and reflect deeply, I put "why, where and what" after each thought. I risk the damages of knowing those three words, into everything. Every year that changes, is a new beginning. It's only natural and spirit, I reflect on previously, and seek to aim for something new. After a decade of the garden I made. Being someone stubborn always punishing himself, forcing himself into challenges, being hard if I couldn't succeed, no matter what effort I put into, I made myself the grandest mental antagonist, villain in any story, a critic that destroys. Why sure, destruction can often lead you to admire what's left in the aftermath you created. Can't forget what destruction really means. So with it all being laid out. I'm doing something wild. I'm betting, gambling on myself. For once I'm not out to punish, challenge myself to something artificial, to force me to live the fullest. But something much grandeur. I want to live for a happiness for myself. See to really let yourself live for happiness outweighs everything else and that I believe is really what value really is. No matter how smart or massive it may be, or shape and size, if you give it importance, it becomes just that. Silly taken me this long to finally do that for myself and like when I did the XIVWrite to that Tribute my passed Friend, I can now dedicate forever and now on to tribute myself while still many times over. But this was a journey I had to undergo, writing and creating took me on this amazing path here. Met some outstanding people to call friends and mutual-alike, met crucial people that impacted me and sharpened me. Sorry for the blog post but you know, it's a blog I’m old school and lay it all on the table. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Moving on to content and ongoing things forth. I spent last year restraining myself and limiting myself a lot so I could make myself truly thirst and understand what is important and writing has never ached more to do. So throughout year, I got a small goal to just throw some chapters out, sixty would be a sick number, but let's not break this resolution. Getting refresh with somethings for the next week or so, try getting myself polished on some stuff for the Budokai 3 showdown. It's going to be the continuation of these works below, chronologically listed.

1. Parley of the Oceans

2. Give Up Butterfly

3. Genesis

Ideally I have the actual Fight, chopped into seven chapters for a full-on week, soon. Working on condensing stories into one chapters, or just a lot less, going forward. But eventually I can begin the dramatic story-telling and really exploring a whole roster of characters... O_O I've got a lot in-store but this makes me come alive above many things. Got some gut-wrenching feuds, some epic showdowns, war uprising, most anticipating is actually a pirate custom-made sport, next best thing since Blitzball in this universe, I conjured. xD That I really want to get to in the story-timeline. 5v5 of a ton of characters to figure out how I can spoof them up for their debuts. Somehow, unfathomably made it this far down. Thanks, means a lot to have some supporters and even those I admire to give me inspiration to not just create for myself but also create as large I possibly can so that it may matter for others too. That right there is stupendously valuable to me. Cheers hearties and even my lurking enemies!

[svartalfhild]

Third Eye by Florence + The Machine is giving me serious Laudmoore feels right now.

"'Cause there's a hole where your heart lies, and I can see it with my Third Eye, and though my touch, it magnifies, you pull away, I don't know why."

"You don't have to be a ghost here amongst the living. You are flesh and blood, and you deserve to be loved, and you deserve what you are given."

"'Cause your pain is a tribute. The only thing you let hold you. Wear it now like a mantle, always there to remind you."

I mean FUCK, bruh.

[theheavensbloom]

'Cause your pain is a tribute The only thing you let hold you Wear it now like a mantle Always there to remind you

[ntvsstuff]

"To Be Eve: An Ode to Womanhood" by Nina Theriot Valdes

“Women are born with pain built in.”

-Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Fleabag

To Be Eve: An Ode to Womanhood

Journal Entry-April 28th, 2022

I recognize this girlhood to such lengths I no longer know what to do with it, for it holds a persistent frailty worthy of bowing down to and looking down on. I put it down. Out it comes in the shape of a distinguished, vile-looking animal. The snake drags its barren womb across the ground, far before she comes of age. When it dawns on her that beauty must bear children to bear significance, she will burst out of her skin with the pressing of a nail, only to produce nothing. She will indulge and fatten up, and her nourishment will make prey out of her. Stop pretending you are in love when you are really in pain.

************************************************************************

There is a shred of dignity in washing dishes out of your own volition, before someone will be so kind as to remind you. You’ll find it under soapy, chipped fingernails that get worn out day after day. A certain game of pretend exists, as though there is an upper hand in voluntary submission. No one will ever force you to make yourself smaller than you are, but no one will forgive you if you don’t.

Tita –short for abuelita– was born out of resentment in January of 1940, the first and only daughter before her mother bore three more men into the world. I’ve seen what my grandfather looked like at 21, when he charmed her naive 18-year-old self away from her father’s wing and into the land of empty promises he made. He was a lawyer, and a good one, so naturally he was very good at lying. I wouldn’t have known any better had I had the misfortune of being a young Mexican woman in 1958. In all honesty– I wonder if I’d know any better right now.

“Where are the men who will beg you to stay? Where are these men who –like in the stories you’ve heard about your grandparents– would sooner lock you in your room than let you leave?”, said my best friend after yet another undeserving boy had come and gone. It makes for fun conversation to toy with the idea that our destiny is the product of some generational curse, but the truth is much harder to face; the cinematic, cotton candy dream machine that is traditional romance is tainted with violence and the myth of salvation. And though ignorance is seldom bliss, it is less painful than admitting that men have scarcely produced a happy woman—or at the very least, a woman who possessed a happiness she was not forced to string and regurgitate out of herself.

I’m left to wonder if the cause of her death was old age or exhaustion. A week before Tita’s passing, her heart gave out on the operation table. I’m not sure I believe in God. I’m not sure I believe in justice. But I choose to believe in the heaven that she saw, the heaven that was the color of my room. I feel sick at the thought that maybe the illness was a miracle, but a few days before she departed once and for all, she signed that DNR as eagerly as she would’ve signed divorce papers.

I’m not one to pray, but I pay tribute to other things: the transparency of her silence, the sentences she never said, and her never-applauded quiet martyrdom. I forgive myself for not having seen it sooner, for not having counted the grand gestures of love my grandfather made for the bottle before he showed her a drop of affection. I’m trying to forgive myself for being a child who, no longer naive or ignorant, grew into a woman who willingly overlooked the tangible absence of the men she spent her time with.

Once I learned of every tragedy plucked out of Grimms’ fairy tales, the true origin story of Tita’s broken ribs awoke curiosity in me; although I’ll never have proof, there are some things women just know. Soon after, the princess dress my aunt gifted me on my 5th birthday morphed into a femininity I now exert with wavering confidence, and any mediocre man looked like a prince from a flattering angle. 

My patience for the women in my family, who persistently (and often roughly) advised me to raise my standards, has grown as I’ve witnessed them stomach every fault of the men they chose. The criteria no longer was to be happy, loved, or cherished, but to estimate how much hurt you could take and settle down accordingly. And that is precisely what it was: settling. Now, as I take on this inheritance, I recognize it for the great feat it is, but I don’t respect it. I’m not sure I respect myself.

My grandfather’s sister, Dora, was a nun. She lived to the age of 96 in the small and humble convent where we often visited her. Dora had a habit of reaching for the warmth of my hands as they rested at her bedside, often nervously switching between the two. Her fingers were long and graceful, fit for playing piano at Sunday Mass as she often did. Her hands had an inevitable resemblance to her brother’s and took on the shape of her frugal way of life, drastically contrasting my grandmother’s manicured nails. There was always, however, an inevitable chip in the nail that tied us three women together and, moreover, that led us to share the room with my grandfather. 

After God took her away, the only thing Dora left behind was her rosary. From then on, my grandfather woke up at dawn everyday and prayed with conviction only a guilty man could hold, as though he’d be led into heaven by the rose-fragranced string of beads he held. I woke up many times to see him praying in the dark, his eyes closed as he sat back on his rocking chair. He looked peaceful as he apologized to the sky; he looked sorry when he thought no one was watching. In his loneliness he was honest, and the weakest part of me will always find some redemption in that. My heart finds the good in men where there might be none; I hope that’s the good that a man could find in me. I don’t respect myself.

I worship the young woman Mary was before Gabriel cornered her. I find her written in the margins of Tita’s prayer book, and in my yearning to write books of my own someday. I see her in the brunette roots Tita left behind on her hospital comb, and in my reluctance to ever dye my own hair blonde out of respect for the dead.  The only salvation I know of is resurrection of my own accord.

In her most famous and only novel, The Bell Jar,  Sylvia Plath sheds light on this paradox: despite women’s desire for companionship with a man, and the illusion that such will come attached to love and happiness, companionship with self is more often than not destroyed in the process. In the words of Plath’s implicitly autobiographical main character, Esther Greenwood, her own failed relationships confirm that the process of falling in love with a man is fundamentally designed to trick women into submission:

In spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like (...) [a] kitchen mat. (85).

Though Plath’s writing was addressed to the broken hearts of women in the 50s, her voice transcends time and echoes in the souls of contemporary women just as strongly. It is in this rose-colored ‘courting’ period that every vow and promise of happiness is made, that is, until you’re crying like his mother because he’s his father's son. As my mind and body have grown, my eyes have widened to observe this pattern as collateral damage caused by the broken marriages we’ve all witnessed, rather than a birthright. It is not futile to keep walking the line of vulnerability that is finding someone, nor is it weak to believe that somewhere out there is a person who will be patient long enough to find you.

Some six beautiful months ago, I met a boy who made me see love and partnership for what it is. He was the whole package, but carried problems, unknown to me at the time, attached to his own masculinity. He was a whole man, made of flesh and blood, and the very same things that kept me up at night. Until then, I’d spent my life reclaiming the “man-hater” title to retaliate against the pattern of men’s offenses. The problem was it worked. I could never prove myself wrong if I made every effort to always be right, all while working under the illusion that my tragic prophecies were fulfilling themselves without any of my help. 

The night we met, every act I’d so easily put on was disarmed in an instant. It was hard not to hate him for stripping me of my familiarity. It would have been less painful to do so, too. Much to my own disbelief, fighting the resentment from bubbling up is the closest thing I’ve known to peace. And though I know he didn’t hand me this solace in a box, sometimes I want to say thank you. I feel hopeful that he will continue to strike my every sneaking suspicion down without slashing me in the process. I am not one to pray, but I have faith in other things. 

************************************************************************

“I feel hopeful.” “I have faith.” In retrospect, I chuckle. I’ve been let down again and all at once. In the height of disappointment, Plath’s work takes up the spot on my bedside table where a Bible used to be. In an attempt to change her story, I have learned nothing. Posthoumously, Plath’s work and ideas, often referenced by second-wave feminism, resurfaced and encompassed the self-inflicted longing of the female condition: a longing for a man, a longing for oneself, coexisting whether you eat from the fig tree or not. How painful and rewarding it is to be Eve, to be his broken rib, and secure that place by committing unforgivable crimes against oneself. 

I wish Tita had known love like Beauvoir’s and Sartre’s, I wish she’d found her own profoundness and depth in someone else. I wish she’d walked the streets of Paris just twenty years earlier than she did, before her honeymoon. Maybe then she would’ve known of men with broader minds and broader hearts, had she not held his hand as she stepped over the cobblestones. I’ve been to Paris too, now. And I have seen that it is the color of my room, for I traveled through it unaccompanied. 

************************************************************************

As for the pain that I speak on, let this be the point of reference:

Journal Entry-November 13th, 2022

Sustaining injury 

did not cut me out for good things.

I don’t know when I should say thank you anymore

What a sad loss– only remembrance of an educated girl. 

Green

Raw

Whatever you call me, I will answer to the name. 

The rabbits chasing for the pasture 

are preyed upon and frowned upon, 

and so it will be until the end of time.

Until the end of mine. 

I let the leaves fall into place.

I know how little I can take, should I say thank you evermore. 

Is it so wrong to let the night fall 

when your head is above ground? 

Underwater, a little siren primps her hair

with tools they use to kill her. 

Is there any other choice? 

I let the leaves fall into place, and He will crush them still.

Give or take, 

give away your prized possessions and maybe, 

just maybe, 

In a few years He will help you.

It is always on your knees, isn’t it? 

When they kick you and console you. 

In a few years’ time, you will understand. 

For now, lay down, lay down, lay down

Pray the hounds will pass right by you

when you see them overhead. 

Keep your head down, keep your eyes closed

Pray harder than you exist

Pray for lambs, and deer, and that the monstrous won’t like you. 

Pray, against your wishes, for things worthy of heaven. 

************************************************************************

After Paris, I have nowhere left to go but home, where the smell of her arroz y frijoles permeated the air through the stench of Carlos’ cigarette fumes. I call him by his first name now; he hasn’t earned the title of grandfather, or husband, or man. Much less abuelito– Tito, as I used to call him. He belonged to a generation of men that betrayed the likes of Kahlo and would reap no consequence, the only difference is that Kahlo painted more and Tita stopped altogether. I only ever got to see her paintings through a thin layer of dust. Halfway through her undergraduate degree, he decided she needed good “talking-to”. And so she came home unenrolled, no longer a painter or a student or a woman. Only a mother, only a wife, once by conviction, now by force. And still, she did it all with love.

“Any other woman,” Tía said, “would’ve put a bullet through her head, gone crazy, or disappeared.” The other woman miscarried in the hospital, actually. Tita miscarried twins not much later, after Carlos had already picked a name for them: Jesús y María. Like Plath and Assia Wevill, they both died their own little deaths. I think of women like her, and men like him, and my mind goes elsewhere now. To women like my mother, who have none of it, and to men like my father, who gave up smoking reds and who hasn’t touched a bottle since she threatened to leave him. On Earth, God was just a man, after all. To me, a man just like my father. 

The road is paved with skulls that are stretched thin and still thick-headed. I come from single second chances and wishing met with truth. I am only as naive as I am loving, and for that I cannot resent myself. Even when futile, I kneel before cribs, and crypts, and hospital beds and hold hands destined to let go. As her ashes remain ashes and the dust looms over me, I let myself be as alone as I was in the beginning. I am the good in my life when there might be none, with blind faith in something better. My kindness used to be plentiful enough to go around, and now it crawls and comes full circle. What a harrowing concept; a woman capable of change, a woman who kneels and retreats without opening her mouth. Am I not what you wanted? I am not the one with the harder pill to swallow. 

************************************************************************

A Brief Afterword:

“To Be Eve: An Ode to Womanhood” began as a Memoir assignment for my English 1301 class. The objective was to take on the assignment through a distinctive past and present-self, the retelling of memories, and a reflection about our experience as part of a much larger cultural phenomenon. I sifted through my memory, all the way back to where my conception of womanhood started: my grandmother, my letters to her, the writings she left to me, my identification with writers of her generation, and my subsequent personal writings.  My methodology began with a thorough recollection of my childhood with my grandmother, with a particular emphasis on the descent from my picture-perfect perception of her marriage to its eventual tarnishing. I fact-checked as much as possible with my family members, only for my memory to be confirmed or added on to by most. 

As I studied my writing, I discovered there was an overarching, poignant grief that overtook my pages since before Tita’s death and that was only exacerbated after the fact. Although the origin of my grievances with men and my troubles with womanhood can be traced to Tita’s cautionary tale, the lives and deaths of other women of her generation, like Sylvia Plath and Frida Kahlo, as well as my personal romantic disappointments, gave birth to the understanding that my experience was certainly not unique. In my healing, revisiting the religious texts of my Catholic religion only affirmed my experience. When looked at as a piece of literature, the Bible offered further examples of the wronged, demonized, and abused femininity I observed all around me. 

Beauvoir’s exceptional love story with Sartre, the healing I obtained through my writing, and my parents’ resurrected marriage became a source of acceptance, gratitude, and maybe even hope. My eyes opened to an abundance of love that lied in the very same places where I had once seen it so absent: in the feminist writings I once looked at so solemnly, in the arch between my pessimist past-poetic self and the present poet that knows better, and in the miraculous rebuilding of my family and home life. Every cross I have had to bear clarified that the crisis of faith was the faith itself: with patience, through poetry, and seated at the right hand of my father, I can say that I know what a man’s love is. 

I plan to continue writing this Memoir after finishing my English 1301 course.

Word count:

2898

Works Cited

Plath, Sylvia. The Bell Jar (Modern Classics). 1st ed., Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2005.

Waller-Bridge, Phoebe. TV Show. Directed by Harry Bradbeer, season 2, episode 3, Two Brothers Pictures, 18 Mar. 2019. Amazon Prime Video, www.amazon.com/gp/video/detail/B0875FRLWQ/ref=atv_dp_season_select_s2.

[seriial]

the third eye demo will never not make me want to sob,,

“‘cause your pain is a tribute / the only thing u let hold u / wear it now like a mantle / always there to remind u” no comment.

“i am the same, i’m the same / i’m trying to change” girl me too. me fuckin too

“hey look up / you don’t have to be a ghost here amongst the living / you are flesh and blood / you deserve to be loved and you deserve what you are given” i’m going to SOB. AND THROW UP MAYBE

[ravs6709]

If I knew how to draw and animate I would totally draw a joongdok/platonic kimcom animatic for florence + the machine's third eye

[yanqings]

songs that changed my brain chemistry permanently

[genshin-impact-fics]

Streamer!Genshin Reacting to Character!(Y/N) Dying in Game

!Warning!: Major character deaths & angst

Characters: Diluc, Venti, Childe, & Zhongli

Diluc:

It was a race to get inside one of the bases of the Abyss Order to put a stop to whatever plans they were in the process of executing that could potentially put many lives in danger. Diluc was rather calm while playing though it would be a lie to say that it wasn’t a bit annoying that the route to the domain was timed

It was once inside the domain did things pick up fast as it seemed to be a fighting wave system which after beating the first two rooms there was a short scene where in the end Lisa and Amber stayed behind to hold off the incoming enemies so the rest of the group could go further. It seemed like forever doing some of the puzzles to unlock the doors to reach the next fight

In that fourth room after the defeat of hilichurls and abyss mages did suddenly a short cut scene appear to show the appearance of an Abyss Lector. As remembering how much he hated fighting this guy in the spiral abyss he already knew what he was in for; however that was until your character stepped forward with your weapon ready. Diluc was actually sad to have to leave you behind as he was hoping that you’d be one of the characters that went with him to the very end

“I think I’ve watched enough shows and movies to know what this could be leading up to.” He’d comment to his viewers as he finally reached the destination where the Abyss Herald was. Finishing the fight triggered another cutscene as the traveler’s sibling appeared and was making their small speech, asking if the lives of the “friends” the traveler made were worth losing

Diluc is watching with a straight face as he kinda expected this but the who was what he wasn’t sure about and truthfully the only one he’d be truly heartbroken about is your death, but they wouldn’t kill you now of all times right? Wrong; soon the cutscene finally came across where they had left you and you were leaning against the wall extremely injured with your weapon laying beside you. Diluc is frowning cuz he has to watch you die now

Listening to your final words as you spoke to no one Diluc would sulk in his chair a little. In the last moment before your eyes closed, if you mentioned something about not getting to tell his character your true feelings it is visible that Diluc looks like he wants to cry(but he doesn't). Once the screen showed the mission complete he’d grab the plush he had of your character and hold it looking at his camera. “Of all the characters I thought were going to die, I wasn’t ready for it to be (y/n).” At that point he’d probably call it a day from there but he’d still talk to his viewers as he probably would watch the tribute videos that fans had already made

Venti:

Everything was in chaos as it looked like archon war 2 was going to be taking place, but this time it was a war between the Abyss Order and the Archons. He was heading to Mondstadt to help and to check on you. Dvalin was flying around sending attacks at the abyss members. “Ah traveler there you are!” The sound of your voice as you landed before him; as weird as it was to see you in your archon robes was odd but you looked so good! After a short conversation you had gone flying off and it was time to get back to fighting

Things were looking good as it seemed like they were winning against the abyss order though it wasn’t over yet. It was until up in the air did a cutscene starting showing you and the traveler’s sibling fighting going at it. Venti is so captivated by how serious and cool you look fighting, but it all changed when the sibling landed a blow that caused you to fall from the sky ending up falling into the Whispering Woods

Venti couldn’t run fast enough to get to the woods to check up on you but when he did the first thing he saw was the sibling standing before you. He’s already sad and yelling at the sibling for hurting you though it seemed that now he was there the sibling went and disappeared revealing the real condition you were in. “No, no, no! This better not mean (y/n)’s dying.” He’d say in denial as he’s already starting to cry a little

“A-Ah Windblume h-haha… Sorry you have to see me like this.” Even in a moment like this you gave him such a cheesy grin until you seemed to grimace in pain. “Unfortunately it seems like… This is it for me. As long as the winds blow I will always be with you, so please watch over Mondstadt for me.” Your words were making Venti cry as it was like back in your story quest but only ten times worse. And to think it was already painful as it was your next words that did him in. “Maybe in another life we will find each other again and maybe then we can be together.”

Watching you start to glow until you turned into partials of light till nothing of you was left, Venti is devastated. The chat is crying with him as he’s saying how awful it was that his sibling had killed the love of his life! His viewers are going to send him fanart and fics to look at that was an alternative that you lived in the game

Childe:

It was a big fight with the confrontation of the Fatui Harbingers, facing off against one of the other stronger members that blocked the path to proceed to seeing the Tsaritsa. The boss’ first stage was fine; however during the second stage it seemed after losing a certain amount of health the damage that Childe was dealing significantly decreased.

It was when the cutscene started that Childe was already dreading the foul legacy form he’d be facing this time. You suddenly came out of nowhere and already in your foul legacy form yourself Childe is going crazy over how cool you look; he’s also swooning at the fact that you’ve come to his rescue. The fighting progressed until you landed a successful hit that weakened the other harbinger; however, at that same time the other harbinger managed to hit you with a powerful attack

Childe is screaming at the sight of your mask breaking while you fell to the ground. He’s so glad that his character is running over to check on you instead of the fight picking right up, but he’s already feeling the feels hit him hard cuz he hates seeing you hurt. Seeing you back to normal, the damage you sustained was really bad; then the worst thought came to his mind. “This-This better not be what I think it is,” he’s saying not looking away from the screen listening to you weakly talk

“Haha don’t give me that look sweetie, I couldn’t just let this be where your journey ends.” Hearing those words and the nickname you used for his character was sad. “To think we’d be able to travel together more, but hey… Promise you won’t stop fighting and could you look after my siblings for me.” Childe is literally crying now that the reality of the situation is clear. If he gets a choice of dialog to choose from he is going to pick the choice that says that he pinky promises

If your character smiled at the choice he wanted to smile but he’s also just sad, you were dying in his character's arms. If you had given a small love confession in the little bit of life that was in you, he’s going to ugly sob and once the fight was starting again he needs to pause by going into his bag

Immediately he goes getting his big plush of you and coming back to hug it and cleaning his tears with his sleeve before looking at the camera. “I wasn’t ready for this, my baby!” He was not expecting to be losing you; he figured that some characters would possibly die but you were the last character he thought would be killed off in the game. There’s Fs in the chat all around and the crying emote; it’s sad boi hours in this chili’s. He doesn't wanna do the fight but also he gotta avenge you so this last stage fight was for you. Afterwards he’s gonna go look at fanart and video edits

Zhongli:

After helping some of the other nations and their archon’s fend off the abyss order it was time he headed to Liyue to find you. Of course as usual it wasn’t going to be as easy as running around the harbor until he got word from Xiao that you were in Cuijue Slope. So he headed over to help you before anything seriously bad could happen to you

Getting to the open area there you were fighting against the sibling as you were even in your archon robes. Going in and interrupting the fight his sibling clearly looked annoyed and proceeded to try to get him to side with them which of course he didn’t. A Herald appeared to allow the sibling to get away which the fight with the Herald commenced

Just when Zhongli finished up the fight thinking he had won it strangely went to a cutscene as his character and you started to talk; however it was when the fallen Herald came out of nowhere about to attack his character but must to his surprise you shielded him not only taking the hit, but also using your elemental burst to finish off the enemy. Zhongli is frowning at how badly you were hurt as he already has a bad feeling this wasn’t going to end good; the traveler was helping you sit up after having fallen over

“I’m glad to see that you aren’t hurt my friend.” You said as you certainly have seen better days. “Sadly I believe my time has come… Do not be sad dear friend, I have lived many many years… As knowing you has been life changing. Though rocks change from erosion, know that no time will change how I felt about you.” Your words broke his heart as you had such a soft expression on your face as your body began to glow and before he knew it you turned into particles of light and disappeared. He probably wouldn’t cry at most maybe a tear but he is clearly upset about your passing in game and would take a break to talk to his viewers and maybe look at the fanart that surprisingly had been put out already