popping in randomly after almost an entire month just to talk non stop about the tsaritsa again everyone sit down.
specifically just thinking about the implications of tsaritsa's ideals originally being about love + the abandonment of those ideals to complete her goal of, presumably, destroying Celestia or whatever she's cooking up. to the point even her people don't love her and I probably don't even remember a time her ideals were of love. now it's all just ice and snow and cold.
which makes romantic fics w her even funnier because she's purposely removed this part of herself and suddenly reader walks into teyvat like they own the place (they do) and I can only imagine her reaction. angry, probably. because why you? what are you doing to her that's caused her hundreds of years of strict adherence to rejecting "love" both from others and to others to just. collapse. absolute shattering of her world and you probably don't even know it bc if nothing else she's good at hiding it. a lot of denial. tries to pick you apart and see what's makes you so different.
and oh she just hates it. she loathes it.
basically one sided enemies to lover trope because she can't stand you for a while but if you stick around she starts warming up to you and it makes it WORSE. so much worse. tries to distance herself but your just everywhere and it gets on her nerves because why does she love you? she isn't capable of love, not anymore. she thought she was.
g-d forbid one of the harbingers or PIERRO notices she'd never live it down. might even consider the implications of just killing you (she doesnt). worse if you know about it and act like a brat she will lose her damn mind
just the tsaritsa being an absolutely horrible mess internally.
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Rex Lapis and his adepti have been together for thousands of years but it’s endearing how much they cherish him. Cloud Retainer was arguing with the seller but the moment he questioned Zhongli's integrity she was ready to storm off, or the fact when she found out he "died" her first desire was to drown the entire harbor.
In Xiao's voicelines he says he wont tolerate anyone disrespecting Morax even the beloved traveler or how in last lantern rite, traveler asks him who made the dinner awkward and if you pick Zhongli he'll instantly rushes to defend him.
Or the fact Ganyu hated Keqing for years cause she was so disrespectful to Rex Lapis and Zhongli had to tell her to try and get along. Plus Ganyu has soo many voicelines about rex lapis and she even tries to replicate some of zhongli's.
Its kind of interesting because to some extent they seem really flustered in his presence but truly adore him.
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yknow i say im a huge multishipper but i wouldnt actually consider myself much of a shipper at all. just open to the idea of trying everything once. the term has typically romantic connotations and follows the assumption that i think, and want, these characters to be good for eachother.
I'm, personally, less interested in the prexisting chemistry than i am in the puzzle of figuring out what differing circumstances could potentially cause two characters who have seemingly nothing in common to become eachothers everything.
This could explain my favorism towards rarepairs and more convoluted dynamics, and my aversion to popular, fluffy pairings that have already been explored a thousand times over, there's no work for me to do there.
Not to mention that when a ship becomes too popular it starts cannibalising itself, and lots of good, interesting characterisations are lost in the sea of people bending characters into pre-orchestrated, saccharine dynamics. alot of which are usually downright fetishy in nature, particularly in mlm pairings.
I mean i would say being able to get ooc and self indulgent is downright mandatory for making a good fic, but there's only so many times i have to read a fic about a big, overprotective, manly-man top who does all the work and the shy, small, swoony, softhearted femme-wifey-bottom before it starts to just be lazy.
I actively have to go out of my way to search 'switch' tags if i want true-to-the-character, mutual emotional reciprocation. which i really, really shouldn't have to do as an ace person who actively skips through nsfw.
And it's not that popular wlw pairings aren't guilty of these problems aswell, but those tend to lean more into the 'soft lesbians who can do no wrong' stereotype, which always completely (butch)ers all nuisance that makes the ship worth shipping in the first place.
As well as that's if they're even the focus of the story at all and aren't just shoved to the side by the main mlm couple. mlw pairings can be culpable of both these things, with the added risk that you find out the author made a twitter post with the characters in front of the 'super straight' flag.
Though i also wonder if me being aspec plays any part as again; im not as interested in the romantic aspects as i am in the possible hurdles they may face throughout the potential relationship.
Anyone else feel like this?
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sweetest dreams | venti x reader
venti wakes up in the middle of the night. he's still half awake, very much sleepy, and he doesn't know what woke him up. but as always, the first thing he does when he opens his eyes is to look at his windblume—only to find them already looking at him.
"huh...? windblume...? it's still dark out, why are you awake?"
they don't respond. in fact, it doesn't seem like they've heard him at all. they look dazed, in a trance, just looking at him. it's kind of creepy actually...but i'm not one to talk when i like to watch them sleep.
worried, venti lifts his upper body up to get a better look at them, squinting in the dark and gently placing a hand on their arm.
"my love? what's wrong, you okay...?nightmare...?"
they still don't use their words, but they do shake their head and scoot closer to him for a cuddle. his body moves to hold them close. their head on his chest, arms wrapping around them, his hands gently caressing their hair then leaning down for a kiss on the forehead as he always does.
he's still confused on what's gotten into his beloved at this hour, but it's nothing unusual. they're not a very talkative person, especially when they're all curled up in bed, so he does not push, and instead just lets himself relax at the warmth from their hug and their soft gentle breathing.
he's close to falling back to sleep when he feels them shift to look up at him again. curious, he looks back down and almost coos at the sight: his windblume is sleepy—droopy eyes peering up at him, the same fond look in their eyes that makes his heart flutter and their hand holding him by his waist, gently pulling him even closer to them.
"'love you..."
barely a whisper, but he hears it loud and clear. he hopes you too, hear his heart start to race as your words sink into him, his own fond look appearing on his face, and he quietly giggles, pulling you close and kissing your forehead again.
"oh windblume... is that it? is that what kept you awake? heh, so silly...but i love you too."
his hands go back to carding your hair, and you shift again to get comfy—finally resting now that your little mission is complete.
"go to sleep now, dearest. i'll make you breakfast when the sun rises in the morning. sweet dreams."
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☆ love; heretical and divine
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood
{☆} word count 0.8k
To love a God is heretical. It is an act of blasphemy– it is to drag them down from their throne of hollow gold, to topple the pedestal the worshipers uphold on their shoulders like lambs at the herders heel. It is the act of forcing them to their knees and ripping that beating heart of glorious gold and beautiful, cruel divinity from their chest, so pure it burns.
To love a God is to make them sin. To make them painfully, horribly human.
To love a God is to sin.
The love of a worshiper is no love at all, brilliant in its raw purity, untainted by sin. It is fear and obedience masked by adoration so overpowering it corrupts. It makes the lamb so unquestioning in it's faith it will never question the knife that cuts, the teeth that rip, the claws that tear. If the Creator deemed them unworthy of the very life crafted by their hands, then they must have committed a sin so grave there lay no salvation for their horrid soul.
But she is no worshiper– her lips speak of heresy as easily as she breathes, her words nothing but lies, cold and cruel like the ice that crawls along her skin like webs.
She loves a God like a lover should.
A damned sinner reaching longingly for the heavens.
She loves a God in the subtle brush of their lips, their muffled voices behind closed doors as they indulge in curiosity untamed. She is a sinner through and through, but she feels herself fall further with every brush of her hand across their cheeks, every touch she bestows upon them like a lover. She memorizes the imperfections of their body like memorizing a map– every scar, every mark, every line drawn on their body like a canvas, her touch the brush that stains the pristine white.
No devoted lamb shall ever see the painting they create in these stolen moments– it is for the eyes of a heretic so vile it makes them shudder, their body dirtied by the love of a woman so vile even their divinity is obscured by the ice.
The lambs may be satisfied with fleeting glimpses of gold and empty words from lips that guide them to the jaws of the wolves, but she is not. Her hands crave them like a starving hound, aching to touch that imperfect skin hidden by the veil of gold that obscures the painfully human body beneath. She longs to free them from the golden cage that binds them– to see their wings blot out the sky, their divinity tainted by sin and making them all the more beautiful for it.
It is a longing that leaves a festering wound that cannot heal, will not heal. Even if it could, she would not let it.
For as much as she tries, deny it as she may, she is no better then the blind lambs following the herder who holds a blade in their hand, glittering like gold in the sun, stained by dull red.
She is a fool, and what a fool they make of her with the touch of their hands against her skin– so cold it leaves frost on their fingertips. Yet they do not fear the cold, mapping out every inch of her imperfections, carved into her body by her own hands.
She has always been a heretic, cursing the divine until she could speak no more, but if divinity can be found in them – in this love that consumes, that burns her hands and her lips – then she is a Saint, praying at the altar until her throat bled.
But in the end, she has and will always be a cold woman with hands stained with blood. Until it is all she can taste, until it is all she can smell, until it is all she can feel. These hands of hers, heretical and divine, will bleed the God from their veins– she will become the wolf to their lamb until the rivers of Teyvat run gold with their ichor, until the gold bleeds into red, the taste of their divinity on her tongue.
Until she drags a God from their lofty throne and makes of them a monster.
There is no greater triumph to the heretic then to love a God into sin. To make a God sin to love.
To love is to be human, and they are no God.
Even if she must tear the gold from their very being until all that's left is something human. Even if Teyvat crumbles and decays, even if it begins over and over again..
She will do it again and again, until the gold can bleed no longer. Until her sins grow too great for Teyvat to contain.
To love a God is to devour, and be devoured. An endless cycle of sin that dulls the glow of gold into something new– something horrifying and divine, in it's own right. Something just as horrid as her, just as divinely corrupted by the sins she carries on her shoulders like a trophy, as gold as the sun and as cold as ice.
Divinity, carved into something human by love all consuming, until it all bleeds away and they begin their dance anew, for as many cycles as it takes.
An eternity, if she must, of dooming this world of theirs to fire and decay for a glimpse of the being snared by their golden shackles.
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trigger warning: death
note: ghost au, wip
After months of desperate researches and unanswered letters, al-Haitham finally glimpsed a glimmer of hope, convinced that they had found his Kaveh. However, upon reaching the destination, all that awaited him was an unnamed grave and a lifeless grey vision without its owner.
He sank to his knees, voiceless, thoughtless, gazing at the tombstone as his body convulsed in a tremor. Tears began to fall one by one, and sweet yet painful memories flooded his mind: those tight, warm embraces, the melodious laughter, the songs sung while cooking, even the arguments that ended in sighs and smiles, and then, the voice he would never hear again. One by one, these thoughts crowded his mind, growing so loud that they erupted into a scream of anguish and pain.
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