#quarantine tw

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[uncanny-tranny]

Alloromantic and allosexual people can, indeed, consent to any type of relationship with an aromantic person and/or asexual person. Yes, this even includes entirely non-romantic sexual relations or non-sexual romantic relationship. Allo people have the ability to consent, and it's wild to me that aphobes and acephobes are so vehemently disgusted that ace and aro people exist that they end up infantilizing allo people.

It's just wild to me that your ability to consent is revoked outright so long as people are "just concerned" that you might end up in a "non-normative" situation. And by wild, I mean concerning.

[autismdogg]

breakfast with blue 🐾

[raayllum]

Re these prior musings / promises but speculation regarding the secret scene possibly being Claudia murdering Sir Sparklepuff got me wondering, so... let's talk about Rayla, Claudia, and symbolic to non symbolic notions of suicide.

Tw because this will mention / does talk about cannibalism, suicidal ideation, and suicide in passing. If you're not comfortable reading about those things in more detail but you still want the gist of this meta, scroll down to the TLDR that will have a couple sentence summary of the idea.

With that out of the way, let's get into it.

For a while now, I've been interested in the metaphorical mechanics regarding Rayla murdering Viren in 3x09. As we all know (even if Aaravos 'pretends' otherwise in 4x04), Rayla did successfully kill the man, retroactively achieving her earlier mission of killing a king of Katolis because he was responsible for both the death of the Dragon King and because he'd killed Zym (which Viren was in the process of doing).

However, Rayla kills Viren in the most Rayla-y of ways, as she does so without her assassin blades, while acting as the Last Dragonguard, and in a way that means killing Viren is not just an act of protection or revenge, but also something that meant sacrificing (killing) herself.

And this felt notable to me, since unlike either of the brothers, Rayla hasn't killed anyone else. Ezran would've burned people alive with dragon fire if not for immunity spell, and Callum blasted plenty of people off the side of the mountain and presumably to the Storm Spire. But Viren was the sole blood on Rayla's hands, even if the narrative has Claudia (and we'll get to her in a minute) resurrect him. Her one act of murder being something that also, as stated, required her to sacrifice her whole person, and is also in line with her assassin training: "I am already dead."

When Rayla rebuttals Ezran's assertion that "[You spared him] because you knew he was a person, just like you," you can read Rayla's assertion of "That shouldn't have mattered, I had a job to do," solely as her talking about the guard's personhood... but you can also read it, I think, as her dehumanizing her own personhood. She is a weapon and he is the target and that's all that should've mattered.

We can tether this thread all the way up to season four with Rayla's refusal to murder Callum, but put a pin in that, cause now I want to talk about Claudia.

Much like we can read Rayla's attempted dehumanization as twofold, I also think we can read Sir Sparklepuff's mimicry of Claudia as something with multiple layers. The first and likely most obvious one of course is that Sir Sparklepuff mimicking Claudia in earlier episodes is to setup later that he is her (magical, technical?) half-brother and one of Viren's children. Kind of like how we had Ezran and Zym mimicking each other in mid-S2 to set up their mental/emotional bond later that season.

And this implied connection likewise loops back around in the finale when Viren simultaneously refuses to sacrifice Sir Sparklepuff for his own survival while also lamenting that he's led (sacrificed?) his own daughter down a dark path (and perhaps regret that he sacrificed his son once, too).

Arc 2 has also ramped up Claudia's willingness to destroy herself further for the "good of her family" (and her own desires that often steamroll over theirs) in having her take on more and more animalistic forms when doing dark magic, blurring the lines between her de-personalization of magical creatures and also herself.

This reflects dark magic's cannibalism motif quite well, as Claudia carries on metaphorically cannibalizing her own body throughout most of s4 and especially s5: refusing to rest from Terry, using her own blood in spells, etc.

This all reinforces that while dehumanization was something Rayla struggled with for both her target(s) and to a lesser degree herself, it's something that Claudia has only continually excelled at. And we know, thanks to S4 with Rayla walking away from the drake in the woods ("We can't save everyone") that she's gotten better at it as well.

But what does this all have to do with symbolic suicide? Well...

If the secret scene is what a good deal of us have been speculating / that Claudia is covered in Sir Sparklepuff's blood in the teaser trailer, then: if Sir Sparklepuff is a stand in for Viren's innocent, made to be an asset, processing learned behaviour child - if he is a stand in for Claudia - then through killing him, Claudia is symbolically killing herself.

Now, there's no doubt in my mind that Claudia isn't viewing things that way, but we also know just how much she's willing to ruin herself for the people around her first hand, and how persistent that characterization has been: "Are you okay?" "You're going to be better now. That's all that matters." While Claudia also has some selfish, twisted self-preservation in there as well (she cannot or will not cope with the fracturing of her family, even when she really probably should), the self-destructive tendency that's led to her S6 spiral is well established.

This attitude of "it doesn't matter what happens to me, so long as other people are okay/safe" is something we see for many characters, of course, but I think is best embodied in Rayla's continual, emphasized thread of sacrifice / her tendency towards subtle but consistent passive suicidal ideation regarding her own safety and her own wants/desires.

R: Don't worry about my hand. The egg is all that matters. / It doesn't matter what happens to me. / I have to go after [Viren]. / It's agonizing, but I know our mission comes first.

This is important regarding her and Callum in regards to the possession plot line. As long as Callum is Callum (not possessed, or she has reason to believe he's still in there), Rayla likely won't be able to bring herself to kill him. This is from an emotional / characterization standpoint, of course, but from a thematic standpoint, we can see where it stems from Callum and Rayla continually being each other's main connection to their sense of identity.

As long as Callum is Callum ("you're the destiny is a book you write yourself guy"), he's worth saving. As long as Callum is Callum, she can be Rayla ("Rayla's brave. She saves people" / "Rayla. My name is Rayla, and I'm going home"). As long as she's Rayla, he can be Callum. Because if Callum isn't Callum, then he's dead, and if he's dead, she can kill him. And if Rayla kills him, if Callum is dead, then she won't be Rayla anymore. Because to literally kill Callum would be to simultaneously symbolically/emotionally kill herself.

Now of course, some of this is already differing wildly.

If Claudia is going to kill Sir Sparklepuff, it makes the most sense for it to have already come to pass in 6x01, whereas Callum and Rayla's plot line would only come later on in the season. Claudia will presumably succeed at her symbolic suicide, but that doesn't mean she's not still worth saving / unable to be saved in the future (perhaps by her family). Rayla will probably fail at her symbolic suicide and succeed at sparing herself through sparing/saving Callum.

However, it's an interesting symbolic thread and potential foil contrast, and I thought it was worth pointing out. I hope you think so too!

TLDR below:

Due to Claudia's parallels to Sir Sparklepuff, if she kills him it holds a layer of her symbolically killing herself. In contrast, Rayla's symbolic suicide would be in killing Callum, as that would destroy her own sense of identity/life. For Claudia, this means likely being saved later by her family, and for Rayla, this means likely sparing Callum and herself simultaneously, thereby saving and sparing both of them.

[diary-of-a-quarantined-yandere]

Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me? Do you like me?

GOD, PLEASE LIKE ME 🔪🩸

[generic-whumperz]

Feverish, delirious, very sick and contagious Whumpee reaching out for Caretaker- Caretaker wanting nothing more than to comfort Whumpee, but they are in a hazmat suit and Whumpee is in a quarantine tent.

[askquarantinedredheart]

Content Warning: Brief mention of a method of suicide in context of healthcare.

Volume 1: Isolation

First - Previous - Next - Last

I'm aware of how dark the last frame is so please, if you're ever in that frame of mind, please reach out to someone you trust. If you're in the US, the National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is 988 and they also have a website with great resources. You're not alone.

Asks from two anons and @reversal-mushroom

[irbcallmefynn]

Waughh this bedpost is also an ART!

Had this idea right after getting out of the shower and I knew I needed to draw it. Have a funky bug that turns you into a pooltoy! x3

Tried to be at least a little realistic with how it works, but also I don't know how anything works so this is probably insane. But that's fine because a beetle that turns you into a pooltoy is insane to begin with.

Look my vocabulary is needlessly large and I like using big words so any chance to use extravagant wording will be seized.

Transcript under cut because it's probably too long for alt text

Pool Beetle (Piscīna mordere) Often found in dark, warm areas by bodies of water. Pool sheds and Pool chests are common nesting spots. They are territorial, and will bite if disturbed. Their bite, if not treated within a few hours, will eventually lead to the growth of a hard, white tumor. Often described as "reminiscent of a pooltoy valve". A Pool Beetle infection site will spread outward over several days. Infected skin will acquire a rubbery texture, and often take on a bright color. Scientists are unsure of the purpose of this. Perhaps to serve as a warning to others of the victim's species. Other symptoms of Pool Beetle infections include feelings of lightheadedness, loss of appetite, lockjaw, loss of mobility, hydrophilia, and (in rare cases), protrusions resembling animal-like features. These include tails, horns, snouts, wings, and prominent ears. Though the symptoms are not inherently fatal, should they go untreated for approximately 30 days, further symptoms are likely to develop. These symptoms include loss of cognitive function, loss of bone muscle and fat density, and loss of vocalization. For all intents and purposes, the victim is rendered near identical to the common inflatable pooltoy. Scientists are still debating the evolutionary advantage to the Pool Beetle's defense. If you suspect you have been bit by a Pool Beetle, don't wait. Contact your local hospital immediately!

This informational flyer is brought to you by Squeak Quarentine Unit EPSILON ALTO K

[saederkrupps]

ok just doing these kinds of memes now and htis one. is really funny to me lol

[dreamonminecraft]

I'm glad you all think I'm well articulated because I've had two bloody noses today, throw up in my mouth every time I get a notification, haven't left my bed in 6 hours, eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, or brushed my teeth. So. Sunshine and rainbows everybody I'm doing great.

[cpatchii]

idk what possessed me to draw this today im not even into dangan anymore. nostalgia + the urge to draw body horror on a wednesday morning i guess.

[werewolfetone]

The way that George iii managed to singlehandedly fuck up so badly that not one but two groups of his colonists violently revolted against him beginning not one but two several years long conflicts where his troops without exaggeration invented new human rights violations that both ended in tens of thousands dead on both sides

[lontanodalpanicoo]

I miei occhi non ne vogliono sapere di dormire. Sono stanca, ma loro insistono sul rimanere aperti, come se darmi qualche ora di sonno sia uno sforzo immane. Riesco a sentire il mio corpo ricattarmi in quel modo che solo lui sa fare “Se dormi adesso ti faccio svegliare dopo le tre di pomeriggio” forse a sto punto meglio non dormire. Però sono stanca. Sono stanca di guardare porno sul telefono, stanca di leggere, studiare, mettere in ordine. Vorrei cadere in un sonno profondo per anni, diventare un vegetale. Talvolta mi viene ancora voglia di lanciarmi dal balcone, così mi rinchiudo fortissimo nelle coperte, per evitare di seguire quel pensiero. L’altro giorno A. mi ha detto che ha iniziato a farsi del male per superare lo stress dell’università e mi sono sentita gelosa, perché è tornato il mostro del “non sei abbastanza malata, non lo sei mai stata, sei solo una stronza in costante ricerca di attenzioni” ed è vero. Lo siamo tutte, cazzo siamo così sole, l’idea di qualcuno che stia lì a consolarci e capirci h24 è oro puro. Vorrei tornare a provare qualcosa, perché in questi giorni non provo più un cazzo. Sono tornata a non sentire più nulla, cuore di sasso, sporca, stupida, svogliata. Forse è il caso che mi rinvoltoli nelle coperte, perché a forza di analizzare i miei pensieri mi è venuta voglia di buttarmi di nuovo di sotto o di dormire abbracciata a qualcuno (che non ho, quindi si risolve masturbandosi), ed opterei per quest’ultima.

[higgs-the-god]

Meet Mavis. I love her little paws

[dhampiravidi]

another "Save Shadow & Bone" idea!

ok but WHAT IF the beloved cast of S&B took the script for the show's S3 (since we know it's done & the showrunner loves it) & just did the 1st few episodes on YouTube, virtually?

it'd be FUNNY, obviously--while in quarantine, a lot of actors did some small, silly shows online. moreover, fans already LOVE the cast & we want more content.

picture Jessie w/dark eyeshadow the more she makes morally corrupt decisions. Amita w/kitchen knives when necessary. Ben doing SFX (apparently he actually did them for the nichevo'ya & well...who knows when Aleksander would be played by him again, except maybe in flashbacks). all the Grisha people have tons of practice doing their gestures for the Small Science, so *cue physical improv*

anyway, I think it'd be a great way to show how much people want to watch more Shadow & Bone (aside from the petitions, which are awesome but only take a second to sign)! all the more reason for another network to pick things up again w/the same cast!

[very-uncorrect]

Introverts had to live through a world made for extroverts for their entire lives until quarantine hit and things flipped, and it was revealed that extroverts have a much harder time living in a world that works better for introverts than vice versa