#scramble writes

[scramblecat]

get askgamed 🫵

🎙️which one of your fics would you like someone to make a pod-fic of?

AND / OR

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

GETS ASKGAMED????

🎙️ - Which one of your fics would you like someone to make a pod-fic of?

I have answered this one!! (Though I will add bc I didn’t on the other post. while NAEA is a fic that exists. holy fuck please nobody attempt that we just reached 120k today and we are still going. If you want to podfic something save your voice SAVE IT)

💌 - Share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

You already fully know about this but I’ll say it anyway. My closest to completion WIP (though it’s not near done) is yet another sickfic— but this one is for the TSP Theatre AU series created by hit writer TillyWunderWing who is very cool ajd awesome and I have definitely never talked to in my life. I say I’m excited about this one because it’s been so unbelievably fun to write and I cannot express that enough. I’m having a blast with it so stay tuned

Thank you for the ask!! :D

—————

Fic writer asks! Send me some of these emojis and I’ll answer the corresponding question 👍

[ghostbsuter]

The dead were rising.

Hospitals, cemeteries, anyone with a corpse or anchor to the living, brought back.

War veterans, recently deceased. Everyone.

It happened slowly, the Justice League Dark is doing their damn best and it's not enough—

The news were full of the risen dead, the cause still unknown.

—

Danny, comatose, flows aimlessly in the Infinity Realms with a strong break in his core.

[bluerosefox]

Drake Siblings

Have I read this prompt somewhere or was this a fever dream from my bored mind.

What if, now hear me out.

What if we bring up Dana Winters-Drake (whose confirmed to at least be alive in the DC verse but no one knows where she actually is)

What if instead of when she had a mental breakdown and getting committed to an Bludhaven clinc she wandered away before anyone noticed and by the time Tim or anyone did notice a lot of stuff started happening at once in both Gotham and Bludhaven (Steph dying, The Bludhaven crisis, etc etc)

Tim still tries to find her though but even with best resources it was like she just disappeared into the wilderness and the stress of trying to handle more and more problems get worse.

So when out of the blue, a couple of years later, he gets a call from an unknown number. On his private, only for friends and family, phone and when he answers he meet with a young girls voice on the other end.

A very young, maybe six or seven, girl who informs him about his apparently half-brother Danny Drake-Fenton. And how she loves Danny so, so, so much but knows her home is dangerous for him to be in.

Tim is stunned and before he could question her, she says Danny is Dana and Jack's baby and that her parents had adopted him years ago and put Dana's stuff that the hospital had away for him to look at when he was older but she just had to fight off their lunch from eating her brother and she knows he needs a better place to live and so she snooped around and found Dana's diary and that she had to unscramble the nonsense Dana wrote and found Tim's number with the words 'tell him about his brother Danny' hidden in it. And-

But before she could keep rambling she hears Danny screaming "JAZZY THE MILK WENT BAD AGAIN AND HISSED AT ME!"

Tim is left with silence after hearing Jazz yell to Danny to lock the fridge and step out of the kitchen as she gets the bat.

[merakiui]

PLEASE. please. if you would be so kind to give us some more stalker ex scara... the first time I saw it it just changed my brain chemistry, and I desperately need more </3

>:D thinking a lot about stalker ex Scara, but you get really drunk and he's the only one left to look after you......

(cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, alcohol/intoxication, toxic ex scara, modern college au, connected to the previous stalker ex scara concept)

Just,,, the fact that he's been so good and sweet ever since he casually slid himself into your friend group and you're not sure if you can trust him, yet here you are being completely, utterly, stupidly vulnerable in front of your very unstable ex. orz

Kuni's not one for parties; in fact, he'd much rather spend his precious time doing quiet, comfortable things with you (cuddling is so much healthier than drinking, after all! <3). Unfortunately, you allow your foolish friends to talk you into attending these brain-rotting parties so you can get drunk off your ass, and he can't let you attend them by yourself because there are too many risks. If you got too comfortable with Venti or Kazuha or even Tighnari while drunk, Kuni would never forgive you. >:( he's worked too hard cultivating this friendly image for himself, and he isn't going to let you or anyone else ruin it.

But right now everyone else is too inebriated to do much of anything, and he hasn't touched the drinks ever since he arrived, instead choosing to anchor himself to some forgotten corner of the room. He sulks and broods in silence, a scowl plastered to his face. He's just barely tolerating it for your sake. It's because he loves you that he's doing any of this. Soon you won't even need any of these troublesome friends. Soon you'll just have him, and he's all you really need. It was like that when you were growing up, after all. Even though, as painful as it is, you don't seem so codependent, so swept up in romance... You're so independent now, no longer the shy, fearful thing from the final few months of your relationship with him. He'd be impressed if he wasn't trying so hard to isolate you from each of your friends. It's a challenge when he's trying to tiptoe around Heizou's sharp, witty perception or Venti's proclivity for knowing everything about everyone despite no one knowing much about him.

But he endures. He's gone years without you; this is nothing.

If you were smarter, you'd know not to trust a word he says. That kind, soft smile he's perfected for this act is not to be believed, especially not when he's using it to assure your friends that he'll bring you home safe and sound. Heizou has his doubts because it's late and you can hardly walk a straight line, but he's tipsy just like the others and it's hard to deliberate like this. Besides, when has Kuni ever let the group down? :)

He takes you back to his dorm instead because Albedo's not home and he has the entire room to himself. While you meander clumsily over to his bed, kicking your shoes off and shucking your jacket in the process, he watches. You have no idea how much he depends on you, how much he admires you, so much so that it surpasses love and lust entirely. Without you, he's nothing. Or that's what he thinks because for the majority of his life he's felt empty and sub-human and so alone. But now you're here, and you can fill those empty spaces in his heart and give him a reason to keep living.

You don't seem particularly fazed when the bed dips under his weight. Rather, you blink sleepily up at him when he leans over you, gingerly reaching to help you out of your sweater. You're too drunk to protest or struggle, and you feel so dizzy every time you open your eyes. It's difficult to remain fully conscious when sleep is tugging at your body, pulling you under. You don't even realize he's fit his mouth on yours until his tongue is pushing past your lips. You manage to place your hands against his chest, intending to push him away, but you're so exhausted and tired. They fall to your sides, useless.

Kuni sits up and smiles at you. He says something about you being dumb and cute... or something about how your friends are fools. You don't really catch all of his obsessive murmurings when your attention is waning. Clothes are torn off; he kisses you a lot. You're not sure if you're reciprocating, but it certainly sounds that way when you're whining beneath him, arching against sodden sheets, your breaths coming in pants and huffs each time he ruts into you.

He doesn't have to worry about anything. Right now, it's just you and him in a corner of the world, locked away from everyone who might try to take you away from him. It's not like you'll remember much come morning. You don't need to anyway. It's better if you're lost and bewildered. That way he'll be able to craft a story to suit his fancy. You'll believe it. You'll have no choice, and Kuni knows how to tell very believable tales.

[belfry-ghost]

[clacy2812]

If you ask me this, buckle up.I will be giving you a presentation of my ocs for the next 4 hours.

[most-normal-eccles-cake-ignorer]

Good Omens: Lockdown and Crowley not mentioning his living situation in S2*

*till S2E6 when he asks if he can have his apartment back bc he's bored of living in his car but Aziraphale doesn’t hear bc mentally he’s in Alpha Centauri.

Having read the 'Crowley doesn't tell him' Neil Gaiman ask close to when I first listened to Lockdown (I lived under a rock until recently), my initial thought was HAS HE BEEN LIVING IN HIS CAR FOR YEARS?! but I think he was still in his apartment in 2020:

as far as Hell knows, Crowley just had a pool party in holy water (the holiest) so the higher-ups are probably willing to give him some space (plus Beelzebub is busy going on pub dates w Gabriel)

while there should be ~8 months between the end of Season 1 events (The Very First Day of the Rest of Their Lives on Sunday, Aug 25, 2019) and the Lockdown phonecall (on or near the 30 year anniversary on May 1, 2020), I can't imagine that's a very long time for Hell, especially if you're understaffed and busy dealing with fallout from Almostgeddon / going on pub dates

Shax dropping off mail and asking about the boiler seems like something one does in the first few months of living somewhere, not ~3 years in (if S2 is in 2023)

That said, I think the phone call underlines why Crowley never directly tells Aziraphale that he is living in the Bentley in S2, and it's just a great conversation (all hail Gaiman) sooo I wrote about it:

***Note: This post analyzes the Lockdown phonecall from Crowley's perspective only. Our heroine is feeling quite emotionally vulnerable at this point in time so things are going to hit him harder than they normally would.

I do not think Aziraphale meant to cause him pain (!!) but Crowley can't see that yet and I've written this post in a way that reflects that missing insight. (I explain in more detail in this reblog if you are interested) I am working on a companion post for Aziraphale's side of this conversation and how I think it affects his behavior in S2 because if we know anything about these two, it's that their exactlys are different exactlys.***

Crowley’s habit of sleeping to skip time like an RPG character by a campfire amuses me to no end, but in this context it feels heavy. Crowley already worries about losing time with what he loves and he probably hoped things would be different between him and Aziraphale after the events of S1. But things don’t change much. Then lockdowns start, and Crowley is trapped in his apartment alone, transcendentally bored, and unable to make his brain shut up. Sleeping a month away starts to sound less awful.

But Crowley hasn’t given up yet; he’s still awake when Aziraphale calls, and he’s even giving it two more days. Was he waiting for Aziraphale to call? Is it even possible not to at least kind of wait for someone’s call when you are cut off from everything and the caller has been your only friend and crush for millennia?

Aziraphale asks why Crowley isn't "out and about" tempting people or setting a bad example and he responds:

C: Everyone's so miserable and cooped up right now anyway, and I just… well… don't have the heart for it. A: *glowing audibly* I'm not miserable~ C: Really?

Crowley sounds genuinely surprised at Aziraphale's happiness and quickly assumes it's because the angel has been around people. He's so lonely/depressed/in his own head that he hadn't even considered someone enjoying being 'cooped up'. *sob*

Aziraphale goes No actually I put the closed sign up in the window and I'm having the Time of My Life, never had so few customers, not in 200 years!, etc. Although, he says:

A: …There were a few young lads a couple of nights ago who broke in through the back and tried to steal the cashbox! But they soon saw the error of their ways~ C: *clearly amused* Did you smite them with your wroth? A: Well I certainly gave them a good talking to, and I sent each of them home with cake~ C: *annoyed, swooning* Cake? A: Quite a lot of cake, actually. C: *physically ill from having such a giant crush on this dumbass baker/security guard* eeeekkkgghhh I'm gonna regret asking but.. ...rrgh.. *30 seconds of Aziraphale joyfully describing his baking while Crowley probably tries very hard not to imagine the angel eating each item in sensual slow motion* I stg you can hear him struggling in the background once or twice

A: …And once I've baked them, I have to eat them all myself, which was why I was so delighted— C: To send your burglars home laden with baked goods, yes, nnyeaayeah I follow…

Crowley interrupts, finishing Aziraphale's sentence in his nervous hurry to say the next bit:

C: *loud inhale* You know, I could.. hunker down at your place. … Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle--a case of… something… drinkable…?

He's trying to sound so casual about it but this is someone who was rejected/abandoned by actual literal God after asking what he thought were welcome, uncontroversial questions. Asking makes him vulnerable. He's supposed to be the rescuer, not a demon in distress. He does not feel casual about asking.

Crowley knows it's unlikely but he's so miserable and desperate for company that he can't help but ask, just in case. Even the smallest chance of spending time trapped indoors with Aziraphale—with nothing to do but drink, watch him eat, and talk about things they'd normally avoid—is too tempting.

A: *panicking* Oh I— I— I— I— I'm afraid that would be Breaking All The Rules! *nervous breathing* Out of the question! I'll see you… when this is over. C: Right. gnnehh. I'm setting the alarm clock for July. Good night, angel. *dial tone*

And just like that, Crowley doesn't need two days to decide. The depression nap doubles in length. He doesn't hear how badly Aziraphale wants to say yes behind the fear, or maybe he does and it hurts worse because why isn't Crowley enough for him? You can almost hear the spiralling:

SHOCKING, asking made it worse. It always does doesn’t it? Why even bother? you just embarrass yourself.. SLITHER over? why did I say that *grumble grumble* of COURSE His Holy Holiness, your only friend in the universe, would rather eat cake by himself while everything goes to shit than ~deign~ to have you in his presence. "AsK aND yE sHaLl ReCeIvE" bugger this for a lark im going to bed

(a bit dramatic but we've all been there)

I imagine sleep doesn't come right away. Maybe his thoughts drift to when he sat beside the angel at a dark Tadfield bus stop after a rather eventful Saturday. Crowley must've felt a tiny bit hopeful when he invited Aziraphale to stay with him: Heaven had withdrawn its favor and the bookshop was gone; Aziraphale was like him now. Didn't that mean things would change?

"I don't think my side would like that." Apparently not.

In the end, Aziraphale did ride the bus back to Crowley's apartment and stayed till the next morning when he caught a cab, but only to sell the illusion. Crowley understood that as far as sides went, the angel was still on Heaven's, even if Heaven wasn't on his.

And now this: the entire world is shut down; there is nothing for Aziraphale to do but stay in and read and bake in his magically reconstituted bookshop and he still won't invite Crowley in. Burglars and un-fallen angels only—nobody who asks questions.

So... of course Crowley doesn't tell Aziraphale when he loses his apartment. He already knows what answer he would get; the angel has told him so many times. Aziraphale is a company man first, a companion to one very sad owl when convenient.

If Crowley works up the courage to say 'please take me in, I have nowhere else to go' and Aziraphale goes 'sorry, no, far too political, but I WILL risk being erased from the Book of Life to protect this nude amnesiac former coworker who always hated me,' it's going to be too much. You can't sleep long enough for that type of hurt to go away. Better not to say anything.

"Then nothing has to change, does it?"

[minhmynchi]

wingfrin bc i was thinking about the silly ☺️

feat. some twohats writing in the read more bc i would love to draw this but don't know how to compose it so i wrote it instead (edit: it's now on ao3 if reading on tumblr doesn't suit ur fancy)

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

You keep your wings hidden all the time, now. They were adequately sized, enough to glide short distances like the Housemaiden, but that's no longer the case. As you push past what you unfortunately recognize as your thousandth loop, you are painfully aware of how your wings pull and tear at your cloak every loop, ripping it only to become fixed when you loop back after dying to the King or otherwise. Every loop, your wings grow the smallest bit bigger, and you can't help but tear a feather off each time, using the pain to ground you better than the quick, useless reset your dagger was.

Wrap your wings around yourself, pull a piece off, mutter something thrice or more, let it fall unceremoniously to the dark, cold floor of the House, unbeknownst to your friends who question you all the time but you shove it off because it's not like they can care anyways. They show as much, and you don't want to worry them, but one loop you seemed to have dropped a lot more feathers than necessary. You chalk it up to the half bottle of wine you had picked up and drank. You shivered, your hand reaching around your body once more, but the Kid pushes into you, pressing against your body in what you presume is an awkward no-arms hug, and you startle so bad that they flinch back and they look distraught for a moment before frowning pensively at you and crossing their arms. Saying that you looked bad, and pushing a hard candy into you until you let your arm show itself from its clothed cage, hand shakily taking the proffered treat. Your feathers ruffled, and a few fell to the ground, and the others stared at it, their own wings spreading in alarm as they stared at you with questions in their eyes. You quickly shove the candy into your mouth, relishing the new taste. Realizing the taste was not the only thing that was new.

You want to cry, but you march on into your designated failure. Down the familiar hallways of despair, even if your friends were acting weird.

A lot of things happened then. You had a talk, your hands were held, your face was cupped. You were given snacks, and told to say something, anything. Hands held once again in a sweaty grip, and you laugh for the first time in what felt like months. Years.

You do your best not to cry, because you can't have hope. Something new doesn't mean anything good. It can't.

You don't feel that great, but you think that this loop is a little more manageable until you get to the end.

And what an end it is.

You give up, but your friends don't. You remember their names, you see them for the first time, you really, truly see them.

You stand up. You hold your hand in a Scissors sign, channeling Craft through it, and your burning wings spread beneath your cloak, and it doesn't tear. No feathers fall.

But the King does.

And you won.

Right?

You won!

You want to collapse out of relief as your friends cheer and scream, and you feel the tears you held in for years suddenly start to overflow, and then you feel it.

The familiar tug on your stomach.

No, no, no--

Before you know it, you were dragged all the way back to Dormont, and Mirabelle is leaning over you with a blissful smile on her face.

You can't breathe, and your wings burn against your back, against your cloak, against the grass.

You smile at Mirabelle and she leaves.

You sit up, and make your way to the Favor Tree one last time.

You haven't been here in years.

Your wings, originally small and graceful, are now as big as your torso and feathers glide past your waist, hugging against you under your cloak.

You chase away Isabeau, your memory somehow not failing you (you try not to laugh as he leaves).

And you climb.

You climb, climb, climb up the Favor Tree, flapping your useless wings to help with balance. You toss down your hat in the process so you could see better, and you make it to the top.

You see that accursed House in the distance. The King's Craft, keeping it shrouded in night forever.

The King, who you killed, and should have stayed dead.

Why did you loop back?

Why?

Why?

You tear at a feather, and then another, and another as you whisper into each one, voice choked and hurried.

You know why.

You wanted to stay with your friends, and so you do! But you can't escape!

You want to stay with them, but not like this!

Night falls around you as you continue plucking your feathers, because you don't want to fly anymore. Whispering into the dark, light appears from somewhere you can't identify in your haze. Your wings hurt, your head hurts, everything hurts and burns and tears at your soul as you feel frustration and rage build up within you.

You can't take it anymore, as you hold up your last feather, covered in a dark, unidentifiable liquid. You wish, you wish, you wish one last time to be helped.

Someone, anyone...

Pain blooms through your entire body as the Universe listens, sending down a star into your outstretched hands and taking the feather with it.

Finally...

You rid yourself of your feathers, of your wings, of your friends, of yourself.

Dropping off of the canopy of leaves from the shock of the pain, unlike what you've inflicted upon yourself, unlike any you've experienced. You felt like you were being torn apart and rearranged, and you couldn't help but let out a scream as you fell, fell, fell.

And you wake up.

At the Favor Tree in Dormont.

You shove your face into your hands and scream so loud, you send a few birds flying, and you realize.

Your wings have returned, but they are no longer soft. Something much more sinister had happened, and you opened your eyes. Gazing into your lightless, starry hands.

And you laugh, shrill and manic.

Is this a joke?

Giant, inhuman wings to accompany your sudden inhuman body? Is this the Universe's idea of an escape? Of help?

There are no feathers to pluck. No pain to instill upon yourself any longer.

Right?

You attempt to check, but you hear a loud guffaw that tugs at your chest, and you peek around the tree and see yourself talking to Isabeau.

And that same self, that same mirror image walks up to the Favor Tree, and makes a wish. Their wings are free and fluttering, happy to be there.

You want to tear their feathers apart. Rip their wings from their back. Cause unimaginable pain to him, because what the stars is this?

Are you even Siffrin anymore, if this pitiful, laughable shadow is starting again for you?

The Universe pokes at your head, and you have to school your expression into something level.

You're here now. There's no doubt about that. Siffrin asked for help, and Siffrin will get it.

Blindingly ironic that it's not you that will get help.

Why give you wings if you could never fly free, if you'll be stuck for eternity again?

What else is there to gain when you have been given everything to lose?

[burnthatbridge]

far from my care and keeping

buddie (side buck/tommy, mentioned eddie/marisol) | T | 3k | angst, pining, one-sided feelings realization Buck's in hospital, but that's nothing new. What is new is the extra person in the waiting room. That, and Eddie's understanding of his own heart.

Another day, another visit to the hospital.

They should be used to this by now: sitting in the sterile space off the main hallway, waiting, waiting, waiting. It should feel routine, ordinary, typical with how often they find themselves in the situation. But Eddie doesn’t think it’s ever going to feel that way when it’s one of them behind the doors fighting for their life, the rest sitting anxious on the other side. He wishes the universe would stop adding instances, would cease trying to make it, force it to be, normal.

It’s the usual crew; they’re practically all there: Eddie, Bobby, Hen, Ravi, Maddie, Athena. Chim had taken Jee-Yun from Maddie and left with her about an hour after Maddie arrived — it’s getting late, past Jee’s bedtime. And Karen is at home with the baby and Denny. Eddie is lucky Marisol was supposed to be coming over for dinner anyway, that she offered to get Chris and stay with him till Eddie could leave. Athena showed up at the end of her shift with coffee and donuts for everyone, caffeine and sugar to keep them going.

Eddie’s cup is sitting cold on the table, his donut already split between Chim and Ravi when he shook his head in a refusal of it. He’d struggle to eat or drink anything in his condition, plus the knot in his stomach is too large for anything else to fit. It’d come back up, and he’s afraid of what else might spill from him with it.

It’s the usual crew. Plus–

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice sounds. Eddie looks up to him crossing the floor towards them, not at a run, but not far off. “What happened? How’s he doing?” he asks, directed at Eddie, as his eyes sweep over him, take in the state of him.

“He’s– It was–” Eddie tries, but his mouth is dry and the lump in his stomach extends to his throat too, blocking it, making him choke on the words.

Hen, sitting in the chair next to him, takes over. “He’s in surgery.”

read more on ao3

[scramblecat]

🦋🌿

🦋 - What are you most insecure about when you post a fic?

Everything. As soon as I post a fic, I get so scared about how it’s going to be received, what people are going to think of my writing coherency, my characterizations, my ability to follow a plot, etc etc etc, even though the worst thing that can happen is that nobody sees it. Alas, the insecurities pause for no man (or logical thought)

🌿 - How does creating make you feel?

It really depends on how engaged with it I am. Sometimes, it can be a drag if I’m not interested in it, but at the complete opposite end of the spectrum there’s moments where I turn into a feral little thing who is writing furiously and having the time of my LIFE doing it. This applies to drawing as well, as the question specifies creating as a whole

Thank you for the ask!

—————

Fic writer asks! Send me one of these emojis and I’ll answer the corresponding question 👍

[fiddles-ifs]

BLOG UPDATE 10-30-24

[ID: A photoset of three images. The first two images are a parchment texture on a black background. The first image is white text, and a navigation sidebar to the left of the main body of text. The sidebar reads: 'THE KING'S PHYSICIAN, written by Elliot Z. Chapter 00: Asclepius. NEW GAME, LOAD GAME, SETTINGS, GLOSSARY, MAP, CHARACTERS, ACHIEVEMENTS.' NEW GAME is highlighted with a distressed scroll image. At the bottom of the sidebar are links leading to Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.

To the right of the sidebar, the main text reads: 'PROLOGUE: ASCLEPIUS.

The ground stinks. It meets your hands in a shower of wet mud, an explosion of sick and blood, soaking the spaces between your fingers. When your vision focuses again, finally stops wobbling around and making double of itself, you find your palms soaked red. You crawl on your hands and knees to the body in front of you. You turn them over on their back. A man, not one of yours, and you slap his face a few times before you realize his eyes are milky and staring ahead, unblinking. There’s nothing you could do for him now. You look at his legs and find them still facing downwards. They didn’t move with the rest of him.

All the information comes to you backwards — his bisected waist, the guts spilling across the dirt, red, red and so much red. You stand up numbly. Your horse lies dead several feet away, and you remember in your haze that’s the reason why you were bucked off. You try and look at something — anything — else.

There is nothing else. All around you are limbs and blood and battle. Everything moving so slowly, mosquitoes caught in cooling amber, a slurry of death. You feel lost, a scarecrow in a burning field. Your ears ring. It all feels distant. Too distant. You need to move.

You turn to see a flash of white steel against the burning sun, and weakly raise your arms to try and block the blow with what little padding you have on. You move so slow.'

The other images feature the same text. The second image features a black background and red links. The third image is yellow parchment paper with red links and black text. /end ID]

happy update day!! i have to be up in. checks watch. six hours. so the update is coming at exactly midnight, and then i'll queue appropriately. but steady progress is being made on tkp!! im taking a small break from greenwarden to focus on making tkp and erinys look nice as a side project to querying agents for my book. it's a process. yk how it is.

what you see right now are mockups, the actual product looks uh. well. it looks like this

far cry from how i want it to look, but im working on it.

after finishing the css, all i have to do is write and edit chapter 1 and it'll be ready for demo release!

also, happy spooky season! im working on something for greenwarden that most certainly will not be done by Halloween, but i think you'll like it. it involves costumes and maybe stickers. watch this space

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[aayakashii]

One thing I found really interesting about this episode is how they mentioned they're preparing for Samhain, and how it is a festival that's going to have an interhouse competition

It caught my attention because I always thought tkdb's storyline was too serious to include actual school festivals in its setting and that the most we would have would be the Gala

But you're telling me there will be a festival...... and obscuary is dressing as butlers..... just like a themed cafe in a school's cultural festival..... Very VERY interesting...

[vaggieslefteye]

VAGGIE | ꜱɪɴɢɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡ'ꜱ ɴᴇꜱᴛ

[mikeluciraphgabe]

The sins committed on ao3 STAY on ao3 - whatever god or non god or whatever you believe or don’t believe in, understand this

[ventique18]

Earth! Lilia Vanrouge on January 1, 10 or so years ago (he is a single father of 2 kid sons):

"I WANT TO DANCE! I WANT TO PLAY MY DRUMS! I WANT TO PLUG MY BASS IN, AND LAY A SLAP RIFF OVER THIS NEW TRENDY SONG I HEARD ON THE RADIO LAST WEEK!! .......... BUT MY SONS ARE ON THE SOFA SLEEPING SOUNDLY!................... THEY ARE MY WORLD!"

He ended up just replaying on repeat his recorded videos of his sons marvelling and running away from the fireworks show they went to earlier until he too fell asleep.