#tied to death watch for decades

[deusfoundry]

part 2 here!

girl dad!zayne who simply smiles when his daughter knocks on the door of his office one night. she lets herself in, a deep crease present on her forehead, fingers wrung together. he can tell the moment she entered that something's bothering her, so he shuts his laptop off in favor of giving his daughter his undivided attention.

"what's wrong?" he asks with an encouraging smile on his lips.

girl dad!zayne who puts on a nice front when she tells him that a boy is coming over tomorrow night for dinner. he almost says "no.", mouth opening to reject the very prospect of boys. "you're too young to be dating." he very nearly says, if not for the quiet "please." that stops him in his tracks.

suddenly, he's taken back to a whole decade ago.

suddenly, his little girl has just turned seven years old.

suddenly, she's pleading with the widest doe eyes he's ever seen for him to get her the slice of carrot cake displayed on the counter of a bakery.

damn it, he thinks. those eyes are the bane of his existence. not once has he been able to resist them. curse you and your genes for passing those godforsaken eyes to your little girl.

so he smiles. he pulls his daughter into a warm, comforting hug.

"of course." he says, trying not to sound like he's forcing the words through gritted teeth. "i'm not mad at all, sweetheart."

"really?"

zayne merely hums, and when she squeals in delight, jumping up to plant a small kiss to his cheek between an onslaught of thank you's and i love you's, he almost forgets that he just agreed to having some boy over in his house.

girl dad!zayne who huffs when you press a kiss against his lips to stop him in the middle of his rant. he's spent the last half hour citing complaints about his daughter. how boys her age are stupid and none of them could even dream of treating her the way she deserves to be treated.

"when did she even get old enough to start talking to boys?" he manages to insert between exasperated claims every five minutes.

"it's part of being a teenage girl, love." you pull yourself away from his lips, lazily moving around to straddle his thighs. "let her be."

"and you're not the least bit concerned?" his breath hitches against his throat when you start to slowly trail kisses around his neck. he doesn't hear your response to his question, mind clouded with the feeling of your lips drawing stars on his skin.

his girls are truly going to be the death of him.

girl dad!zayne who purposely lingers near the front door so he can beat his daughter to opening it. he hears the doorbell ring and the subsequent thundering of her footsteps from upstairs, but he's already opened the door before she can even rush down the stairs.

girl dad!zayne who relishes in watching the way this boy's face falls. he's secretly glad that his career is as remarkable as it has been at this very moment, because he sees exactly when it dawns on the boy who exactly is standing before him.

the father of the girl he likes is the doctor zayne. world-renowned cardiac surgeon doctor zayne.

the boy splutters. he unfolds into a stuttering mess right in front of zayne and he has to resist the urge to slam the door on his face.

if doing so didn't end in him being in the receiving end of your sermons, he never would've opened the door in the first place.

girl dad!zayne who’s overtaken by surprise for a quick second when the boy finally collects himself.

“thank you for letting me join you tonight, sir. it's really an honor.” he says his name. zayne's impassive expression doesn't deter the boy as he holds his hand out.

zayne reluctantly takes it. he's about to settle on just giving him a subtle shake when the boy himself takes initiative, shaking zayne's hand with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

"this is for you and your wife." he hands over the basket that's been sitting beside his feet. zayne eyes it with his arms crossed over chest.

the basket is decorated with a ribbon tied into a neat bow. it comes in his daughter's favorite color, an oddly specific shade of pastel blue that she's been obsessed with since she was five. the inside is parted down the middle, one side filled with fruits and food that you like. the other half is, very obviously, for him.

it's packed to the brim with a whole assortment of sweets. a variety of cake slices from a bakery at the other side of the town he's been meaning to visit. packs of candies he likes. his favorite pastries from the bakery near the hospital.

zayne is ... delighted. but he refuses to let the boy know he's slowly winning him over so he quietly takes the basket in his hands and lets him in.

"dinner will be ready shortly." he says before disappearing into the kitchen.

zayne catches his daughter with a small bouquet of her favorite flowers in her hand.

girl dad!zayne who intends to stay quiet over dinner, but is forced to make small talk when you kick him under the table.

"be nice." you remain silent as you smile at the young boy sitting beside your daughter, but he knows that's what you mean with the threatening glare you send him.

"so," zayne purposely says his name wrong as he clears his throat. "what do you do for fun?"

he sees you shake your head from the corner of his eye.

girl dad!zayne who still isn't entirely convinced that this boy deserves to be with his daughter, the literal light of his life, his little girl, but relents a little as the hours go by.

zayne remembers telling his daughter time and time again to never settle. that he himself would pluck the night skies free of stars if you so much as imply that it's what you want. that she should look for the love you share with him, unconditional and boundless.

and as zayne watches with a keen eye how he treats her, he thinks he's done a good job at instilling those beliefs.

he's attentive to her needs, handing the bowls of food that's way out of her reach. he places a small portion of vegetables on her plate and successfully coaxes her into eating them, something even zayne struggles with. he's quick to cover the edge of the table with his hand when she leans down to pick up the fallen spoon from beneath the table.

girl dad!zayne who ends the night standing behind his daughter on their porch as she waves him goodbye.

"drive home safely." zayne says, uttering his name correctly as a sign of respect.

he doesn't miss the way his daughter's face lights up. and if accepting someone new in their small family lets him see that smile more, zayne thinks it's all worth it.

this has been in my drafts since the i made that girl dad!zayne post a few weeks backdhejhd

divider from @cafekitsune

[zepskies]

Maybe More Than Enough

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: You’ve been a friend and ally to the Winchester brothers for years, but you and Dean break new ground while on a stakeout to catch a witch.

AN: Here’s another entry for @jacklesversebingo! It’s also based on a request from one of my lovely Patreon members: @lacilou. 💜

Prompt: Window—Letter Opener—Binoculars

Request: I'd love to read about Dean and the reader who's his age or even a little older.

Song Inspo: “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin

Word Count: 2.9K

Tags/Warnings: A bit of angst, bit of hurt/comfort, bit of spice.~

💜 Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Discreetly from the passenger side of the car, you peered through the binoculars again. Your target was in view through the unusual circular window: an average looking white man in his fifties, peeling a tangerine from the comfort of his kitchen.

According to his driver’s license, his name was Martin Reynolds. Sam was investigating the sudden death of his wife, Laura, and the wives of two other men in the small town of Whitebury, Mississippi. Laura was the first victim, so you and Dean were watching Martin for any suspicious activity.

Your companion shifted in his seat. You could hear the give of the well-worn leather against denim. The Impala wasn’t exactly inconspicuous for a stakeout, but he refused to be trapped in your “tiny-ass” Toyota Camry all afternoon. You preferred the term compact.

“What’s our he-witch up to?” Dean asked.

Your lips twitched at a smile.

“We don’t know if he’s a witch,” you said, but you passed him the binoculars.

Dean’s mouth quirked to one side before he took a look. “Well, he probably isn’t a shifter.”

“What makes you say that?”

He gestured back at the window and gave you back the binoculars. You peered over and saw that Martin had half the tangerine in his mouth while he opened his mail with a letter opener. It flashed like silver in the afternoon light.

“If that is silver, it would rule out a lot of things,” you agreed, “but it still wouldn’t tell us why he killed his wife.”

Dean looked over as a white Porsche pulled into Martin’s driveway.

“Hmm, well, I’d say motive is comin’ in hot. Literally,” he said, watching intently when a young woman stepped out of the car. Her dress was as tight as the ponytail tied high on her head, a coil of blonde bouncing down her back.

You sighed, with a roll of your eyes. “Typical.”

You noticed the way Dean’s smirk wiped the boredom away from his eyes. It was annoyingly handsome, along with the neatly trimmed stubble across his cheeks, framing a strong jaw and the enticing bow of his lips. You had to resolve to ignore all of it, heaving a small sigh.

You wedged the binoculars between you both and toyed with the silver rings on your fingers—both a fashion statement and a safety precaution.

“Could be a demon deal,” you said. “Three men sporting Touch of Gray, three wives over 40.”

“Damn. That’s cold,” Dean shook his head, crossing his arms from the driver’s seat. Always from the driver’s seat. “That’d be pretty cut and dry though. Downright stereotypical.”

You gave him a smile. “Since when do you like it complicated?”

“Like it?” he scoffed. “What I like and what I get are on two different fucking hemispheres.”

You sensed bitterness there, underneath the dry remark. You looked away from the scene in the kitchen where Martin was pouring Barbie, his presumed girlfriend, a glass of white wine. Just like you thought, Dean’s brief good humor faded, falling into his resting state. It was a harder look than you were used to seeing on him over the years. His lighter, devil-may-care attitude in his younger days seemed to gain a little bit of edge every time you saw him next.

A few decades of bullshit, blood, and loss will do that to you.

But every time he called, you answered.

“You okay?” you asked. You tried to hide the depths of your concern, but maybe you just weren’t good enough. Dean glanced at you and forced his crunched brows to relax, as if he’d caught himself opening the hatch a little too much. Letting his true depths come to light a little too long.   

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he replied.

Sure. Always good.

You met him with a long look, your head rolling onto your shoulder.

“Hey. You can be honest with me, you know,” you reminded him. “What, you think I’m gonna tell Sam all your secrets?”

Dean smiled a little, but he shook his head, remaining stubborn.

“Look, I’m fine. Just the usual bullshit,” he said. “Nothing you gotta be dragged into.”

You frowned. “What, aside from this hunt? Aside from the last ten years of bailing your ass out?”

That last part was more joking. The truth was, Sam and Dean had helped you just as often as you’d tried to help them.

Now, Dean just shook his head. The fact that he didn’t levy back a smartass response further let you know that something was off with him. 

You bumped his arm lightly over his jacket.

“Come on, tell me all about your man feelings,” you teased. It had its intended effect, bringing a reluctant smile to Dean’s lips. He shot you a look, and you couldn’t help but admire how the dimming sun caught in his eyes, that pale green.

“Whatever. Like I said, I’m good,” he said, deflecting further by turning up his music. Yet another Led Zeppelin song was playing, but at least this one was more mellow. The guitar riff filled the car at a moderate volume. You guys were still on a stakeout, after all.

You shook your head, despite your smile. “You sound like a grumpy old man.”

His brows popped up. “Old?”

You shrugged impishly.

“‘Cause if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a bit more mileage than I do,” he retorted.

You laughed, shoving his shoulder.   

“Well, that’s just rude,” you said. “You’re not even a year behind me. Matter of fact, you’re just a few steps shy of Touch of Gray in there. I can even help you find your shade. I’m thinking, what, medium brown with a hint of silver fox? Could be very George Clooney.”     

The disgruntled look on Dean’s face had you dying.

“Now that’s just uncalled for,” he said, even though his lips were curving upward at the sound of your laughter. Without you knowing, he took in the infectious sound, and the way you pressed the back of your hand against his arm while you tried to get ahold of yourself. It was everything he’d ever liked about you.

Easy. That was what it was, being with you.

The hard part always came afterward, watching you leave.

Letting you leave.

“It’s just…I don’t know,” you said, biting into your lower lip. You smudged your lipstick there, a dark, juicy red. It was distracting enough that Dean almost missed what you said next.

“You seem weighed down.” Your eyes were more serious then, beautiful and warm in their honesty. “Every time I see you, it’s like you’ve got fifty more pounds on your shoulders.”

Dean didn’t have an answer for you, even as he held your gaze.

His cell phone ringing cut through the guitar melody slowly fading into the next song. Dean fished it out of his pocket and answered Sam’s call.

“Hey, what’cha got?”

Your hunch proved correct. Sam tracked down the demon that made soul-claiming deals with a handful of men from the same golf club. All of them bored of their wives, and all of them with too much money on their hands—enough that they refused to lose any of it in a messy divorce.

It was like the opposite of the First Wives Club, and you were sickened.

When you and Dean questioned Martin, he felt just guilty enough to spill his guts.

Sam managed to gank the demon on his own, which left you and Dean with a conundrum: what to do with the marked men who sold their souls. No matter how much justice you thought they deserved, their souls were still damned to Hell either way. As Dean pointed out, that would be price enough to pay.

You were sour about it, but you let Martin and the rest of his scheming bastard friends go…after leaving him with a well-placed knee to the nads. At the very least, he wouldn’t be making any more scheming bastards anytime soon.

Dean was still smirking when you two piled into the Impala. Sam was waiting to be picked up at the bar across town, where he’d found the demon.

“Shut up already,” you laughed.

Dean shook his head, still grinning as he put the car in Drive.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Your smile remained, but not for long as you stared out the window. You liked the evening time, where there was still light enough to see, but the world was winding down in shades of orange-gold and violet. The streetlamps were slowly coming on, lighting the way along the road.

The car pulled to a stop at the red light, there at a busy intersection.

“Hey.”

Dean’s voice, deep and a little tired, caught your attention.

“You okay over there?” he asked. He was side-eying you again, this time in concern. You could see it behind the usual gruffness.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said. “Just makes me glad I never got married. Else I might’ve gotten shivved just so he could get out of paying alimony.”

Dean sucked his teeth. “Apparently it’s a bitch.”

You gave him a dry, withering look. He chuckled and briefly reached over to squeeze your arm.

“Hey, come on. That shit’s not happening to you,” he said. “He’d have to be dumb, deaf, and blind.”

You tilted your head at him, a small smile lighting up your face again. You couldn’t help the way your face warmed in a blush, especially with the way he was looking at you, all smirky and charming and unequivocally Dean.  

“Green light,” you reminded him.

He returned his attention to the road. His right hand was molded onto the steering wheel casually. His left rested on his thigh, while his fingers bounced to the beat of a song off his second favorite Zeppelin album. And you knew that, because he’d been playing it on repeat all day.

Many have I loved, and many times been bitten. Many times I've gazed along the open road…

You watched his profile, for a moment spellbound. The sky dimmed over his shoulder, casting him in both light and shadow, gold and dark.

“Have you ever…” You didn’t even know where you were going with this, but you’d already opened your mouth, and Dean was already glancing your way, with half his gaze on the road ahead.

“You ever gotten close to having something real? Someone who's not gonna shiv you when you’re fifty,” you said.

A laugh caught in his throat. “Hell, I never thought I’d see my forties, but here we are. Apparently I’m old.”

He shot you a wry look. You smiled.

“That’s one hell of a way to avoid the question,” you said.

Dean shook his head, this time with a sigh under his breath. For a second, you didn’t think he would answer you. You almost didn’t blame him.

The music filled the silence in between.

Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing. Many, many men can't see the open road…

“Once,” Dean admitted. “I thought I had it, but uh…didn’t take.”

“Was she a hunter?” you asked.

Dean shook his head, his eyes staying on what lied ahead.

“Just wasn’t my life,” he said. “Couldn’t keep dragging her into mine.”

There was a lot there, buried deep. You couldn’t even begin to find a shovel, so you let it be. Though you should’ve predicted the way he turned it back on you.

“And you?” he said, brows raised. “Never had a douchebag in a sport coat, playing Caddyshack at the club every weekend?” 

You shook your head as you laughed. If nothing else, Dean could paint a picture.

“Definitely fucking not.” You rested your chin in your palm, your elbow finding purchase above the door handle. “You know me. I’m either too much or not enough.”

You didn’t notice it then, but Dean looked over at you with a frown tugging at his lips. He didn’t like the melancholy in your voice, or the way you turned to look out the window, like you were trying to hide from him.

Instead of putting voice to any of the thoughts rolling through his head, he kept driving.

The Impala rumbled to a stop in the parking lot in front of the bar. You were ready to meet Sam for a couple of beers inside. You grabbed your bag resting on the floor between your feet, but Dean’s stayed your hand, his own wrapping warmly around your arm.

You looked over at him with blinking, expectant eyes. He met you with sincerity.

“Anybody who says you ain’t enough, doesn’t know you,” he said. And then, his smile was back, quirking up at the corner. “At least, not like I do.”

Slowly, you smiled back. Your blush fairly radiated down your neck as well as your face, but you crossed your arms.

“So I’m too much. Is that what you’re saying?” you said.

He chuckled. “I plead the Fifth on that one.”

You fell into a fit of laughter along with him, and you both climbed out of the car feeling a little bit lighter. The blaring red neon sign above the bar blinded you for a moment. You turned to see Dean fiddling with his keys, trying to pick out the right one to lock up the car.

Some deep-seated feeling compelled you to go to him. You made your way around the hood and stopped just behind him. You called his name softly.

Dean turned to look at you over his shoulder. He was surprised to find you there so close. It led him to turn around all the way.

You didn’t give him, or even yourself time to think.

You grabbed the edges of his jacket and pulled yourself up to press your lips to his. It was more or less a gentle kiss. Just a sweet, slow meeting of lips. You pulled away just as slowly, the heels of your boots lowering back down to the ground.

Dean blinked his eyes open. When he came back to himself, he looked down at you in surprise and with a hint of a smile. He had the imprint of your lipstick smudged across his plush mouth.

“What was that for?” he asked.

You smoothed your hands over his jacket. It was a bit too hard to meet his eyes, so yours landed somewhere around his chest. It was also too hard to say what you really wanted to say, so you settled on half of the truth.

“A thank you, I guess,” you said. “And maybe the next time I see you, you’ll have a little less weight on your shoulders.”

His calloused hand cupped your cheek, and he earned your gaze, blinking up at him through your lashes. You couldn’t name everything you saw in his eyes, but it was more than just surprise or lust. In fact, he seemed to be debating with himself, fighting something deep inside.

You saw the exact moment he made his decision.

“Maybe we should make it count then,” he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

You didn’t even trust your voice, but your gaze drifted down from his eyes, to his mouth. Your shallow nod in agreement was like releasing him from his chains.

Dean framed your face with both hands and drew you into his kiss, like he was breathing life into you. You certainly felt alive.

You clung to the back of his shirt, to his arms, while he gathered you flush against his chest. His strong hands glided their way down the small of your back, eliciting tingles down your spine. All the while, he drew you in deeper and deeper with each new sensuous glide of his lips against yours.

You yelped in surprise when he turned with you in his arms, just to press you into the side of his car. Dean pulled open the door to the backseat, and you climbed in willingly. He followed after you, at the same time you dragged him over by the front of his shirt. Soon his jacket was wrenched off his shoulders along with yours, both tossed somewhere in the front seats along with his shirt.

While you explored the new expanse of tanned skin, roaming your hands over his strong, broad shoulders and dipping down his back, his lips had fastened to your neck, teasing and grazing with his teeth along your pulse point.

You were already moaning and panting in his ear, your body arching to meet his as you slung a leg across his lap. He grabbed onto your thigh and squeezed, pulling you even tighter against him.

Still, you couldn’t help but smile in amusement.

“Aren’t we a little old to be making out in the backseat?” you said.

“You can be a little old for a lotta things, sweetheart,” said Dean, his voice gravel and deep as sin. “But this ain’t one of ‘em.” 

AN: Some spicy flangst there for ya! It was honestly refreshing to write some Dean after working on so much Soldier Boy. I love that guy, but he gives me stress sometimes. 😂 Trying to cure Dean's angst is a fun break! 💜

Read the Sequel:

Bonus shot! Resless Nights:

Summary: After a tryst you instigated in the backseat of his Baby, you and Dean have started something new. He’s just not sure that you’re as “all in” as you claimed to be.

▶️ Keep Reading: Restless Nights

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[crispy-armpit]

✧ 𝖒𝖞 𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑 ✧

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴀ ɢᴏᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𓇼˚₊‧꒰ა 🫧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚𓇼

⭒ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 10 dollars on a dare leads you to break one superstition that changes your life forever. you begin to learn secrets tied to your family and upbringing, at the cost of your freedom. who is this mysterious Anshumat, and why does he want you?

⭒ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵: 𝘨𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘺, violence, implied stalking, kidnapping, choking, reader gets called a bride once

⭒ 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 1,418

⭒ a/n: yan sea god was inspired by an Indonesian myth called Nyi Roro Kidul! it's a really interesting legend if you want to learn more abt it ^^ also.... man tits...... meow..

will you venture down this path?

growing up, you would stay over at your grandmother's house every summer. her beautiful seaside cottage made the perfect accommodation for a family getaway. throughout your childhood, the superstitious old woman restricted you from doing specific things. rules like never whistling at night, don't open an umbrella indoors, etc.

you'd eventually found out that these were just scare tactics for children to make them listen. but there was one rule that your grandmother seemed to fear the most, a rule that never made sense... never wear white to the local beach. and when questioning her about the rule, she'd tell you the same story every time.

"long ago...

a cruel serpent god who once ruled these waters would rise from the ocean and into the islands, devouring innocent villagers and destroying temples along its path.

the gods and humans were furious at its actions. fed up with the destruction and death, they prepared a plan to thwart the serpent; a binding curse.

the serpent was cursed to spend its days rotting in a hidden island, where it was accompanied by its servants. it was also tasked with granting blessings to sailors passing through the rocky tides, where it weighed the sins of each individual to seal their fates.

but over the decades... the serpent grew bored and lonely. through a loophole, the serpent found a way to abduct humans. you see.. the serpent loves the colour white and pearls. so much so, it would use its voice, so alluring, to lure the poor victims who happened to wear such things. and once in the water, the serpent would drag the human to its temple where they would become its slave.. or worse...

its spouse."

here you are today, telling the same tale in front of your young niece and nephew. "well, that's one way to get bitches." your nephew, Keona laughs. a scoffing Kehlani adds on, "nah, who would want to marry an overgrown slimy snake?"

"hey now, take that shit to grandma. she just assigned me to be your storyteller," you shrugged. "and this story has a real reasoning behind it, ok?"

"what? sexy sea snake destroying villages?"

"no, it's so that little rascals like you..." you drill both your index fingers onto their foreheads, "are easier to find if you ever get lost at sea."

how did i end up here...

facepalming yourself, you sigh. you were disappointed in yourself. how'd you let those little punks reel you in a dare? where was the self-respect? the dignity? seriously, breaking your grandmother's number 1 rule for what? 10 dollars?

you walk along the shore while wearing a flowy white shirt and neck encased in one of your mother's pearl necklaces. the dare was simple: successfully walk down the shoreline without chickening out and boom— an extra 10 dollars into your wallet.

you'd prove to the twins that you weren't scared of a little bedtime story. buuut just in case you did happen to go missing (for reasons that are totally not hungry sea serpent related), you brought essentials in a bag, left a letter for your family, and are currently being watched by the twins.

laughing at yourself for the paranoia, you nearly reach the edge of the walk until you hear a feminine wail from between the hidden rocks. is someone hurt? the sound was coming from beyond your finishing point so it wouldn't hurt to check, right?

signalling the twins to come over, you bend down to their heights, "listen, it sounds like someone's in trouble past those rocks. so I want you both to go grab the first aid kit and call Officer Holden over, 'kay?" they nod and scamper off into town.

approaching the rocks, you peek in to find a naked... mermaid?! observing her, you notice the torn skin on her iridescent tail and warily walk over to her. "uh... hey? hola? salve? hallo? i'm ah— good human! no... nooooo bad.."

you notice the air seems to smell... sweeter?

the woman looks up at you from the sand with pleading eyes, "please— please help me! my name is Coralie, my master, he—"

"woah, it's ok! you're safe, help is coming. uh, your master? did he do this to you? are you an underwater criminal?!"

a distant melodious voice interrupts you. Coralie's previously pained face now warps into a sinister grin as her wound disappears. she crawls towards you as your vision fogs up and your knees buckle to the soft sand. the song lulls you into a deep sleep, your body now being pulled into the shallow waters.

you awake to the bright rays of sunshine and lungs filling in with fresh air. but the next in your line of sight knocked all the air out of your body again.

the luminous, barely-clothed body of an unknown man sat above you. his 9'7 self relaxed on the marble throne, with 2 pairs of eyes fixated on you. what the fuck is that?

you gawk at him, "holy mother of god..."

i'm not dreaming, am i?

his gaze shifts into amusement, "wrong. we gods do not have mothers. we were created."

"you're a... a god?"

"is it not obvious enough from my appearance? would you like to see another version of me?" the towering deity begins to warp into a feminine body as if it was melting and moulding itself. "is this preferable?" her new voice is flirtatious, genuinely curious.

then, she tries to warp into a third body. the transformation looks more painful than the one prior, it barely shifts halfway into a gruesome beast before returning back to its first body. he huffs while grasping his golden collar, "this... is not my original form. I have been cursed, long ago, to never set foot on human lands. this island is both my kingdom and prison."

you shakily stand up the marble floor, now noticing Coralie standing beside the throne with a pair of legs. slowly processing his words, you piece together the clues from his story and your memories of the abduction. this couldn't be...

"you are.. you're the sea serpent god! I can't believe grandma was right— shit, shit shit—"

he smirks at your panic, "correct. I am Anshumat; shapeshifter deity of the raging tides, granter of safe travels—"

"murderer and enslaver." you complete.

Anshumat roars, "correct again! you're on a strike, dear y/n. though trust me, my servants are treated well."

"..how do you know my name?"

"oh you poor thing, granny never told you? I know everything about you— a name is barely anything."

"told me what?"

"she used to be my cupbearer. until she escaped with that bastard traitor. isn't that right, Coralie?"

she nods, "yes, master."

"please sir, let me leave. my family— they'll search for me! I have a cat at home! I haven't even finished my favourite show.. so please..." you try to list more life goals.

he chuckled, "oh you are so amusing. and why would I do that? we've barely just been engaged, dear."

"what do you mean engaged?"

"I've been watching you since you took your first breath on earth, y/n. so imagine my surprise— to see you wrapped up in my favourite colour, like a pretty bride. you're my sacrifice."

fear tingles your spine, "wait, that was just a dare! i didn't really mean it!"

"doesn't matter. you will be my pearl."

"no! I have a family, a partner—"

"i said... it doesn't fucking matter." he slams his fist against the throne arm, "and you'll be seeing the head of that twat soon enough."

you don't give him a glance before you're turning your back and run down the staircase of the grand temple. careful not to trip, you focus on the flight of stairs, painfully aware of the loud footsteps approaching behind you. it doesn't take a second for Anshumat to pull on the collar of your shirt and slam you onto the staircase.

he sits atop you, lower region heavily grinding against your stomach. "get off me! don't you have hundreds of other options?! why me?!" you scream.

his bedazzled skin blocks your view of the sun, furious eyes glowing under his shadow, and sharp teeth bared into a snarl. "you do not get to leave me again. you will stay, and worship me. this island will be our eternal paradise."

large hands pressing against your throat, you struggle before darkness begins to cloud your vision.

"this time, you will live."

[local-diavolo-anon]

i'm back!

ok so 2/3 days ago i found this youtube video where op turned Springtrap (or well, William Afton) into a fully build DnD character, and if i say so myself: things got out of hand fast

so here is my take on DnD Springtrap and specifically on that build (adding more infos under the cut for who is interested, i suggest to watch the video first)

starting with saying that unless you're playing in a scifi setting, this build is either not for you or to be modified, since in later levels spells are heavily centered around technomagic and electronic devices; personally when i will play him i will probably tinker around with the chosen spells and cantrips to make him less violently niche and/or more versatile

which kinda saddens me because it takes away not little of the characterization but, given most dnd stories take place in a medieval fantasy or high fantasy setting, a cantrip like On/Off or a spell like Remote Access are NOT particularly useful; so i will go for more psychic damage or necromancy oriented abilities, maybe i might take more than just 4 levels in artificier as well (especially given that again, all of those warlock spells at later levels are all technology oriented) but i need to see what those offer

however it is a kinda tank-y build given that with a shield on you can get up to a 27 of Ac, so even with low damage and not much hp you would not struggle too much to stay alive, and i like that!

as for the character himself, i put too much effort into my interpretation not to share it, so if anyone wants to play this guy as well, i fabricated a possible backstory that might come useful:

The character goes by the name "Dave Miller" (or whatever variant you want to use), and was originally a human artificier who created constructs for a living, mainly with the goal of offering aid to who needed it for whatever reason.

There however he ran into an issue, that being that a robot need a power source, and his own heart and lungs could not sustain a whole robot by themselves.

After losing part of his family to some kind of accident he became terrified of death, so with age he started replacing his own body parts with machinery to delay his last days (which made him a cyborg), until the point where he was very very close to become just a robot.

(This part may or may not involve a pact with a deity of death, this entirely depends on how you want to play him but it would make sense since the build is an artificier/warlock hybrid)

Through particular and very much not illegal experiments tied to necromancy he discovered that the life force of a living being could be shared, and used as a form of fuel. (possibly: age lived of the creature used= amount of extra months you get)

Here comes the second problem: this only worked with intelligent creatures, and more specifically, it worked best with creatures of your own race, which meant that he either went around murdering people or he found another solution. Non same-race creatures worked as well but not as good and there were not easy to find in the middle of a city and with a shop tied to your name.

And here is where and WHY he'd join a party of adventurers: after some time, his reserves or fuel were running VERY thin, and running into a group of adventurers was a god sent because by joining their party he essentially got a free pass to kill whoever he wanted, and reduce them to a dried raisin after sucking some life force out of them. Doing so you learn that the mowe powerful the creature is, the more energy it produces as well.

Your goal, that you as the player are following, when role-ing your character? essentially slay whatever powerful BBEG your Dm throws at you and suck all of that juicy fuel out of them, so that you can return to your little shop in the middle of the capital and return to create and sell whatever weird construct, doll, or robot comes to your mind for another few decades undisturbed.

And this is it. I think this might be a good backstory that could fit pretty much any setting you want to play this guy into, be it classic dnd or some scifi futuristic thing.

of course you don't NEED to use this one line per line, make up your own without looking back if you don't like it lol, dnd is the "make up shit and have fun" game after all!

Edit: also no his outfit makes no sense, i just went with vibes and decided a tanktop dress shirt, a twin tailed gilet and suspenders OVER said gilet was a good choice.

[sanakimohara]

[ MURDER HOUSE ] PT. 1 - H. H.

pairing: Hyunjin x fem! virgin reader

summary: he's dead and gone but you're bound to keep him feeling alive

playlist:

warnings: MDNI + NSFW + SMUT + DUBCON + MEMTIONS OF DEATH + MENTIONS OF MENTAL ILLNESS + MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE + SMOKING + HORROR + BREATH DEPRIVATION KINK + SLIGHT BDSM

Hyunjin had watched you from the moment you arrived, an unbidden spark of curiosity in his otherwise colorless existence. He hadn’t felt anything in years, perhaps decades, and thought he’d made peace with the emptiness.

Yet here you were.

Y/n Harmon, a girl not much younger than himself, is alive and well but swept up in a family plagued with misdeeds.

A father obsessed with infidelity who seemingly dedicated himself to righting his wrongs to your mother, who’d caught him in the act and drove herself deeper into instability trying to forgive him for it.

You’d trudged in behind the strained couple with a glimmer of hope dancing through your eyes as the realtor showed off the home’s exterior on a crisp October morning, and suddenly Hyunjin felt everything all over again—confusion, desire, even a strange hope.

Emotions the dead and gone had no claim to, especially in houses dredged in bloody histories, but you were something new, something strange, and evidently in need of someone to see you.

A girl in desperate need of companionship…

Hyunjin caught your desperation for it in the minor expressions you made, wholly fixated on you while your parents looked right past. In an instant, he wanted to be that very someone despite the ulterior motives that other spirits in the house insisted he pursue rather than become obsessed with you.

Hyunjin tried.

He did…

He stayed in the shadows, blending into the corners of rooms, his gaze fixed on your every movement. You were soft and warm, contrasting starkly against the cold walls of the house as if you brought a light with you that cast all his hidden parts into sharper relief. You moved through the house as if it were your ages ago, filling it with life, sound, and warmth he thought he’d forgotten how to crave. But more than that, you made him feel real again.

Alive.

From the soft laughter, you let out when coming across a particularly amusing line in a book you read while lying alone in bed to the sharp remarks you made when your parents failed to conceal their bitterness for one another….

That slight eye roll you gave when something annoyed you to your random curiosity when a new area of the house caught your attention…

Everything you did made him feel feverishly undead in ways that should’ve alarmed him but became a comfort instead.

Still, Hyunjin knew he had to tread carefully. You would never understand the things he had done, the way he carried out his version of justice in this house, even after death. He didn’t hurt people without reason. In life, he had only ever wanted to punish those who deserved it—the liars, the abusers, those who twisted love into something dark and monstrous. In his mind, he was righting the world’s wrongs, ensuring people paid for their sins. But to you, his hands would be bloody, his methods incomprehensible.

He was so sure of it…

You looked the type to shut someone out at the slightest implication of fear or mention of blood, and Hyunjin refused to taint you with the knowledge of his misdeeds for as long as possible.

So, he held back. He waited, studying you, letting your presence anchor him in a way he hadn’t expected. You became a tether, a reason to stay sane, a flickering flame he felt compelled to protect. Your laugh, your quiet moments in the dimly lit rooms, even the way you wandered the house as if sensing his presence—all of it tied him to this world with a fervor he’d almost forgotten.

Hyunjin couldn’t stop himself from wanting more. Every night, he edged closer, lingering by your bedroom door, memorizing the sound of your breath as you slept.

Listening in on your quiet moans on the nights you touched yourself in hopes of relieving stress and earning some gratification without being smothered with lonely thoughts. Hyunjin liked those nights the most, feeling selfish and far more demented for enjoying them but addicted to the quivering whines and soft, elated gasps you let out in the dead of night when you thought no one could hear you.

He could, and not a soul else knew it.

Not even you…

He was bound to break his binds to morality at some point, led on by your constant strives for pleasure becoming more frequent and driven mad by the annoyance of himself not being the sole cause of it.

It took one whisper from the pure evil lurking in every corner of the half-sized mansion to convince him that one overstep would surely not spiral into another.

It started as a whisper of movement. One shudder to the next, passing down your spine as your heavy and lust-filled eyes shifted around the room.

Searching.

Wandering.

Finding.

If he had any left to breathe, Hyunjin’s breath could’ve stopped right then and there. You stared through a half-focused gaze, slightly startled but too far gone on the antidepressants your father prescribed you behind your mother's back to care that a figment of a man you’d never seen before lying in the shadows of your new bedroom.

He had dark hair, dark eyes, and porcelain-cut skin that stood out against the pigment-devoid clothing he wore.

He looked lost, found all at once, and assured and unsure while staring you down from across the room. A familiar imbalance you’d felt following around day and night through the croaking house.

You recognized him—those fleeting moments when your eyes met across a shadowed room when your gaze held questions he wanted so badly to answer. The first time you spoke to him, his heart clenched in a way he hadn’t known was possible anymore.

“Who are you?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the illusion. Your eyes were searching, curious but cautious. Your hand slipped away from the space between your legs, covered in a sticky slick that dripped onto the bed as you shifted underneath the warm duvets -acting as if touching yourself was a secret you poorly kept from him and other specters who roamed the house as much as he does.

In that moment, he nearly faltered. He wanted to tell you everything, to lay bare every dark truth, every crime and secret he’d carried. But he knew he couldn’t. You were purity and light, and he was the ghost bound to the house’s sins. Instead, he merely offered a small smile, a mystery for you to ponder. “Someone who’s watched out for you.”

He didn’t need to explain it for you to feel the weight of his words. You thought it, too; he could see how your breath quickened, the slight flush that crept up your neck. He didn’t deserve you, didn’t deserve even the few glances you had spared him, but he was too far gone to turn back now. He was addicted to the way you looked at him, a look that told him maybe, just maybe, he could be someone worth loving.

In the days that followed, he started to reveal himself more, testing the waters, seeing if you could ever accept him for what he was. He would appear in your room, close enough to feel your warmth but careful to keep a respectful distance, as if afraid he’d taint you with his presence. He watched as you moved through his world, sometimes almost brushing against him, your heart beating wildly, your breaths shallow. And with every brush, every whispered exchange, he felt a flicker of hope.

It was only a matter of time before All Hallows Eve arrived. Letting spirits loose and secrets unfold into dire situations. Hyunjin had planned the night out from start to finish, looking forward to walking the mortal plane for a night weeks before he uttered the desire to spend it with you in your ear, and he was modestly elated that you agreed to the idea. To some degree, he was in disbelief that you found him that trustworthy -abandoning the tradition of celebrating the holiday with your family to be with him in the hours he existed again. Yet, he saw no reason to complain and made the very best of the time from the moment he swept you up in a tight hug and a quick smothering kiss on the haunted doorstep you walked onto to greet him down to the moment you rushed back into the house to outrun the group of enraged peers he helped you taunt during your time at the Night Carnival.

Hyunjin snickered as the shouting gaggle of briskly dressed girls tried to push the stream of trick-or-treaters to and from the house's doorstep. A charming grin overtook his lips as they stumbled about and gave up just as they reached the porch's edge, unable to go any further with an invisible and haunting force deterring them elsewhere. Your knowing smile nearly mirrored his triumphant smirk, but it quickly dropped as the head of the drunken group shouted a sleazy and slurred insult at you before leading the pack off the ominous property. "Burn in Hell, Virgin Freak!"

Your mind reeled at the impulsive comment, echoing in your mind with their scathing and distancing laughter, and a remaining thought even the sound of Hyunjin's dismissive chuckling could silence.

There was truth to their insult, and it angered you beyond comprehension. In a fit of anger, you stomped off the porch and into the looming house, slamming the door shut behind you with no intention of waiting for him to walk through it. Hyunjin frowned, spawning past the closed doorway with ease and following you up the winding staircase as you stalked up to your room. "Y/n, it's not that big of a deal-" he started, gently encouraging you to forget about what had been said in hopes of raising your mood again, but you scoffed as you reached your bedroom.

"Maybe to you it is, but to me, those bitches have a point."

You inwardly winced at admitting their observations held some truth, convinced you'd never outrun their scrutiny, and slightly ashamed Hyunjin had heard them say it in person. You presumed he feigned indifference to hearing it for your sake, but in truth, he fed off the knowledge that no other soul -alive or dead- had laid a hand on what he now knew to be his in death and life for one night a year.

"Don't let those assholes get to you, sweetheart. They're idiots, alright?" Hyunjin gazed at you, spilling brisk reassurance off his tongue like clockwork, but instead of instantly shifting your mindset, it only made you angrier. "What would you know? You're dead..." The comment is easy enough to say without thinking, but the subtle guilt you feel as the room goes silent is humbling. You steal a glance, hoping to apologize, but he's gone and completely vanished. You chew your bottom lip, glancing around, and prepared to call out an apology to him on instinct, but you're stopped short by your sharp gasp, feeling deathly cold hands reach for your breasts from behind.

"Fuck! Hy-Hyunjin, dont do that...." you whined, mildly annoyed he didn't dare to trail his hands underneath the hem of your black lacey dress. He stayed completely still, merely shifting his head to rest on your shoulder at the sound of your strained voice. "Do I feel dead to you now?" You freeze at his mumbled question, coming to terms with the heat from his slender fingers and palms. Tension pulsed through him, thriving through his chest into your backside, all the way down to his pelvis, gingerly pressing up against your ass. Hyunjin steadied himself, letting your rock into his weight and masking a coy smile as a soft and delighted sigh slipped past your lips easier than your sudden insult to his existence had.

"Do I...." he repeated in a lowered huff, kneading your breaths with heavy-handed grasps, enjoying the warmth of your living muscle in his own palm. You shudder, back arching to press your chest further into his wandering grip and hips rolling into his as he voices the rest of his previous question. "Feel dead to you..." He paused, groaning loudly into the crook of your neck, briefly stalled by the sound of your sudden whines for him and the feeling of your hands reaching to run through his dark, soot hair, and scratch at his right wrist while his fingers twisted and swirled your hardening nipples through black fabric

Your hips buckled at the tension he was inflicting on you, braced by the shift of his hands to your waist to hold you still as he caught a sharp breath of confidence. A brief pass of silence hung in the damp air, only interrupted by your shared heady breathing and dissolved by Hyunjin's direct assumption that rolled off his tongue like the devil's most accurate secret being muttered into your ear/ "Let's prove them wrong...let me give you something to keep living for." You leered into him at the offer, meeting his dark, hooded eyes through the mirror. You stood before for a long moment before offering him a small charming smile of agreeance.

"Alright.."

A/N: I got a JOB

Other Links: Tik Tok + Discord + Instagram

TAGLIST🖤: N/A

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

🗣️ Credits to creator 💜

[silaslich]

Whispers to cold flesh

Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Wc - 2.5k

Summary - Ghost and Soap get separated and Ghost seeks refuge from the snow storm in an abandoned house. Just when he thinks he’s alone, he finds you there - bleeding to death.

Cw - 18+, blood, injury, death ideation, angst

AN - didn’t really know how to tag this because it isn’t xreader but more just angst I had worming around my brain :)

The chill runs down to his bones. It seeps into his bone marrow when the wind shifts and the snow falls heavier.

Ghost isn’t that used to this; not these days. Maybe back in England when he was young. Everything from those days is locked away, a ball and chain clamped around that particular box of memories, thrown into the sea until it sinks to the ocean floor.

Forgotten

He slams the door behind himself with a resounding thud and it shakes the walls as the snowflakes fall from his shoulders, melting away to droplets on the floor. Ghost’s eyes scan his surroundings, a constant vice he had engrained into him now, even if he’s out of enemy territory- he’ll never let his guard down.

It’s the same now as he scans the rooms, one by one. Footsteps as quiet as he’s able, sharp eyes watching for any sign movement as he listens closely. All he catches is the wind whistling outside, rattling the structure of the building, as far as a rendezvous point goes - he’s seen worse. He’s waiting on the irritating Scot now, everything is tied up on their end, knotted in a pretty bow for the higher ups to deal with, he can wash his hands of it.

Soap had become separated at some point, his usual efforts of running in blind and taking a handful of men with him as he went, Ghost had stayed back to watch and observe, held up on his sniping point further up the snow-laden valley. He hadn’t been needed after all, they got what they came for, now it was a case of waiting it out for evac to come.

He’s walking through what looks to have been a kitchen, littered in dust and debris, years of unkept rot and decay taking hold of the once decadent foundations of this home. Abandoned and forgotten, Ghost knew that feeling.

As he’s scanning the walls and the dark corners, his eyes land on a slick smear against the dirty wooden floorboards. It’s fresh, he notes. Then he can smell it, the blood, copper pennies - sour in his nose. Instinctively, he raises his pistol.

Ghost lowers his shoulders and steps forward, he’s even quieter, eyes scanning as he follows the trail of crimson that soaks into the floor under his boots. As he nears closer, that’s when his ears catch it, the rattle of breathing, heavy and uneven - laboured in a way that sounds like a punctured lung. He steps fully around the corner of a kitchen island, gun raised and eyes narrowed, he expects to find an injured fugitive, one of the war criminals that’s somehow slipped through his fingers.

But it’s just you.

So weak from blood loss you can’t even raise your eyes to meet his. It’s a haze, a blur of movement when he steps even closer, it’s only the vibration of his footsteps that make you aware someone is there.

Your chest rattles with an intake of breath, stunted when you hack up blood into your palm, it doesn’t feel like you’re walking away from this one. Too many lucky strikes - you’re finally out.

Ghost cocks his head to the side, then he’s kneeling down closer, sliding his pistol back into its holster as he does. “You with me, mate?” He keeps his voice low, he doesn’t want to startle you, he can empathise with you in this moment, he’s been there himself, too many times to count.

He’s seen you around. Ghost is observant, it’s his job to be, there’s been a few missions that you’ve been on together lately. He knows you’re a marine, been on the circuit for years now. You’ve toured here, there and everywhere. You’ve only spoken to him a handful of times over a cigarette or an MRE but he knows you by name. Surely that’s enough. No, he knows where you were born and why you joined up, he knows where your favourite place to vacation is and the name of your first pet. It’s not enough, it’s too much. He can’t keep allowing this to happen, to get close to people and then watch them die, it’s something selfish that worms it’s way into his head - he doesn’t know how long he’ll keep being able to do this.

You raise your head from where your chin is tilted to your chest, your eyes drift lazily across his face, a realisation of who he is settling over you, he sees it. “‘m compromised Lt” you slur, coughing again, “looks like you’ll have to put that letter through” your teeth are cherry red when you smile weakly at him, he can’t find the strength to enjoy the quip.

You’re referring to one of the last conversations you’d had with him, asking him how he deals with the aftermath of a particularly unsuccessful mission. “You have to let families know?” You’d asked and he’d nodded, “sometimes” he breathed the words around the plume of smoke from his cigarette, side-eying you, “depends how many, if it’s a lot then I help out with the reports”. You hadn’t thought about that kind of responsibility from his role, something you’re not sure you’d want to do yourself.

He looks down at you, assessing the damage, he finds your hands clutching at your side, a steady stream of blood seeping through the seams of your fingers as you apply pressure. It’s as if you sense what he’s about to do or say and you stop him, raising your hand to block his in its path, it’s path to pry your hands away from your wound so he can see it. He dips his chin and meets your eye, a warning, but you don’t heed it. “Leave it” you huff, still struggling for breath. “I can’t fix it if you don’t let me look” his tone shifts, perhaps lighter, this looks bleak but he’d remembered to try his best at being positive- forever a pessimist.

You laugh, albeit dryly and with effort, “no fixing this, mate” your red teeth flash again and Ghost doesn’t know where to put his eyes, they’re fixed on the injury and then flicker back up to your eyes, watching them waver. “Don’t say shit like that” he gruffs, shifting his weight, he’s even closer now, eyes still trying to asses the damage despite your blocking hands.

If he’s being honest- he’d probably agree. At the rate you’re bleeding and have been bleeding at, he’d give it no more then two minutes before it’s lights out, blood loss is a nasty thing and it takes only minutes for it to become fatal. So it’s why he doesn’t forcefully pry your hands away and let him look, in other circumstances he might have done, but he doesn’t know how long you’ve been here for - and he can’t imagine it’ll be much longer considering how pale you’ve grown in the last minute he’s been here.

You hum. It’s almost a contented sigh, he guesses it’s the delirium stage, when the pain finally begins to flatline and the body tries it’s best to make light of the losing fight. You slide your head to the side, big glassy eyes looking in his direction, not meeting him directly. “Do me a favour?” You ask, your voice little more than a hum, eyes drooping lazily. He has no room to deny you, you’re dying, so you could ask him his opinion on mass genocide and he’d humour you until it was time.

Ghost has been around enough death in his time now to know how it goes. He’s seen people bleed out and get blown up, drown or be burned alive, there isn’t a lot he hasn’t seen or dealt with. He’s glad that this’ll be somewhat peaceful for you, of all the ways to go, this is perhaps the least gruesome in a military setting, he can’t confirm it’ll be painless for you however.

He nods his head despite his words, “depends what it is” it’s empty but it makes you crack a smile, with whatever strength you can muster, you extend your hand to him - crusted and wet with the slimy and congealing blood from your wound, when he looks from your hand back to your face, you simply wag your fingers at him. “Hold my hand” you’re still smiling, halfheartedly, but he just shakes his head. He slides his gloved palm across yours and he’s surprised when you clamp your fingers tight around his, mustered strength from a reserve you’ve hidden somewhere out of sight.

He looks at your connected hands and squeezes back himself, “can’t tell anyone about this when we get back” he smiles beneath the mask, it’s solemn - empty. You tilt your chin at him with a knowing air about the motion, there’s little emotion left in your features now, too tired and far gone for it. “I won’t tell anyone” you slur, looking at him, “I promise” the last part is whispered with what he can see is a slight smile. He squeezes your hand again, “good on ya”.

Reality cracks when the sound of the door almost snapping off of its hinges makes Ghost leap almost six feet in the air, he’d let his guard down a little too far and he’s quick to raise his rifle toward the doorway, leaving your hand cold as he stands over you, protective despite there being no real need to be. His finger threatens the trigger but then he lets the tension wash from his shoulders when he hears that familiar Scottish twang.

It’s Johnny

He steps into the room with his hands raised mockingly, stupid cocky smile plastering his face, “alrate, Lt?” The light in his eyes dims and his toothy grin falls when he notices the blood staining the wood he’s standing on. He hadn’t noticed you straight away, blocked by Ghost almost entirely. Ghost steps to the side as if in answer to the question, no- he’s not alrate.

Soap raises his brows, “steamin’ Jesus” he whispers, footfalls immediately carrying him quickly toward you. “Y’okay mate?” He asks quickly, running through the same motion as Ghost had only for you to clock him too. You hiss when his hand lays over yours on your abdomen and you attempt to jerk away, “leave off will ya’” you spit, brows pinched together in pain and frustration. Soap looks wounded by it, no one denies his offers of help, not the bright Scottish lad with a grin too wide and a humour so dark.

“Wouldn’t let me touch it either” Ghost rumbles, watching as you glare at Soap. There’s one thing about Johnny, he rarely takes no for an answer, “come on now” he speaks softly, laying a hand over your thigh so you’re not startled by the touch. “Let me have a look at it, please” his accent loosens and so does the pinched tightness of his face, Ghost watches as you consider the Scot, ultimately reaching the same verdict. You shake your head, “no point, Soap” you knock your head against the cabinet you’re propped against, “I’m done in”. You seem to genuinely believe this is it, to bleed out on a dirty safe house floor in the middle of rural snow-clad Europe.

Johnny swallows. “Either way, if you let me look I can either help-“ he cuts himself off, perhaps looking for a better way of wording whatever he was going to say “or I can be here with you” it’s an offer of his hand to hold or his shoulder to lean on. Ghost has seen it time and time again, he’s been on both ends of it, either thinking he’s the one who’s time is here or watching and waiting as someone dies in his arms. Despite the strength and bravado these men feel obligated to front with, it boils down to the same thing, no one wants or deserves to die alone.

You close your eyes and fight with yourself as you nod. It seems fair, even if you’re going to die, perhaps give them the piece of mind that they tried to help you. It’s why you don’t react when Soap springs into action, he’s cutting away the layers of your clothes around the area, fishing through his med-kit for gauze and tweezers, he’d try his absolute best.

Ghost watches it all unfold, how you don’t even flinch now, not even when Soap pokes around in the wound as he digs for a bullet he’s not even sure is still in there. Ghost doesn’t cringe, he’s seen people blown to bits, but it’s the fact that you don’t react that concerns him more then the squelch of your insides as Soap roots around in there.

It’s only a few seconds before Ghost hears something small and metallic clank to the floor, he watches the bullet roll away in a trail of fresh blood. “Got the wee bastard” Soap triumphs under his breath, you stare lazily at nothing, Ghost steps closer to examine as Soap begins to stitch the wound back together. He’s never been good at it himself, he’s stitched himself up before and a handfuls of others, they always healed deep and ugly - so he tries not to do it if he can get away with it.

His gun is hung hazily in his grip, hanging off the strap that’s over his shoulder, he’s watching Soap work intently until he feels the strap shift against his body. He stiffens but he doesn’t move, his eyes fall to you, watching as you wrap your fingers around the barrel of the rifle and lift it to sit against your forehead. Soap stills completely, eyes darting from you to Ghost.

“Put me out of my fucking misery” your voice barely carries, it’s hoarse and weak, close to dissipated. Ghost meets your eye, gaze glossed over as you stare at him - stare into him. He can’t shift it.

Soap pipes up, “bleedings stopped, pal” he interjects, “yer gonna be fine” wether he’s convincing you or himself - no one’s sure at this point.

You don’t drop your hold on the gun, nor do you drop Ghost’s gaze. “Just spare one bullet for me - please” he watches as the tears fall, smearing through the blood and dirt smearing your face, cutting through like sharp spines that travel over your cheeks.

He replays it over and over. Days later.

Watching as you sleep, wrapped in bandages and starchy white sheets in the medical wing, fed painkillers through a needle in your arm - over the worst of it all thanks to Soap.

It rattles Ghost. Not because it had been gruesome or particularly unpleasant of an encounter, it doesn’t come close to some of the shit he’s seen in his time.

He’s rattled because of just how close he had been to doing you a favour and putting a bullet in your skull.

All for the sake of not having to see you in such pain anymore.

[panlight]

Another Bella-as-narrator problem is Irina.

In the books, Bella doesn't meet her until the not-fight and only saw her once before that, at a distance. To Bella, she's just the person who ran to the Volturi and reported what she thought was an immortal child. Bella has no reason to like this person or to care that she died. Probably blames her for everything that went down and you know what, that's fair.

But the Cullens? This should have been a much bigger deal to them. They've known Irina and considered her family way longer than they've known Bella! Decades longer! Hell, they've known her longer than they've known Alice and Jasper! They met the Denali coven in the 1930s, Jasper and Alice in 1950.

And sure, they can be angry and upset that she ran to the Volturi without talking to them first, they can resent her for being the reason the Denali wouldn't help in Eclipse. But that doesn't erase decades of family ties. She's also horrified, ashamed and apologetic when she realizes she made a mistake. These people who considered her a 'cousin,' family, just watched her be torn apart and burned. That . . . that should leave some kind of mark!

But she means nothing to Bella so her death means nothing to the story. It SHOULD, though, if the Cullens were given space to have feelings outside of the Bella Bubble. Hell, only Tanya and Kate are upset by it; even Eleazar and Carmen don't seem to care! "The atmosphere of celebration was too much for Tanya and Kate. They needed time to grieve for their lost sister."

I get they're all relieved and happy not to have been destroyed by the Volturi and all, but Irina's death should have been a bigger deal to the rest of the Cullens (and to Carmen and Eleazar).

It would be so easy, too? "We're safe now, Alice and Jasper are back, why is everyone still so glum?" "We've lost a member of our family." "Irina? But she betrayed you!" "Families are complicated, love."

[lmae98]

Parallels DMC3 - DMC5

The first four pictures are about Vergil pushing Dante away. In DMC3 he even threatens Dante with Yamato, but in DMC5 he doesn't try that hard, he just gives his brother one last chance to turn back. In DMC3 Dante is kind of processing everything (this is how I see his silence) and doesn't get the chance to say something; in DMC5, instead, he had enought time to think (like two decades) and he's 100% sure of what he wants to amend. Since DMC3 we can see the instant regret in Dante's face the moment Vergil falls. In my point of view, Dante does in DMC5 what he feels he should have done in DMC3: Stay by his brother's side.

The next two are about Nero taking Dante's place. Is now Nero who helplessly watches how the family he's just found (and the remaining one), leaves. His fear it's similar to Dante's (in DMC3), he doesn't know if he'll see them again but, unlike Dante (who thinks that Vergil is aproaching to a certain death), he knows for sure that they'll be alright. I believe that Dante's last words to Nero were of comfort, that he somehow kept in mind when he was in Nero's place and wanted to free the boy from the same thing he felt. I believe that Vergil had that in mind too when he promises his return to Nero (in his own special/weird way).

The next two are about the selfless/violent sacrifice. In DMC3 Vergil's attitude (cutting Dante's hand with Yamato) is not just about pushing Dante away, but a way to free his brother from him, to letting him move on and have a life too (that's my interpretation, not a fact btw, like almost everything in this post). It's the same when Nero is punched/knocked back because, in theory, he can go with them too and I don't think the world is gonna end for that, but they know (especially Dante) he has a life and bounds that ties him to the human world. That punch is about making it easy for Nero to let them go.

The last two pictures don't need much explanation. It's again about Dante doing what he thinks he should have done. He regrets letting Vergil go alone to the Underworld, so this time is him the first one to jump and making sure Vergil doesn't run off on his own this time. After all, they're meant to be together; in Visions of V it's reaffirmed. Both brothers stop fighting against it.

I probably didn't say everything I had planned, but this is a good summary. Sorry if there are mistakes, I wrote this from my cell phone and it seems that my autocorrect has a mind of its own.

[elizabethsnuts]

could you write bucky wanting to be able to braid his daughters hair but he doesn’t know how so he practices on nat and then their daughter being over the moon when bucky does her hair the next morning? 🥹

Perfect Braid

WinterWidow x Daughter!Reader

Summary: Natasha helps Bucky practice doing braids on her hair so he can do the perfect braid just for you.

———

Bucky Barnes was a skilled man, honed through decades of war, and survival. Yet, there was one particular skill he lacked —braiding hair. It seemed simple enough, a trivial task in comparison to the life-or-death situations he had navigated countless times. But when you had approached him one evening with wide, hopeful eyes and a hairbrush in hand, he realized it was anything but trivial. It was a moment that required precision, care, and above all, love.

"Daddy, can you braid my hair like Mama does?" You had asked, your voice filled with innocent trust.

Bucky had knelt down, taking the brush from your little hand, his heart swelling with a mixture of affection and apprehension. "I'll try my best, baby doll."

His first attempt was a disaster. The strands slipped through his fingers, tangled messily despite his best efforts. Your giggles were gentle, not mocking, but they only heightened his determination. Bucky promised you he would get it right, and that was a promise he intended to keep.

That night, after you were tucked into bed, Bucky found Natasha sitting on the couch, reading. She looked up as he approached, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

"Nat, I need your help," He admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

"With what?" She asked, closing her book and giving him her full attention.

"Braiding hair."

Natasha's lips curved into a smile, a rare and genuine expression that lit up her face. "Never thought I’d see the day you became a big softie," She teased. "Y/N asked you to braid her hair, huh?"

Bucky rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his own lips. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. But I'm serious. N/N asked me, I want to do it right."

Natasha stood, gesturing for him to sit. "Alright, sit down. I'll show you."

She sat down in front of him, her long, red hair cascading over her shoulders. Bucky watched intently as Natasha began to separate her hair into sections, her hands moving with practised ease.

"First, you need three equal sections," She explained, guiding his hands to mimic her movements. "Then, you take the right section and cross it over the middle, like this. Then the left section over the new middle. Keep repeating that pattern."

Bucky's metal fingers felt clumsy and awkward compared to Natasha's graceful movements. He fumbled, dropping the sections more than once, but Natasha was patient. She corrected him gently, her instructions clear and calm. Slowly, the pattern began to make sense, and Bucky found a rhythm.

"You're getting it," Natasha encouraged, feeling the braid start to take shape under his fingers.

They practised for hours, and Bucky was determined to perfect his technique. Natasha's hair became a testament to his efforts, the braids improving steadily. Finally, when he managed a braid that was neat and tight, a grin full of pride and accomplishment lit up his face.

"Thanks, Nat. Really," He said, his gratitude evident. He kissed her cheek and smiled.

She smiled at him, a glint of pride in her eyes. "Anytime."

The next morning, Bucky woke early, nervous but ready. He found you already awake, your hair a wild halo around your head. You beamed up at him as he approached with the brush and a few hair ties in hand.

"Ready for your braid, baby doll?" He asked.

You nodded eagerly, climbing onto a chair to sit still while Bucky worked. He combed through your hair carefully, recalling Natasha's instructions. His hands moved methodically, sectioning the hair and beginning the braid. Right over the middle, left over the middle, repeat.

Minutes passed, and the room filled with the quiet sounds of his concentration and your soft humming of nursery rhymes. When he finished, Bucky secured the end with a hair tie and stepped back to admire his work. It wasn't perfect, but it was a braid—tight and mostly even.

You reached up, touching the braid with awe. Your face lit up with joy, your eyes sparkling. "Daddy, it's beautiful!" You exclaimed, throwing your arms around his neck in a tight hug.

Bucky hugged you back, his heart swelling with pride and love. "I'm glad you like it, sweetheart."

You pulled back, looking at him with pure adoration. "You're the best, Daddy."

At that moment, Bucky felt a profound sense of accomplishment. He had faced countless challenges in his life, but none compared to the simple joy of making his daughter happy. As he watched you skip away, your braid bouncing with each step, he knew he would braid your hair every day if you wanted, because, for you, he would do anything.

Natasha entered the room, having observed the whole scene from the doorway. She gave Bucky a nod of approval, her eyes warm. She turned to you with a big smile on her face, "Did Daddy do you hair just like Mama does?"

You nodded your head quickly, almost jumping up and down in pure excitement. "Yes! Yes! Yes! I love it!"

As the day went on, Bucky found himself smiling more often, the memory of your delighted expression a constant source of joy. It was a small victory, but in his life, small victories were often the most meaningful. And this one, this braid, was the most important of all.

[kaedekolya]

clarence and his counterparts: man or monster?

So we were talking about Clarence’s new android SSR (Faint Night Light) in the LBC discord server, and it got me thinking about the monster allusions that seem to be a common thread across Clarence’s main stories. Then we discussed the diary entries from his White Day event, and it occurred to me that this monster imagery also ties into his modern-day counterpart – and with that, this post was born.

In other words: is Clarence a man, a monster, or somewhere in between?

[ SPOILERS: Clarence’s main stories and Chrono Theatre diaries. This meta analysis is structured as story-specific sections, namely Godheim, Eden, and the modern world, so you can skip over the world(s) you haven't read yet. No Awakening spoilers, don't worry! ]

- ☽ -

Godheim: Archmage Clarence

First, let’s talk about Godheim Clarence. As the Archmage, he bears a heavy responsibility upon his shoulders – to oversee the Magi Tower, to fight the Glacial Butterflies, and, ultimately, to protect the country and its people.

In order to fulfil this duty that he has chosen to undertake, Clarence seals his heart and shuts others out. He denies his emotions, and resents himself for having these emotions, to the point that he disparages MC for “[acting] impetuously” and belittles her capabilities when she shows concern for Amelia’s wellbeing. Archmage Clarence’s impassivity is his shield against the emotions he views as a hindrance.

Yet he was not always this way. Clarence is a casualty of cruel circumstances, a tender soul torn apart by trauma. When MC is confronted with the truth of the mages’ magic, having witnessed a mage die before her very eyes, she notes that “[there] is no pain or compassion on Clarence’s face,” because “[this] is a sight he has seen all too many times before.” Decades of watching his fellow mages succumb to the Glacial Butterflies that nest inside them, and decades of having to end the lives of mutating mages under his purview, have conditioned Clarence into numbing his heart to such pain. How else could he have stayed sane, after a century of bearing witness to suffering wrought by his own hands?

Archmage Clarence’s disposition is initially described by MC as an “[icy] presence,” but this is the facade that he projects as a defence mechanism, not his genuine self. Clarence is so accustomed to the chill of the Glacial Butterflies within him that he has taken on the frost as a personality trait, believing that his frigidity defines him. He does not view himself as a human capable of warmth; instead, he thinks of himself as a mutant, as an icy monster.

Even so, Clarence cannot deny his innate inclination towards kindness. When he notices that Amelia isn’t feeling well, he tells her to sit in the carriage. When Amelia’s temperature drops, he casts a spell to warm the shivering child up, even as he grumbles that he’s wasting his time and magic. When Amelia’s death is imminent, he tries to send her off in the gentlest way possible, then grants her final wish by conjuring a connection to the water mirror. Clarence may insist that he does not care, but his actions reflect his compassion.

It is this very kindness that steers him towards a path of selfless sacrifice, for the sake of his country and its people. The life of a mage may have been forced upon him, by the man that gave a gravely injured child no other option but the potion that would transform him, yet Clarence learns to harness his power for good. He spends his youth eliminating Glacial Butterflies and protecting the village of the snow plains, and despite the harsh conditions of the path he now treads, he does not hold a grudge against the family that sold him off and thrived in the resulting profit. Instead, he returns to check on them from afar, and when an onslaught of Glacial Butterflies attack, he protects them with every last bit of energy within him.

Still, his family’s betrayal left an indelible mark on his psyche. Back when he’d been given the potion, he’d resolved to succumb to his injuries rather than drink it. Despite his instinctive desire to live, MC notes that his “will to live [had been] virtually non-existent,” because there is “[no] despair greater than being betrayed by your own family.” The young Clarence had not seen a reason to live, when his family had forsaken him. It is only when MC saves him, urging him to live on, that he resolves to survive and repay this debt. Each time MC encounters him in her voyage through time, he is on the verge of death, and each time, his dwindling will to live stems from his despair over those he could not save. What ultimately keeps him alive is the vow he swore to his saviour.

This characterisation is one that carries through his immortal lifespan. Clarence does not live for himself; he lives for others. Whether that means risking his life to defend a village, or sacrificing himself in a ritual to save the country’s inhabitants, the underlying premise is the same – Clarence lives for the person who saved him, and for the promise he made to them. He allows others to form negative opinions of him based on the assumptions they’ve made, in order to keep the secret of the ritual and the Glacial Butterflies from them, because their scorn towards him matters less than their safety. He closes himself off from others, never permitting them to reach out to him, because he cannot allow companionship and compassion to distract him from his purpose. He “[cannot] afford to be sentimental,” because he cannot have anyone or anything clouding his judgement. Better to be the enemy of the state that saves it, than the friend of the state that cannot do anything as it crumbles. 

It is ironic, then, that Clarence’s devotion to his promise leads him from striving to live and fulfil it, to voluntarily dying for that same promise. His life, his existence itself, is secondary to the promise he has made. He will live to protect the world for his saviour, but if the only way to protect it is to die, then die he shall. Perhaps he views it as a penance of sorts, an atonement for the sins he’s committed. Perhaps he believes the new world would be better off without a monster like him.

For all his calculative callousness and stoic solitude, Clarence is deeply self-aware. Not only is he conscious of the suffering he inflicts and the ramifications of his actions, but he also ruminates upon his sins until they turn to guilt in his gut and self-loathing in the deepest recesses of his soul. He does not turn a blind eye to the pain he witnesses; instead, he looks it straight in the eye, internalises it, and forces himself to feel nothing at all.

Clarence may appear to have no qualms about exploiting people and reducing them to cogs in a plan greater than its constituent parts, but his interactions with Amelia prove otherwise. Right before he sends her off on what is meant to be a suicide mission, his carefully-crafted defenses slip, and he asks whether she hates him. Clarence believes that he has failed to live up to the Archmage’s title, that he has fallen short of being a “guiding force for all the mages” and a “protector.” He condemns himself for his callous strategies and merciless manipulation, since he has been treating people like chess pieces and “using them as [he sees] fit.” He disparages himself for “[standing] by on the sidelines, safe and sound.” He believes others hate him because he’s given them all the reasons to, because he deserves to be hated, because he, too, hates himself. All this while, he fails to recognise that he has taken on the greatest sacrifice of all – the burden of leadership, of decision-making, of being responsible for all the blood on his hands.

This downplaying of his own suffering, alongside his disregard of his own well-being, is what drives Clarence to self-sacrifice time and time again. When a theory about the Glacial Butterflies begins to take shape in his mind, he does not test it out on one of his mages, because he does not view them as expendable despite what he claims. Instead, he uses himself for his experiment, slicing his chest open and bearing the agonising pain in order to ascertain the truth of the magic within him.

On the verge of being overcome by the Glacial Butterflies, despite having prepared for this eventuality by shackling his limbs, he makes one last selfless request. “My Lord, you must kill me before I turn,” he entreats, willing to relinquish his own life for the safety of others. Even when Philip protects him from the Glacial Butterflies, refusing to kill him, Clarence believes that there is no place for him in the future that his Lord envisions.

Decades later, he still echoes this same sentiment. “There is no future without sacrifice,” he tells Lars, and he does not see himself as part of that future, does not see himself as deserving of that future. Archmage Clarence thinks of himself as a monster, not a man, and a monster is better off dead than alive.

It is a revelation, to him, that Amelia does not hate him. MC does not hate him. Lars, Alkaid, the mages that carry on the legacy of the Magi Tower, none of them hate him. They do not view him as a monster; they view him as a martyr, a protector, a saviour. Someone who did his best, and gave his all. Archmage Clarence leaves behind a legacy through his sacrifice, spurred by the human heart he still harbours deep within.

- ☽ -

Eden: Falcon Clarence

Next, we have the Falcon Clarence of Eden. The lone ranger of the desert, the mercenary that eliminates Sandswimmers with impeccable precision and works with no one else.

“A bait that only knows how to cry is a burden,” his mentor tells him, and Clarence internalises that into his cognitive framework and guiding compass. It is “the first lesson Liore taught [him];” that he must prove his worth in order to live. His scent lures the Sandswimmers to him, and so he must make himself useful by seeking out danger.

Valued only for his utility as bait, Clarence learns that his worth is determined by his fighting skills. With no other way to survive, he becomes a NEOS by fusing Sandswimmer gems into his body. Clarence pays the price of this acquired power through the gradual erosion of his memories, but that is far from the only thing he has lost. His decision to accept the integration of these foreign, beastly objects into his body has changed him irrevocably. He thinks of himself not as a human, but as a mutant being only one step away from becoming a monstrous Lost. Still, he endeavours to “remember [his] humanity,” because he refuses to become a “mere weapon [that knows] nothing but destruction.” Falcon Clarence understands that he is, by definition, a monster, but he refuses to relinquish the last shreds of his humanity.

In his first encounter with MC, he is rational and pragmatic as always, scrutinising her motives and seeing no reason to work together. Years of solitude, with no one else to depend on, have honed Clarence’s reflexes into an “instinct for self-defence.” Yet his reaction to MC’s request reveals that his solitude has been shaped by circumstance, not entirely by choice. When MC explains her reason for seeking out Eden, even though it does not sound particularly convincing, Clarence accepts it as sufficient and agrees to lead the way. Despite the potential risk of allowing a stranger close, he offers MC a ride on his motorcycle. Subsequently, he continues to help her out, defending the children’s shelter and giving her the gems he’d collected, even as he refuses to follow her any further.

Falcon Clarence claims that he works alone, but everything he does is for the sake of protecting others. He fights in the desert to protect the shelters from Sandswimmers, and he fights in Eden to protect Lin and the other NEOS from the Lost. He brings MC to the NEOS Association, so that she can rest for a night and learn essential skills from Lin. He knows that the night is dangerous, so despite his own preference for working alone, he ensures that MC has a community of protection around her.

Even as he dismisses everything and everyone else as burdens, his actions speak otherwise. Despite having met MC for only a single day, he offers his assistance to her time and time again, from rides on his motorcycle to filling water bottles with her. He could easily leave her to fend for herself, but he chooses not to leave her behind even when that would be the easier way out.

Perhaps the reason Clarence refuses to work with other people is that he’s afraid. Afraid of dragging them down, afraid of becoming their burden. He fears that history will repeat itself. He cannot bear to lose someone he cares for again, so he refrains from caring about anyone at all. Each time Clarence chastises others for being a hindrance, he is reproaching his past self for his inadequacy. Each time he risks his life to protect others, he is atoning for his failure to save his mentor.

MC says that she understands how Clarence feels, because “acting alone means nobody will be hurt because of [him].” In a way, acting alone also protects himself from being hurt. It is a defence mechanism born from his past, when he had to “learn to accept [his] losses” from a young age. He couldn’t afford to grieve Liore for long, not with the constant threat of the Sandswimmers, and so he could do nothing else but “live on with what memories [he] had left.” He’d forced himself to harden his heart to his emotions, but he could not suppress them entirely.

Clarence blames his moment of weakness, of emotional folly, for causing Liore’s death. It was her humanity, even in her final moments as a Lost, that held her back from killing him and caused her to die. He regrets his choice to this day, and perhaps it is this survivor’s guilt that pushes him to fight harder until he reaches the brink.

It is this same guilt, alongside his resolve to not lose anyone else he cares for, that drives him towards self-sacrifice. When he realises that MC needs a soul stone – his soul stone – to open the door within Central Control, he unflinchingly raises his gun to his head, as if it were the natural and logical decision to make. He is ready to offer his life without a moment’s hesitation, because that is the utility he can offer in this moment, in order to keep MC safe and help her achieve her goal. She has given him a reason to fight, and he will die trying to fulfil it.

Ultimately, it is his encounter with MC – and the companionship which blooms from it – that saves him. Without demanding anything in return, she cries for his pain, fights by his side, and shoulders his burdens with him. Clarence doubts his humanity, even as he holds fast to it, since he is all too cognisant of the monstrous traits within. In turn, MC’s unwavering trust reaffirms the humanity within him, reminding him that he is worthy of living.

Falcon Clarence may not be fully human on a biological level, and he may still succumb to the effects of the monsters within him from time to time, but he has managed to preserve his heart and his humanity. His tale is one of healing, of opening up, and of learning to value himself for who he is and not what he can do.

- ☽ -

Modern World: Clarence

Finally, let’s circle back to modern-day Clarence. At first glance, he’s the calm, collected, and capable Student Council president, who always seems to have affairs in order and circumstances under control.

Then, in his Chrono Theatre diary entries, we learn that he had a psychiatrist observing him from a young age, due to his gifted aptitude and exceptional intelligence beyond that of his peers. This revelation sparked a discussion in the LBC discord server, which spurred this message of mine that then became the basis for this meta post:

Clarence is well-versed in decorum, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it comes naturally to him. It’s likely that he learned social etiquette by picking it up from observing how other people behave, so he knows the appropriate responses to give and the socially-acceptable ways to carry himself. However, because this social understanding is not an innate trait but a learned one, there are often times when he doesn’t recognise the need for social niceties, and instead his instinctual response – founded on his internal logic – comes through.

One example of this can be found as early as his second interaction with MC, after she paints an artwork of him:

The polite thing to do would be to express interest in or appreciation of the finished product, regardless of one’s actual feelings towards it. However, Clarence “doesn’t show the slightest interest” in MC’s painting. Does this mean that he doesn’t care for it, and doesn’t see the need to put on a pretence? Quite the contrary. Instead, it’s because he thinks he doesn’t have anything useful to offer in response, and thus he stays silent.

Here, we see a disconnect between how Clarence understands the world, and how other people tend to view it. While most people would appreciate receiving praise or validation, Clarence doesn’t particularly see the need to receive either, and thus doesn’t immediately think of giving them to others. Rather, he takes a more pragmatic approach, focusing on utility; a piece of work deserves feedback for the effort poured into it. However, as a law major, he does not have sufficient knowledge or expertise regarding art. As such, he believes that his feedback would not be useful, and thus it is better not to say anything at all.

This ties into how Clarence views himself as his roles, and the functions he can serve. He understands that he has worth, but he evaluates this worth through his services as the Student Council president, or his contributions as a law intern. When he assists others, he doesn’t think of it as going out of his way to help them; instead, he views it as part of his rightful duty.

As a result, Clarence doesn’t view himself as simply “Clarence.” Rather, he thinks of himself as Clarence, the Student Council president; Clarence, an upperclassman; Clarence, a friend. If he can fulfil someone’s needs through a role that he holds, he will do it, even at the expense of himself.

We see this most prominently in Clarence’s “Break Time” R card story:

When the senior who’s supposed to interpret for an academic speaker falls ill and fails to attend, Clarence steps up to fill their shoes last-minute. William notes that Clarence can be counted on to show up whenever and wherever he’s needed, and MC agrees that he’s “the only one who’s up to the task.”

However, what most people don’t recognise are the sheer lengths Clarence will go to in order to fulfil his duties. On top of his regular responsibilities, filling in for the interpreter caused Clarence to “[burn] the midnight oil” preparing for the speech, and taking care of the sick speaker meant that Clarence could not sleep for two days. He doesn’t recognise that he’s constantly going above and beyond, because to him it’s a given, but he is in fact pushing himself past his limits, and past the line that most people would draw.

It’s interesting to examine MC’s thoughts here, because she interprets Clarence’s willingness to take a nap as a rational understanding that he needs to rest in order to keep functioning. However, this only happens after MC coaxes him into taking a break. If she hadn’t intervened, Clarence would have continued pushing himself until he completed his task – he was already at “the brink of collapse,” and he “only agreed to sleep after [MC] practically begged him to.” Clarence prioritises his responsibilities to the point that he does not recognise his own needs, and thus neglects to take care of himself.

Although modern Clarence doesn’t think of himself as different, or as anything less than a person, it’s evident that he views himself as the roles he fulfils rather than simply as who he is. In turn, this mindset is reflected in his behaviour, which then shapes other people’s perceptions of him. This is how Clarence becomes characterised as the aloof and intimidating Student Council president in the students’ eyes, even though he cares so deeply and helps out so much; most people are unable to look deeper and see Clarence as the person that he is, because he perceives and presents himself through the lens of his roles.

As such, other people often view Clarence as different from themselves – as if he’s operating on a different wavelength, or existing on a separate plane entirely. Modern Clarence’s genius sets him apart from his peers, but more than that, his perspective of himself winds up alienating himself from other people. Clarence views himself as like others, but others view him as unlike them. He blends in well enough, but he doesn’t quite fit in; he has a place in society, but he doesn’t quite belong.

- ☽ -

Clarence, across time and space

Out of all the Clarences thus far, modern Clarence is perhaps the most well-adjusted, and this reflects the importance of having a support system. Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence were isolated from a young age and survived alone throughout most of their lives, whereas modern Clarence had family and friends around him. He may not have had the most conventional childhood, but he grew up with his older sister Jaclyn and his close friend Luca, and he also had his psychiatrist Ford observing and monitoring his development. Subsequently, after he enters St Shelter Academia, he gains a circle of friends he can rely on, such as William, O’Connor, and, of course, MC.

Expanding upon Clarence’s St Shelter Academia bonds, we see that Clarence has people around him who genuinely like him for who he is, and are willing to support him unconditionally. O’Connor affectionately refers to Clarence with a nickname – “Shi-kun” in the Japanese voiceover, or “Little Si Lan” in the Chinese one – and for all his devious teasing, it’s clear he looks out for his Student Council successor. As for William, he may whine about Clarence’s by-the-book discipline, but his clumsiness and complaints do not preclude him from helping out when needed. For all that Clarence often chastises William, he still relies on him to assist with Student Council matters, and he knows William is someone he can trust.

Compared to these two, MC is a relatively newer connection, but her bond with Clarence runs deep. Right off the bat, she’s able to meet him on his level and banter with him, and he lets down his guard enough to subtly tease her for trying to trick him. As their relationship develops, Clarence grows to trust her, sharing his inner thoughts and admitting his vulnerabilities. MC is a safe haven for him, and she understands him on a level deeper than most. While the other students may fear Clarence for his aloof disposition, or hesitate to approach him due to his detached rationality, MC sees the earnest sincerity woven into his actions and the warmth laced through his words. Others may think of him as an unfeeling robot or a terrifying monster, but MC loves him for the human that he is.

There’s a subtle but interesting juxtaposition here, in which Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence – both possessing monstrous mutations within them – view themselves as monsters while most others do not, whereas modern Clarence – wholly human – views himself as human while most others do not. All three Clarences are keenly aware of what constitutes them, allowing this biological understanding to shape their perception of themselves, but they do not recognise that their actions paint a different picture to others.

Regardless of the world he inhabits, Clarence constantly straddles the line between man and monster. His selfless nature and dutiful diligence often lead him to self-sacrifice and superhuman feats, creating the illusion of a monster – but beneath this facade lies, always, the heart of a human.

- ☽ -

thank you for reading!♡

if you have any thoughts about this post, i'd love to hear them! responses are always welcome, and my ask box is open~

up next: android clarence, and the inevitability of tragedy. where is the line between human and machine? stay tuned for my thoughts on clarence's awakening main story!

[claws-and-quills]

Stay With Me

A/N: This was a little more self-indulgent for me, ngl. Old Man Logan seriously deserves more love and attention.

CW: mentions of blood, old scars, talks of death

Word Count: 1,391

Genre: Angst and Fluff

Everything felt like a blur. Where had the time disappeared over the years? You clenched your teeth, looking at your beaten and bloodied reflection staring back at you in the mirror. Your hands still trembled with shock, pain, and adrenaline. Your stomach churned at the sight. Blood stained your blouse that was now riddled with bullet holes.

“Logan?” You finally work up the courage to call out to him. The back of your throat burned with unspoken emotions. You could hear the soft grunts echoing down the hallway; your heart sank to the bottom of your stomach. “Logan?!”

Swallowing thickly, you rush out of the room. How long have you been out? An audible gasp falls from your lips at the sight of him slumped tiredly against the wall. He looked to be in just as bad of shape as you, if not worse. You fall to your knees in front of him, tenderly cupping his cheeks in your hands. His gaze meets yours, a soft grimace at his lips.

“Hey…m’not dead yet. I'm not that easy to kill just yet,” He cups your cheek in his hand. Your stomach tied itself into knots at his words. Time has been so cruel to you, and to especially Logan; the reality felt like a swift kick to your gut.

“Don't say that. I know you're no spring chicken, but….that's something I'd rather not think about…” Your eyes remain focused on his, searching his features, memorizing every scar, every crease, every perfect little imperfection. 

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest; though, he immediately winces at the movement. Life had been so much darker, harder even ever since the X-Men had slowly dwindled and smoldered down to mere foggy memories. You slowly take one of his hands into both of yours and tenderly kiss his knuckles. Tears picked the corners of your eyes. This was never how you imagined life would be; not like this, not living day to day with fear of the unknown. It felt as though it took every ounce of your energy not to let the tears fall from your eyes and down your cheeks.

Logan furrows his brows tightly as he watches you. His eyes, though tired and painful, soften at the sight of you. He could smell the fear, the pain, and the relief that radiated from your body. He cups your cheek with his other hand. His fingers were rough and calloused against the tender skin of your cheek, but you didn't mind it one bit. You lean into his touch, savoring how his hand felt on your skin, how his natural scent still held onto the aroma of rustic oak, leather, and a touch of mint.

“Hey…m'just a little banged up. Don't heal like I used to before. It's going to take more than this to keep me down…” His voice was soft, hoarse even as he fought to speak through the pain. You knew he was right, though. You were blessed and cursed to see him over the decades, centuries even,  as time slowly kept its way onto his face and across his body. You nod stiffly, slowly opening your tearful eyes to meet his gaze. “C'mon, don't cry. Hey…I'm still alive now, aren't I? Don't cry, Pretty Girl. Please…”

“Lo…” You croak, your voice shaky and uncertain. Your eyes finally open and rest on his tired face. You slowly get to your feet, tugging at his hand to try to get him to follow. Just as in your younger days, he refused to budge at first. Grunting, he slowly gets to his feet, and the small clink of spent bullets hitting the ground followed him through his movements. “You look a mess…” your voice was hushed, barely a whisper. The expression in your eyes told Logan everything he needed to know and hear. He didn't try to put up a fight, nor did he try to give you a hard time; in a rare moment, he let you lead him away to be properly cared for.

You cover your mouth to keep another gasp at bay after you have worked his bloodied beater up and over his head, revealing the bullets that were still lodged deep within his chest, arms, and abdomen. It was painful for you to watch as he struggled to force the bullets out from the wounds they had left behind within his skin and body. The breath you were holding became stuck in your throat, almost suffocating you as you watched in painful silence.

“Lo…” you say softly and slowly wrap your arms around him from behind. His skin was hot against your cheek as you rested your cheek against his bare back. Hot tears began to roll down your cheeks. You couldn't hold it back any longer; the pain became too much to hold back. You press a tender kiss against his back between his shoulder blades, followed by another over an old scar that had been left behind from what you only imagined had been a sentinel. With every metallic clink that came from the bullets that fell into the sink, you could feel Logan's body tense and relax, forcing the bullets out.

He slowly rests his hands on top of yours; his fingers tenderly caressing your arms. For a second, you could have sworn you heard him exhale a shaky breath before he turned to face you. His eyes were soft and concerned; his gaze tenderly fixed on you. Your eyes finally meet his. He looked tired, pitiful even. It felt as though a thorn bush had wrapped its thorns around your heart, tearing into it with every beat.

“Stay with me…please…” The words fell from your lips without a single thought. He tenderly takes your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting your head up towards his.

“I'm not going anywhere…hey…I promise, I'll never let go…” He rasps softly against the top of your head. His lips press a tender kiss to the crown of your head as he wraps his arms around you tightly. “How bad is it…did they hurt you…”

You shake your head against his chest. Parts of you were unsure as to how much of the blood that was on you was yours or the agents that had hunted you and Logan down. You didn't care if you were injured; all you knew in that moment was that you didn't want to let go of him. A soft breath catches in your throat at the sensation of his fingers hooking into the bottom of your blouse, tugging it up your body to be gently pulled up over your head and gently dropped onto the floor. Your wounds had healed for the most part, but you still appeared to be in rough shape.

“I'm okay…I…let me help you…please…” You speak softly, to which Logan nods. Standing on your tiptoes, you place a chaste and tender kiss on his lips. His arms snake back around your body, pulling you in close against his chest.

“Only if you let me help you…” He murmured into the kiss. His thumbs rub small circles onto your hips. You finally nod, sniffling as he pressed his forehead against yours.

Once in the shower together, the hot water felt heavenly against your and his sore body. The pain in his eyes faded away as he watched you. His eyes close at how tenderly you caress his chest, pressing a chaste kiss over his heart. A soft, quiet, appreciative moan rumbles deep in his throat near the top of his chest as you start to wash the dried blood away from his chest and arms. It was the small intimate moments like this that made him fall in love with you all over time and time again.

“I'm sorry, Darlin’...” His voice is soft. You lift your gaze to see him watching you with soft, loving eyes. “I'm sorry you have to endure this…all of this…”

His words felt like a hot poker had been stabbed through your heart. You shake your head slowly. “I would rather go through 1,000 hells with you than live in a 1,000 heavens without you…”

He cups your cheeks in his hands, pulling you in close for a tender kiss. “I love you…”

“I love you too, Logan. Always and forever…” You whisper softly against his lips.

[frogsmulder]

The Ring

Sometime after Mulder and Scully Meet The Weremonster, they both get a little handsy and are embarrassed that they have worn their wedding rings as a necklace the entire time they have been separated; 1.3k words; rated t; tagging @today-in-fic

Part 1: The Ring

The ring is a symbol of unity, eternity, constancy, and hope. They had always had that in excess, there was no doubt, or at least Mulder had thought. He considers each of these things as he thumbs the gold band Scully had placed on his fourth finger almost a decade ago. The wedding ring, once placed, shouldn’t be removed, not for poverty, not for sickness, not even in death. It should have tied them together forever. The cold overhead office lights catch and glimmer on the ring as Mulder twists it between his fingers and swivels in his chair. He still considers himself a married man, even through his failings. It has been over for a while between them, but hope is a hard thing to kill, especially when he again gets to see her smile everyday.

The distinctive click of Scully’s heels gets louder as she walks towards the office door. An involuntary grin, pulls at the corners of his mouth. Quickly, he drops the ring behind his shirt, where it hangs out of sight on a chain he wears around his neck. She saunters in with two steaming coffee cups in her hands and a new file tucked under her arm. “Skinner has sent us another case–one to get your paranormal juices flowing.” 

Seeing Scully in good form, beautiful as always, his grin turns coy as his heart beats allegro presto. He stands and swoops around her, taking his coffee and talking closely in her ear, “Paranormal juices?” he delights in her smirk– “Is that a quote from Skinner or have you got more creative juice in that coffee than you are letting on?”

He may have pushed her away, she may have moved out–called the end to their relationship–but he is still a married man and hope is a hard thing to kill.

Part 2: The Unity

...Some time later...

Mulder pauses for a moment, appreciating the beauty sitting in his lap before him, how she seems to grow finer with each passing year, like a wine he can’t afford to taste, but can’t help thirsting for. The lights of the lamps in the living room are dim, giving Scully an ethereal glow as he brushes his fingers through her hair. It falls like the red curtain at the end of the final act around her face, tasting him with a hunger that reminds him that the story is never over. She had been off the menu for so long and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve her desire again but he doesn’t question it as her tongue seeks his, falling to her will so comfortably. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he remembers that she took him up on his open invitation for dinner at their once shared home; she was the one that suggested a film when the case reports got too tiring; she snuggled up to him on the old familiar couch, thighs touching side by side and then a head resting on his shoulder. He had embraced her brazen physical contact like catching an individual cherry blossom falling from the sky: admiring its wonder and cautious of its fragility. Scully had taken the worry of that blossom and thrown it aside the moment she had turned her lips against the pulse point of his neck.

Her tongue drags along that point now, drawing out an appreciative groan from him. His hands settle on her hips and rock her closer, appreciating how her body, still strong, has softened with the years. 

He keeps his eyes open, afraid that this is a cruel dream, that if he blinks she will drift away like smoke as she did many years ago. He watches as her perfect blue eyes roll back and her eyelashes flutter when she grinds herself against the bulge in his jeans. It’s a vision he’s witnessed many times but never tires of. His thumb trails up her body to rest on her chin, gently coaxing her lips apart, replacing her need for air with his own lips. He can feel her smile against them.

He’s afraid to ask but he has to know, so on a shallow breath he murmurs, “What are we doing?”

“Reconnecting.” Scully lets her forehead rest against his. “Is this okay?”

“God, yes, I just…”

It’s her turn to run her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”

With a wicked grin, she starts slowly rolling against him again and he lets her play this slow dance, basking in the waves of pleasure she creates. Her fingers wander down from playing with the fuzzy hair at the nape of his neck to laying her palms flat against his chest, mooring herself at his harbour. 

Mulder stiffens and his blood heats, his heart beating erratically against the walls of his chest. Under his shirt, between the frame of her hands, lies a chain that’s tied him for so long, its presence had become a second skin. It wasn’t a secret, but it was hidden out of sight: a symbol of unity and eternity he could not part with even when Scully had parted with him.

“Mulder?” Her sweet voice cuts through his embarrassment, her worry bringing him back to the moment.

“I’m alright. I just…” He sighs. There shouldn’t be shame in carrying that part of her close to his chest in a gold band. He couldn’t have let her see it on his finger–their marriage through, or so he had thought–but he couldn’t part with it either. Despite his failings and her forced distance, he still considered himself a married man. He couldn’t let her know he had never kept his promise of letting her go. Gently, he moves her hands away from his chest. He couldn’t let her feel the ring.

“Mulder…” Her bright blue eyes pierce his soul as she searches for an answer to his hesitation. “Talk to me.”

He chews his lip. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

Crestfallen, she whispers, “What do you mean?”

“We were doing so well, keeping on friendly terms, not complicating this relationship… I–” The gold burns into his chest. Hanging his head, he mumbles, “I don’t want to lose you again. Not over a stupid mistake.”

He can hear the slight tremble in her voice and can picture the tears unspilled in the corner of her eyes. “Do you think this is a mistake?”

“No! That’s what I mean. I–”

Scully interrupts him this time, bringing his hand to lie flat over her chest. He can feel the thrumming of her heart so lively directly beneath his palm. Curious, he looks up to her.

She closes her hand over his, sealing a sacred truth. “You never lost me.”

Something cold tickles thumb just underneath her shirt. He tries to move his hand to find the source of it, suspicious that she has kept him close by too all this time, yet her grip tightens around his, holding him in place. Her face is painted with the same shock and instinctive worry that he had felt earlier. Slowly, trusting, she loosens her grip.

Mulder places a chaste kiss to her cheek, not reaching for her shirt but instead unbuttoning his own. “You never lost me,” he repeats almost with a chuckle. Reaching beneath his shirt he pulls out his wedding ring and places it in her upturned hand, watching the chain spool in her palm. “I was afraid that you would uh think… less of me if you saw this.”

With his index finger, he caresses down the opening of her shirt, tickling her flushed skin. He smiles when she pushes her chest into him despite herself. Hooking his finger around the second hidden chain, he pulls out her wedding ring, the cool diamond he had felt earlier glistening in the light.

She dips her head to hide her laugh like she used to in her youth. “I guess I should have seen this coming.”

He drops her ring into her hand and wraps his arms around her, chuckling as he kisses her, “We both should have.”

Between their bodies, Scully clutches her fist, holding their rings together, unified at last.

[xiaosonlybeloved]

Of Flowers and Death~ -Hanahaki AU

fem! reader x Zhongli, Zhongli x Guizhong, implied Zhongli x Lumine

warnings:- angst, hurt/no comfort, major character death, graphic descriptions of blood and violence. (lemme know if i missed anything) length-2.8k words a/n:- Mmm yes my favorite oneshot till date. stay till the end for that juicy angst haha (i have been writing for over two hours everything hurts but its worth it) Likes comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated, and do check out my childe smau too!

Edit:- there is a sequel now- Regret, Guilt, Anguish

masterlist

“Oh..” you murmured in less than a whisper. You were hidden behind a few rocks; you had come to meet Morax, the god of Liyue, but your dearest friend, Guizhong, was already there with him, and it looked like they were having a moment. You couldn’t help but want to listen in, because after all it was Morax who you had loved for most of your life.

You were a foreigner to Liyue; you came from Inazuma. But you weren’t any ordinary Inazuman. You were the third and youngest of the Raiden sisters, who ruled over Inazuma itself. No one other than the archons knew about your existence, because Ei and Makoto kept you a secret, protected. Although not many knew, there had indeed been a few attempts on the lives of the Raiden sisters, and this was what they wanted to protect you from.

After you had a few centuries of battle experience and training under your bag, you were allowed to explore the world. You were not tied down with the duties of ruling Inazuma. Naturally, you attracted the attention of the gods, each one of them remarking on how you inherited all the characteristic features of the Raidens.

Only the heavens above knew how you managed to become the best friend of one of the major gods, and that too Morax. But he was the reason you chose to settle down in Liyue. As time passed, your feelings for Morax, also called Zhongli by his friends, also grew more than platonic.

Now see, you knew Morax was something of a blockhead when it came to feelings. So you didn’t think much when Morax kept sending you mixed signals. You both were immortal gods after all, you had all the time in the world. You continued to hopelessly fool yourself, thinking that just perhaps, there was a chance of him loving you back.

Then came the goddess of Dust, Guizhong. A minor goddess she was, but a wonderful one. It didn’t take her too long to make her way into everyone’s hearts, including yours and Zhongli’s. While you both quickly grew into fast friends, there was just one thing that constantly irked you. Just one. It was the way she quickly grew so incredibly close to Zhongli.’

You knew that Guizhong fancied Zhongli; she confessed it to you yourself. You were forced to merely plaster a fake smile upon your face and laugh her words off.

That brought you to this day: watching Guizhong confess to Zhongli. And the amount of heartbreaking anguish when Zhongli accepted with a smile, pulling her in close, after having remained oblivious to all your advances over the decades…. It was just… You couldn’t handle it. It was too much.

You quietly sneaked away as soon as possible. And then.. And then came the coughs and the bloodstained petals. Being from Inazuma, you knew all about it of course. Hanahaki. Needless to say, you were horrified. Since that day, you somewhat avoided the duo on the pretext of the ongoing Archon War. It was here that you showed your true battle prowess as a Raiden. You alone decimated entire armies of the enemies, leaving not even ashes.

The war went on for months. You lost many allies in fighting to ensure that Makoto and Morax got seats in the Seven. Till sundown you fought without relent, showing that even a beauty can be dangerous. At night, you gave your fallen comrades the proper, respectful  farewell they deserved. By now, only the last few contenders for the heavenly thrones were left. The last opponent for Morax was the ocean god, Osial, in Guyun Stone Forest, and his followers. Recognising the serious threat he posed, you did agree to team up with Morax to eliminate him. The path for Morax to become an archon would then become clear. Through experience, you both knew that you two together were a formidable force. 

The battle was a long and exhausting one. You both started at sunrise, and barely managed to subdue him by sundown, having understood that even with their combined power, they would not be able to kill Osial. You both went back to your makeshift camp, looking forward to just resting for the night. Thank the gods you had very few coughing fits during the battle.

And yet, the moment you stepped past the protected borders, you felt that familiar eerie chill that crept up your spine. The heavy silence that hung ominously, the one that meant something was dreadfully, terribly wrong. And you were right. You took in the scene. The five Yakshas of Liyue were present, and they seemed to be sealing some sort of hexagonal structure, which was suspended above a figure. And the figure…

Was Guizhong.

Any dislike you harboured towards the Goddess of Dust disappeared as you laid your eyes upon the figure that had been turned to stone. The first and utmost thought in your mind was that something was wrong with your second best friend. Evidently Morax had come to the same conclusion. He let out a strangled sound as you both ran towards what remained of Guizhong. As you both gingerly touched her as if she was made of glass instead of stone, you knew. It was clear- Guizhong was no more.

Despite your stormy emotions, it seemed you were capable of only letting out a few tears. Morax seemed to be physically incapable of crying, yet his emotions were plainly displayed on his face for all to see. 

That night, you stayed with Morax, doing your best to comfort him, despite needing comfort yourself. Neither of you had any more tears to shed. 

That night, Morax has emerged as one of the Seven with your help, but you both lost Guizhong along the way.

~◈~

2 millenia had passed since the Archon War, and it left its scars on everyone. However, you could be lying if you said that you didn’t feel relieved that Guizhong was out of the way. You also felt guilty for feeling like that. But it was rather funny, how you managed to survive with your hanahaki for 2000 years, while most died within a few months. You supposed the reason was that Morax, who now completely lived as the mortal Zhongli in the Harbor, was seriously the absolute master at giving out mixed signals. He often unknowingly did things that lovers did, giving you hope. Yet that hope gets squashed a few days later, and the cycle continues. In all honesty, the hanahaki wasn’t really a big problem, more like a chronic disease that you had come to accept as a part of your life.

You knew that while Zhongli had mostly recovered by now, he still irrationally blamed himself for Guizhong’s death. You often told him to move on, yet he never said anything. You could see how opposed he was to the idea though. That’s why it was a surprise when he invited you to his office in the funeral parlor right after you returned from Inazuma. You could see on his face that there was something that pleased him. He first enquired about your travels and stuff, then said, “[name], do you remember how you’ve always told me to move on?” “Oh yes. Have you been thinking about that?” “Indeed. Although Guizhong will always have a special place in my heart, I believe that I am now ready to mingle again. I realised recently… that I have feelings for someone new.” 

You couldn’t deny the flutter of excitement you felt on hearing those words.Was this finally it? “That’s great Zhongli! Who is it?” “Do you know the Traveler, Lumine? It’s her. I met her a while back, when you were out on your travels. I love her so much.” He proceeded to tell you all about Lumine. He was lovestruck and you could see that. With every word he spoke, you felt your heart drop more into your stomach. You were doomed. Utterly doomed.

All this time, you’d just been deluding yourself, lying to yourself. He had never loved you, and he never would. You were struggling to keep your easy smile glued to your face as yet again, you felt something rise up your throat. You politely managed to excuse yourself, your voice coming out all scratchy and raw. Once you walked out of his cabin, you sprinted towards the confines of your home. By the time you locked yourself in, some petals had already escaped and blood was smeared across your palm. 

You were hunched over the sink, which was already full of flowers and blood within a few minutes. It hurt. Everything did, both your body and your broken heart. You knew your impending death was near, because never had your hanahaki been this severe. You couldn’t undergo the surgery because Zhongli was a massive part of your life, and simply forgetting about him would raise a barrage of questions. Plus, you still loved Zhongli too much to forget about him, despite the fact that somewhere deep down, you always knew that he’d never love you back.

~◈~

Your time was very close. The past few days had been spent isolated into the confines of your home, claiming to be exhausted from your latest journey whenever someone came to visit. Funnily enough, today was the day when Zhongli’s former love, and your former best friend, Guizhong, had died. In short, her death anniversary. Seemed it would be yours too.

You usually avoided visiting Guizhong’s memorial and burial site, which was in an isolated cave near Liyue Harbour. However today you thought it was fitting for you to pay your respects to her for the last time. And so, you dragged yourself out in the early morning, before sunrise. You left before anyone could see you, before he could see you.

By the time you are at your destination, your condition has significantly worsened due to the physical strain. It’s all you can do to respectfully place the flowers beside her memorial and lean against the wall. You began to speak to no one in particular in a cracked voice. “Hey Gui…? I hope.. You are at.. Peace… Just know that… I’ve never… hated you.. You’ve always been my.. Best friend.”

“How lucky you were… to be loved by Zhongli.”

Your throat choked up, not because of emotion, but because of another bout of bloody flowers. Not wanting to die there because he would see you, you got yourself out and into another deserted cave just beside. Not the best, but you had no choice. You had merely left a few petals at the entrance of both caves and a faint trail of blood in between.

By now, you had fallen to the ground in searing agony as flower after bloodstained flower forced its way out of your raw throat. You were lying on a bed of the flowers you yourself had coughed out.

How long it had been, you did not know. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. You started coughing again, not a moment’s respite. Your life force was almost completely drained. Any moment now.. You would be free.

It was then that you heard a horrified voice ring through the silence. “[Name]!”

~◈~ 

Zhongli was up at sunrise. Despite his new love, his mood was somber- it was Guizhong’s death anniversary. He had every intention to continue visiting her memorial. As usual, he sought you out. There was a rare chance that if you were in the mood, you would accompany him to pay respects to Guizhong. Yet when he knocked at your door several times and received no response, he chose to leave you alone, despite being slightly worried. You usually did respond at the very least, but he was sure you were alright,

He stopped short in front of the cave which housed Guizhong’s memorial. There was a fresh bouquet of Glaze lilies. But who brought them here? Especially since this place was practically unheard of. He took a few quick steps forward and kneeled down to inspect the bouquet. His heart lurched.

Attached to the bouquet was a small note that said, ‘To my dearest best friend, Guizhong.’ There was no name, but he recognised the handwriting well enough. [name] had already been here. Without him? Was there a reason?

His eyes were drawn to something else too. Relatively new footprints in the soil. And blood.

Blood?

His heavy footsteps echoed in the cave as he quickly walked out, following the faint trail of footprints, blood and petals. They were leading him to a nearby cave. His heart rate accelerated as he heard heavy coughing.  And behold the sight that awaited him- an utterly pretty bed of flowers and petals stained in a blood red, and someone coughing while lying on it.

“[Name]!” He cried out, completely horrified.

You curled into yourself even more on hearing his voice. All you wanted was to die in peace, why did he have to make things more difficult? Why did he have to come here? The flowers started choking and constricting your throat on their way up, ever more unrelenting, fueled by the appearance of the one who caused them. It was so hard to breathe… Just a bit more…

You felt yourself being gently lifted into someone’s strong and warm embrace. You weakly met Zhongli’s eyes, which were full of panic. You’d only seen him lose his composure like this once before, his fear more than evident on his face. “[name]- I- What happened? Please, tell me! I- I can’t lose you too!” He exclaimed frantically, feeling your life ebb away second by second, with each cough that released blood and Glaze lilies.

Your throat constricted even more, making it excessively hard to breathe. You just wanted to rest, It was all you could do to force a few broken words from your raw throat.

“...Hana..haki…” That was all Zhongli needed to know to understand. His pupils dilated in fear even more. “Who.. Who is it who made you suffer this way?” Zhongli whispered, unable to take in your completely broken state. You didn’t respond for a few moments, feeling your eyelids shut. You forced them open, not wanting to leave him hanging. “Always.. Loved you.. Always will… Be happy.. For me.. Okay? That is my last wish.” You weakly tried to reach a hand towards Zhongli, who instantly grasped it tightly in hsi, and pressed it against his face, as the realisation hit him like a truck. “What..?” He whispered softly.

Your eyes started to droop again, and you gave in, feeling nothing but qa soft ringing in your ears as your senses dulled. “[name], no, please don’t leave me!” Zhongli cried out in panic, grief and anguish, seeing you slip away from him. You simply let a small smile rest on his face as you whispered, “Just.. sleeping.. Tired.” Unable to accept your fate, he whispered, “Sleep well then, my dearest.”

But you never lived to hear that.

Because then you moved no more.

Was fate trying to mock him with [name] dying in his arms, in front of him, on the same day as Guizhong’s death? You were always there for him, always there with him, until you weren’t. And never in his immortal life was Zhongli able to forgive himself for this, knowing that he was the reason you were dead.

mm yes now hows that huh? gonna disappear for a few days now haha tags and comments are very much appreciated!

[madschiavelique]

omg okay y’all absolutely LOVED this post right here about young halsin x you turning to the shadow druids and meeting decades later so let me elaborate a bit about it (ps i’m in pain physically as i write this so it’s not proofread at all and very quick but i need to let some thought out)

imagine halsin and you, in his quarters, ready for interrogation. it’s night, some fireflies are coming in and out of his windows, but you’re not watching them. your eyes are planted in halsin’s.

so many questions swirl in his mind like individual drops of rain falling all at once together on calm water.

you were gone, at least that’s what he had thought for so many years. maybe you had perished after the flames, maybe you had changed of continents, maybe you had fought another battle that led you to the sour arms of death.

he never thought he was to see you again, not even in afterlife. but here you are, all tied up in front of him.

more beautiful than ever.

and you, you’re watching him in silence, hooked on his lips in expectation of whatever he might say.

he has the strength to form a sentence, trying his very best to keep it all under the “protecting the grove” argument.

“why are you here ?” he asks.

his voice changed so much. it’s much deeper, like thunder coated in honey. his voice was already the sweetest back in the days, but the new one…

“trying to prevent your grove from getting in trouble.” you answer, leaning your head back against the wood of the wall, not leaving his eyes.

he frowns, the duties of archdruid have changed him. he matured, you think, he made a man out of the snarky boy you once knew.

“from…” he says, searching his words, “troubles like you ?”

troublemaker, that was the nickname he used to give you. you’d always tried by every mean to make him look less perfect than how he used to be back in the days, and you still wondered if he had managed to remain effortlessly errorless.

you smiled, full of nostalgia at the single word, “i was your favourite kind of trouble. the one coming for you, though…”

“quit your games,” he stopped, “what are you truly here for ?”

“i told you, your grove’s about to be in danger.”

“how’s that ?” he scoffed, “you, the great deserter, coming to such a haven in search for something else to destroy ?”

halsin still had some bitterness. you had not just left him, you had been dishonest with him, betrayed your home, your friends, your circle, him.

“i did not mean to destroy the temple.” you said between clenched teeth.

“but you did it anyway.” he spat.

“because it was either see this stupid rubble go into flames or watching you die!” you snapped.

halsin’s eyes went wide, anger and surprise and confusion passing on his face and heart without transition as he looked at you with new eyes.

now, imagine that the reason why the shadow druids took you in in the first place was because of leverage, and this leverage was halsin.

imagine the poisoned words they made you drink, how they certified to you that by coming to their order you could finally top him on something and not be an eternal second of his.

that notion of being second had for a while been less and less present to the front of your mind, this simply because you were no longer in a competition with him, at least not in your mind.

but what if they had made you believe that halsin charming you until you fell for him was his own strategy to get first ? what if they had made you bitter enough about him that you had fallen for their lies ?

what if they had threatened to kill him if you were to not join them ?

should i give more loves 👁️👁️

small tags for the people that wanted to hear more about this !!

@halsinningiswinning @radioactivepidgeon @daughter-lilith @fruitymoonbeams-blog @sparrowbard @oooof-ifellforyou @girlwithadragonheart @altered-delta

[sausage-rolll]

I'm genuinely shocked that so many people were blindsided by the reveal that Miquella was a bit fucked up to the point that some even think that it's a recon. Because honestly there were always signs that something was a bit off with him.

-

First of all, and most obvious is that he took part in the shattering. Having Malenia go on a war path across the entirety of the lands between in his name. Even without the context of why this was done, it's still a pretty dubious thing to do.

There's also the fact that him and Malenia were the aggressors in the battle of Aionia. The fight happened just outside of Selia. Right outside of Radahn's home. She rocked up to the town he was protecting looking for a fight. A fight that, may I remind you, devastated Selia and other surrounding locations.

Miquella had done a copious amount of research into Malenia's affliction in search of a cure, I refuse to believe that he didn't have at least some sort of idea as to what could happen if she was pushed far enough. And he still allowed her to enter a battle to the death with radahn that ended up not only ruining both of them, but the entirety of Caelid too. All while he watched on from the sidelines.

-

Moving on to a much shorter point, his power to compel affection. A power similar to the bewitching branches, an item that he may have also directly developed, which allows one to override the will of another person to such an extent that they'll turn on their allies and fight by your side.

-

This point's something that I brought up in the past, and something that borderlines on headcanon but I think it's worth mentioning.

So, you know castle Sol. The castle in which Miquella attempted a ritual to revive Godwyn. The castle in which half of the key to his haligtree is guarded. The castle that watches directly over said haligtree. The castle in which Miquella definitely has very close ties to.

That castle Sol.

Did you ever notice that it contains a pretty sizeable albernuric torture chamber? One fitted with tools and contraptions that'd make Rykard proud, including the black dumpling.

Now there's no way to prove that Miquella had anything to do with this. He's been absent from castle Sol for decades. I just think it's notable that a castle so synonymous with him has a torture chamber full of the very people he's vowed to fight for.

-

Now that's not quite everything. There's also a few more points, like how he's dubbed as the most fearsome empyrean and even some stuff with St. Trina like her cult that developed sleep inducing weaponry to forcibly spread her teachings (though there's no proof she endorsed this), but I think I've made my point. Miquella's always been kind of off. There was just enough ambiguity surrounding him to give his actions the benefit of the doubt. But those actions were still there.

[lurkingshan]

I've been thinking a lot about the depictions of generational trauma and parental accountability being presented in dramas lately. Since you've watched way more than me, especially outside of BLs, what are some shows that present or include parental accountability?

This is such a good question and one I have been thinking about a lot since Last Twilight episode 10 aired. Westerners often assume that because of Asian cultural norms around filial piety, parental authority, and respect for elders, we can never expect satisfying parental accountability in our Asian drama narratives. But that's not true! It's been done and done well. It’s because these values are so deeply embedded in most Asian cultures that Asian creators are the best positioned to speak on the harms they can cause, and will often embed these themes in their work.

Now, there is an important distinction to make here: the difference between what characters do, and what the story communicates. A character may choose to abide by honoring their parents at all costs, but the story can still communicate how harmful that is. A character may never apologize for something they have done wrong, but the story can still make it clear they have fucked up and hold them accountable for that via tangible consequences. Here are a few examples from bl to illustrate what I mean, and the different ways this can show up in dramas.

Bad Buddy

One of the most obvious examples of parental accountability in genre, and also a pretty full metal version of it. This entire story is about the damage Ming and Dissaya did their sons with their decades-long feud and insistence on pushing that trauma down on their children, and we got some extremely cathartic scenes of Pat and Pran telling their parents exactly what they thought about that. Of course, even though they raged at their parents, they never got the apologies they deserved (and likely never will) and still had to hide their relationship to appease their parents going forward. But that doesn't mean there was no accountability here. The entire narrative held these parents accountable by showing us how they were harming their sons, forcing them to reckon with it, and ultimately showing them settling into a form of resigned acceptance.

Until We Meet Again

This entire show is about Korn and In's reincarnated souls healing from the trauma of their tragic ending, which was brought upon by the familial pressure and rejection they experienced from their fathers. We not only saw Dean and Pharm work through this trauma and forge new bonds with family members, we saw the direct aftermath of their first deaths, the despair and regret their families felt, and the ceremony that tied their souls together as a result. It's big karmic accountability on a grand scale, and the show never flinched from letting us see exactly how much harm was caused by these parents, or how the tenets of filial piety resulted in Korn's despair that he couldn't be what his father wanted. Even more crucially, we were shown, not just told, the counterpoint impact of good parenting, when Dean and Pharm were accepted by their families in their second life.

Blueming

A rare example of an Asian parent being called to the carpet, feeling the wrongness of their actions, and actually apologizing for it. This does in fact happen in drama! Si Won's mom raised him to hate himself, to be ashamed of his body, to fake his way through life so people would like him, and boy did it do a lot of damage. The story showed us how this affected Si Won and his relationships deeply, and brought him to the point where it finally burst out of him. And his mom, to her credit, was dismayed to understand what she had done to her son. This show also gets bonus points for Da Un standing up to his own mother after she interferes in the film contest.

Bed Friend

Uea's mother's sins against him are numerous, and I will not go into them all in detail to spare my own sanity. She is an abusive parent so horrific that she can never be forgiven, and doesn't need to be. An apology from her would be utterly meaningless. Instead, the drama holds her to account via showing us what she's done to Uea and the work he has to do to heal from the trauma she caused, and ultimately having her son cut her out of his life. It's the biggest consequence she can ever face for her choices and that Uea finds the courage to do it is the story's biggest triumph.

What Did You Eat Yesterday?

On the subtler end of the scale, we have our beloved KNT, which weaves parental accountability through its story in the long, slow journey for Shiro's mother to accept who he is and the partner he has chosen in life. What I love most about this particular depiction is that it's not at all linear in nature. We see her make strides by finally acknowledging Kenji and inviting him to her home, and then backtrack by rescinding the offer due to her own discomfort, and then include him in her family planning to ensure he will be cared for after her death. She’s homophobic and traditional, but she loves her son and sees how much happier he is with Kenji in his life. She is constantly reckoning with that tension. And Shiro and Kenji, being of an older generation themselves, don't hold it against her, even as the show makes sure we understand how much it hurts them. They are not okay with it, but they do understand why she's like this, so they take what she can give and forgive the rest. It's a really touching portrayal of this kind of impasse in a family.

Moonlight Chicken

There are several different vectors of parental accountability in MLC. There is Heart confronting his parents over their neglect and abuse and finally demanding to be treated with dignity. There is Li Ming directly calling out his mother for how her life choices have affected him. And there is Li Ming and his surrogate dad, Jim, working out their issues so that they can communicate better, and so that Jim can learn to stop pushing his own fears and anxiety down onto the next generation. All of it handled with deftness, with care, and with clear purpose to examine the ways intergenerational trauma can perpetuate in the absence of accountability.