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moonstruckme · 2 months

Note

Knowing you write for steddie x reader changes everything for me. I love them and they deserve the world. Plus you do every character so much justice I love how you write them. Maybe reader and Steve supporting Eddie at one of his shows? Or Eddie and Reader helping Steve network at an event? Or Steve and Eddie taking care of a drunk Reader after having a "girls night" with Robin and Nancy?

Love your writing and hope you have an amazing Valentines day! 💝 🍫🎀🌹💐

Thanks for requesting gorgeous! Hope your valentine's was amazing too <33

cw: effects of alcohol + weed

poly!Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

When Steve gets back home, you’re sitting on the floor of the kitchen drinking water out of a bowl with a half empty bag of bread beside you.

“Jesus,” he says. “This looks kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”

Eddie, sitting on the counter while he monitors you, shrugs. “All our cups are dirty.”

“She didn’t want to sit on the couch or something?”

“No, she said—”

“The floor’s really important right now,” you say gravely.

Eddie nods. “I kind of get it.”

Steve huffs a laugh, squatting beside you. “How’s it going, honey?”

“M’not feeling fabulous,” you mumble, your voice echoing around the inside of the bowl. “Are Nancy and Robs okay?”

“Yeah, they’re good,” he says. “They’re home safe.” He peers into the bowl when you lower it for a second. You’ve almost drained it. He has to hand it to Eddie; purposefully or not, his bowl scheme has gotten you to drink a good amount of water. “Neither of them would tell me what you guys got up to, though.”

You’ve just raised the bowl to drink again, and you giggle into your little cavern.

Eddie, feeling left out, hops down from the counter and takes up a position on your other side. “Ooh, that sounds like trouble.” He nudges your shoulder with his, squinting at you deviously. “What’d you do, huh?”

You set the bowl down, finished. “Nothing,” you say smugly.

Eddie leans around you to shoot Steve a look, and he rolls his eyes at the showy intrigue in it.

“Let me guess,” his boyfriend drawls. “You went to that biker bar downtown?”

You shake your head but realize your mistake halfway through, frowning at yourself. “M’not gonna say anything.”

“That’s no fun! Come on, did you all get secret matching tattoos?”

You press your lips together. Ignore the eyebrow Steve raises at you.

“Did you go skinny dipping in the river? Go to a strip club?” Eddie gasps, expression morphing into one of scandal like your face has revealed anything more than a growing amusement at his theories. “Oh my god, you worked a strip club! Baby, you should’ve told us, Stevie and I would’ve tipped you good if we’d been invited.”

“Quit it.” You go to pinch Eddie’s side. He stops you with a hand on your wrist and a delighted grin. “M’not telling you yes or no to anything, so don’t bother.”

“Alright,” Steve says at the mischievous look in his boyfriend’s brown eyes, “you ready for bed?”

Instantly, your good mood slips away. “No,” you say, almost pleading. “M’too dizzy, I can’t go to bed like this.”

Eddie’s coo sounds how Steve feels. He stands while his boyfriend kisses sympathetically at your cheek, reaching down for you. “That’s alright,” he promises. “Let’s just brush teeth for now, okay? We’ll give you some time to sober up.”

It takes some help from Eddie on the floor to get you up, but soon Steve has his arm around your waist, keeping you pressed close to his side as he all but carries you to the bathroom. He hears Eddie moving around in the kitchen, cleaning up your small mess, and takes the opportunity to lean in to whisper, “Okay, are you really not going to tell me how you got like this?”

You groan, head lolling onto his shoulder. “You’re gonna think it’s so uncool.”

Steve laughs quietly. “C’mon, babe. You’ve got the D&D master in there, and then a guy who probably peaked in high school. Are you really worried about what we think is cool?”

“Yes,” you mutter, but sigh in defeat as he leans you against the bathroom counter, getting your toothbrush ready for you. “Fine. We didn’t even go out. We just stayed in Nancy’s basement.”

He feels his eyebrows go up. “I thought you guys were going to go to the bars.”

“We were, but Robin brought us brownies to eat before we left, and…and she didn’t tell me what was in them until I’d already had two.”

“Oh,” Steve realizes, “you’re high, huh?”

“I had a bit to drink before that, too,” you say miserably. You take the toothbrush from him, all but shoving it into your mouth.

“You’re crossed?” Steve gives a little laugh, scrubbing his hand up and down your arm sympathetically. Your skin is pleasantly warm, and you lean into his touch like his hands are molding you that way. “Shit, that sucks.”

“We didn’t even get to go out because of me,” you lament around a mouthful of toothpaste. You’re starting to sound a bit teary. “And I threw up in Nancy’s bathroom.”

Steve tries to look like he’s taking this seriously, but it’s hard to keep the amusement from his tone. “You couldn’t have known, you know?” He crosses his arms, watching as you scrub the inside of your mouth like you’re trying to rid yourself of this entire night. “Robs should have told you earlier. Christ, no wonder you seemed so much more fucked up than either of them.”

“What’s going on?” Eddie leans against the doorway.

“She’s crossed,” Steve says.

“Steve!” You spit your toothpaste in the sink and look up at him, betrayed. “You’re such a nark!”

“Aw, baby.” Steve really doesn’t know why you ever wanted to keep this a secret from Eddie. He’ll tease you more for it, sure, but he’ll also baby you way more than Steve ever would. And predictably, you eat it up, responding to his tone with a cute pout. “This is your first time being high, isn’t it?”

You nod pitifully. “I didn’t even mean to,” you warble, eyes looking dangerously wet. “It was an accident.”

Eddie crosses the distance to you in two long strides, wrapping his arms around your middle so your back is pressed to his front. “Poor thing,” he coos. “You were tricked, huh?”

“She was,” Steve says, somewhat crossly. “Robin’s gonna hear it when I see her tomorrow, don’t worry.”

“No, Steve!” Your boyfriend sticking up for you only seems to worsen your upset. You turn your glassy eyes on him, reaching for his hand. “You can’t tell, please! S’a girls’ night secret, you’re not supposed to know.”

Steve softens. He can play tough, but he’s never been any match for you when you make your eyes all big and sad like that. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I dunno,” Eddie says, “I think we should go egg her house.”

Steve grins, but you blanch.

“No,” you protest urgently, clearly missing the humor in his voice.

“Alright, alright.” Steve tugs your hand toward him, soothing his palm up the inside of your wrist. “We won’t tell, honey.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but they’re full of fondness as he stamps a kiss on your cheek to show his agreement. “Do you want to sit in bed until you feel okay enough to go to sleep?”

The worry clears from your expression, replaced by something almost approaching shyness. “Yes, please,” you say, sinking into Eddie’s hold. “You guys can go to sleep though, if you want.”

“Oh, no way,” Eddie says, keeping you securely in his hold as he starts to walk you towards the bedroom. “It’s your first time being high, baby! I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

You grin like he’s silly, but when your unsteady gaze lands on Steve it’s tentative.

“We’re not just gonna leave you awake by yourself,” he agrees. “We’ll stay up however long you need us to.”

“Exactly,” Eddie says. “Okay, tell me everything going through your head right now. Do you kind of feel like you’re watching a TV show through your own eyes?”

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jordanstrophe · 1 month

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Abandoned Whumpee, 2/2 Final

[Masterlist] CW: Whumper turned caretaker, team whump, betrayal, angst

Blood was dripping from whumpee's chest. The blood pooled at their feet and their hands shook.

"Are you sure you aren't hurt?" Whumper asked.

"I'm - I'm sure." Whumpee looked down, knowing the blood wasn't theirs, but their mind kept thinking it was. Their pulse was beating so hard it pounded in their head, drowning their thoughts.

Whumper pulled them out of the room away from where the body where their teammate laid. Whumpee felt numb and blank, their only focus was to stay on their feet as they were led back to the infirmary.

Whumper sat them on the bed and rooted out clean clothes. They knew whumpee wouldn't like wearing something with whumper's logo on it, but it was better than wearing a bloodstained shirt.

"Get changed quickly, sitting in that can't be good for you." Whumper said. Whumpee didn't hesitate to pull their shirt over their head and change. Their hands fumbled as they folded them on their lap when they were done.

Whumpee exhaled, calming their shaken voice. "I have questions."

"I know you do," Whumper pulled up a chair and sat across from them. "I'll answer anything. Any question you have." They opened their arms.

"Who are you really?" Whumpee asked, pulling out the journal. "Why do you have one of our field guides? Does this belong to you, or did you take it from one of us?"

Whumper laughed for a moment, but seeing whumpee's face not change they took a deep breath. "I didn't grave rob it, if that's what you're asking. It was mine, when I was working for your team-leader. I see they're still sacrificing recruits in order to save their own skins, are they?" Whumper tilted their head.

Whumpee swallowed past the pit in their throat, "But I told them to run. I willingly stayed behind."

"Of course you did." Whumper smiled sadly. "But I didn't. And neither did the person before me. Or you, for that matter. That's why I said you were rare when we first met. You're the first person I found that did it willingly."

Whumpee's skin crawled, coldness spread from their chest down to their feet. They shook their head and anxiously bobbed their leg. "But they told me- ... The ones that didn't come back were either missing or traitors."

"That's probably what they said happened to you, too."

Whumpee sighed and dragged a hand down their face. How could they not have seen it... How could they have been fooled for so long? When they returned from missions, sometimes they would be one less person. The team-leader always had an explanation, but the reality was they were left behind as bait.

"What happened to those who were abandoned? Did you kill them?" Whumpee asked hesitantly.

"No," Whumper smiled and leaned back, "Just like you, I took them here. Of course, you were different; you stayed behind willingly, naturally you were a lot harder to convince. Your teammates are safe and deployed out of this zone. It wouldn't be good for them to be seen after being presumed dead. You've seen first hand what they'll do the moment they find you alive."

Whumpee nodded as tears welled in their eyes. All this time, people they grieved and mourned over, were alive and well. Better off, even.

"I can take you to them," Whumper added softly. They got up and sat next to whumpee. "Most of them joined our side, you would probably recognize a few of them. Would you like to come with me?" They wrapped their arm around whumpee's shoulder as they collapsed against whumper's side. Silent tears streamed down their face.

"Y-yes... Yeah I would." Whumpee sniffed and wiped their face. "I-I'm sorry for trying to st-stab you, earlier."

Whumper chuckled and held them tighter. "You almost got me good with that plastic fork. But I understand I was too hard on you when we brought you in, I didn't know if I could trust you yet." Whumper turned whumpee towards them and cupped their face. "You know none of this is your fault, right? Not a single part of it."

Whumpee leaned up and nodded, finishing wiping the rest of the tears. "If you won't accept my apology, then at least accept my thanks." They smiled. They looked down at the journal, their old team's logo branded on the front. Whumpee set it face-down so they wouldn't have to see it anymore.

"I'll stay." Whumpee murmured.

"I want to stop them. I want them to know what they've done" Whumper looked up with a hint of surprise, but nodded as they understood.

"I want to join you."

[Previous] - [Masterlist]

[If you made it this far in the series, thank you for sticking with me to the end. Hope you enjoyed reading!]

@parasitebunny @starzabove @frog-hat-fa-ggot @morning-star-whump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog��@mommymarichatfurever @isita-torrrres @tobiaslut @anonintrovert @sausages-things @briars7 @ms-awesome52 @haesium @painfulplots @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94 @sausages-things @icarusignite

#whump #whumpee #whumper #whumper turned caretaker #hurt/comfort #whump writing #whumplr #betrayal whump #soft whumper #team whump #caretaking #whump angst #rescued whumpee

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steviewashere · 5 days

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hello!! steddie and 38 for the kiss prompt?? 💕

Hey, hey! <3 As a heads up, you might hate me for this. Everybody might hate me for this, lol. But here we go <3

Number 38: "Because they're running out of time."

CW: Eddie Munson Nearly Dies Here Tags: Season 4, Canon Divergence, Childhood Friends Steddie, Friends to Strangers to Friends?, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Love Confession, Near Death

🕰️—————🕰️ When they structured the plan to go back into the Upside Down, Nancy had suggested that Eddie and Dustin team up for the demobats. Now, Steve loves Nancy—not in that way—but he thought that that was one of the dumbest things he’d ever heard come from her mouth. And she’s incredibly intelligent, like mad scientist level intelligent, surpassing everybody on this earth kind of intelligent.

“Dustin should go with Lucas and Max,” he argued, “and I’ll stay with Eddie.”

The room had fallen silent. Until, Robin piped up, “But we’re going to need your pitching arm, Steve. That—We need somebody to throw the molotov cocktails.”

He scoffed. “No, you don’t. Robs, you used to play softball before getting on the soccer team. You two will be perfectly fine without me. And, besides, if things go haywire—Abort. Walkie on your channel, and we’ll fucking take our losses and replan all this bullshit.”

While the room had erupted into an intense argumentative cadence, Steve held his ground. Looked to Eddie. To his panicked eyes that had not once calmed since they met—again.

Steve knew what he was getting into when they found Eddie. They hadn’t been friendly and sweet on each other since middle school. Since being little kids, but that didn’t mean Steve wouldn’t at least try again. That he wouldn’t put up a fight and demand to be put in Eddie’s corner. So he held onto this, held out on this change in plans, because Eddie looked back on the sofa. He looked to Steve with something like…longing. Like he wanted to reach out and take Steve’s hand. And if the room hadn’t been full of people that just wouldn’t understand, Steve would’ve taken the plunge. He would’ve indulged.

He should’ve indulged, now that he’s kneeled on the ground in a pile of limp demobat bodies. Eddie is in his arms, blood soaked and babbling. And Steve wishes they could start again.

“Keep looking at me, Eds,” he pleads, “look at me and…and tell me one of your stories. You’re good at that. Can you do that?”

For a moment, Eddie’s breath catches. And in those grave seconds, Steve thinks it's over. He brings his hand, which was laying over Eddie’s waist, and places it on his chest. On Eddie’s slow beating heart and his rattling lungs. And he presses. As if, by his touch alone, Eddie would continue to live.

Steve wants him to live. Wants to get him out of here. Get him to safety and hold him and clean his hair and go swimming in Lover’s Lake like they did as kids over the summer. Take Eddie by the hand and go hiking through the woods, turn over every rotting branch to look at worms, and be gifted with rocks Eddie deems cool enough. Ride their bikes until their legs ache and their stomachs are sick and they’re craving lemonade and cookies. Wants to love on him forever because he was a fool; gave it all up for…what…popularity?

Eddie gasps wetly. Coughs up blood from the back of his throat, it drips sluggishly down his chin. Instinctively, Steve cradles his jaw and wipes it all away. Until it’s tacky and red on his own skin. Then, Eddie’s eyes sweep over to him. He blinks. Cries silently. And states, quiet enough for only mice to hear, “’86 is going to be my year, Stevie.”

“Yeah?” Steve prods, breathless and on the verge of crying himself. He thumbs at Eddie’s tears. “Tell me, Eds. Tell me how it’s gonna be your year.”

Another rattling, wet breath. “Graduate,” Eddie mutters, “and…and play with the band. I was—G’nna go to y’r house. Give…Give you a sunflower. You…My S’v’ie likes flowers.” He stares up at Steve, but Steve doesn’t feel very looked at. Like maybe Eddie’s seeing something beyond him, above him. He bites his lip and cradles Eddie’s jaw again.

“I do,” Steve whispers, “I loved when you gave me flowers, Eds.”

He sniffs and tries not to think about the dried petals of flowers he kept over the years. Ones that he stashed away in old books given to him by Wayne. That reside in his dresser drawers and in a cardboard box in his closet. Tries not to think about taking Eddie home with him, after all this is over, and showing him all the things he kept.

How, in moments where Steve felt lost, he pulled out the rocks and books and other trinkets, and wondered. Where Eddie was. What he was doing. Why he forced himself away from the only friend, sans Robin, that felt real.

“S’eve?” Eddie weakly calls.

He only hums, pressing his thumb deep into the going cold skin of Eddie’s right cheek.

Eddie reaches a clumsy hand up to Steve’s face, but doesn’t quite reach. So Steve ducks closer. Lets Eddie pull him in towards his face. Wipe away his own tears. Caress the few moles by his ear.

“I love you,” Eddie breathes. Inhales with a gurgle and Steve sobs in turn. “Love you, S’eve. Wanted…Been wantin’ you for forever.”

“Eds…”

In one fell swoop, Eddie pulls Steve in all the way. Noses along Steve’s. Then, with the strength of a newborn deer, he presses his lips to Steve’s. They’re slick with blood and drying tears. Chapped, split at the corners. He moves slowly while Steve tries not to devour. Eddie’s hand drapes over the back of Steve’s neck, neither grasping nor safe anymore. But he kisses. Like…

Like it’s the last time he’ll ever do it.

Maybe it is, Steve realizes in those few seconds. Because Eddie’s breath grows shallower, raspier between them. He gurgles blood into Steve’s mouth. And that’s tasted on Steve’s tongue, metallic and sweet and harmful. Maybe it doesn’t need to be.

Steve forces them apart. Lets Eddie try and drag him back, but doesn’t go back to that kiss. “Save…Save it, Eds,” Steve begs, “Save it for when we’re home and—I can show you how much I love you, too, okay? Can you—“

“Can’t,” Eddie slurs, “I…S’v’ie.”

He presses another soft kiss, this time to Steve’s thumb, where it’s still close to the split corner of his mouth. But he doesn’t look back.

“S’v’ie, love you.”

“I love you, too, Eds,” Steve murmurs meekly. “I’ll take you home, okay? I can—“ He takes a sharp gasp, sobbing through an exhale. “—Kiss me tonight. You stay with me and kiss me,” his voice wavers, “kiss me like we were never apart.”

“‘M’kay.”

“Okay, Eds,” Steve sighs, crying softly, “okay.”

Though it pulls on all his injuries, Steve hefts them up off the ground. Grimaces at Eddie’s pained yelp. And moves one foot after the other. They can’t be running out of time, Steve tries to digest.

Because he just got his boy back. They can’t be. I can’t be, Steve believes, hefting Eddie’s nearly limp body through the portal. I won’t.

🕰️—————🕰️ Kiss Ask Game <3

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #love confessions #near death

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aethernoise · 8 months

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2. bark

This prompt reminded me to return to a very old WIP idea that I will likely never finish. It may simply be the fic equivalent of writing an angry letter and never sending it - self-care, if anything, in face of grave injustices.

Set in 5.2, inspired by the opening quests of the Sorrows of Werlyt. CW for mild violence.

•

She wanted to spit in his face, but her mouth was dry from anger.

"I don't give a shit about your regrets," she hissed, "They mean nothing to me. They mean nothing to the millions of innocent lives you've taken and the millions more you have ruined forever."

Gaius' face remained stony in the dim light.

"You needn’t list my sins, I know them all full well," he said. "I would never attempt to request your forgiveness, only cooperation--”

"Here is my cooperation, Baelsar," she cut him off. "You are alive at this moment because I will it.”

The corner of his mouth twisted ruefully.

“You would kill an unarmed man in cold blood? It seems we are both a far cry from our former selves.”

“Shut up.”

"Do it, then, if you must. Say the words, Defender of Eorzea. Prove you're not all bark and no bite. Even if you paint the Royal Palace red with my blood, it will do nothing to stop what is coming."

There was a loud crack and a flash. Gaius grunted and slumped onto the floor. The aether was so loud in Alyx’s ears, she didn’t hear Raubahn’s voice booming down the hall.

“Alyx!”

There was a small singe on the front of Gaius’ coat, leaking a faint smell of burned leather. She remained transfixed on the mark while his chest slowly rose and fell.

“Alyx! Seven hells, what have you done?”

“He’s fine,” she said flatly.

“I cannot say he didn’t have it coming,” Raubahn said with the hint of a chuckle, and Alyx almost gave herself neck strain with the speed she turned to look up at him.

“Nothing compared to what he deserves. He doesn’t even deserve to be here, walking free in our home--” Her fingers clenched, shoulders squared against trembling with anger. “Raubahn, how could you?”

“Do you think I want him here?” His voice was hushed, his enormous shadow tense, black eyes flashing with ferocity. “Do you truly think I welcomed him as a friend with open arms?!”

Alyx had the dim awareness that anyone sane would be completely terrified to be rounded upon by General Aldynn in such a manner, but another awareness reminded her that she could knock him on his arse too if she had to.

“How am I supposed to know? You certainly looked chummy enough,” she spat, “Standing there next to him like a gods damned diplomat, like he wasn’t the one responsible fo--”

His giant, calloused hand seized her arm. The hold was not ungentle, but the sheer weight of him rooted her to the spot.

“And what would you have me do?” His voice had lowered to a rumbling growl like an earthquake. “Execute him on sight? Drag him through the streets? He came to us in peace, and with information vital to our survival--”

“And you trusted him!”

“We have no reason not to.”

“My gods, do you even hear yourself?!”

“We have no choice. I have no choice.” Alyx opened her mouth to disagree, but he continued: “I will not put our borders at further risk out of pride. I cannot afford to refuse help, even from the most hated of sources. If Ala Mhigo is to survive--if Eorzea is to survive--it cannot depend only on you forever, Alyx.”

Her heart hammered in her ears, but she had no rebuttal. The General went on:

"Someday, Rhalgr forbid, you might not be here. What if something were to happen to you? What would become of us? I know full well what you're capable of, but I know you cannot be everywhere at once."

A soft groan from below - Gaius was waking up. As soon as Raubahn's grip slackened enough, Alyx pulled her arm free.

"Fine. Do what you will." Her voice was low, robbed of much of its former power. "But please, do not ask me to work with him."

Alyx didn't wait for confirmation. Instead she turned to leave before she could regret anything more.

#emmerwrites #alyx #ffxivwrite2023 #ffxiv fanfic #i am incredibly werlyt critical #so much so i basically cut it out of alyx's canon entirely #but this scene was needed #i had to address raubahn's behavior #and give him a chance to explain himself #originally i had grand plans for an entire fix-it-fic #but this is enough i think

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saint-siren · 1 year

Text

A World For Her Alone | 'Never again' is a prayer, not a promise

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

cw (chapter specific): illness, death, pregnancy, birth, depression, absolutely nothing good happens to reader

pairing: claude x fem!reader

summary: the progression of Diana's illness and the birth of reader's child

author's note: sorry for the long gap in between updates, it will probably definitely happen again. anyway, who’s excited to place bets on Claude again? no one?

You had heard, the week after the news arrived at your home, that Diana managed to hold out but still her situation was precarious. Her condition was unstable and required round the clock supervision. Always, at her bedside, there was someone looking over her.

In the months that followed, the mansion was deprived of Claude’s presence. He was by your little sister’s side and as pregnancy drained your body, you could not follow him. Your body ached and the pregnancy was a tumultuous one, if you set off immediately in a carriage which was prone to bumps, hard stops and shaking, you might miscarry. It didn’t matter, though. He didn’t want you there, didn’t want you robbing his time with Diana. An intruder in the scene, a foreign object hanging over a lover and his tragic heroine.

He had only visited once, in earlier days of your pregnancy, when you were not so tired. Claude rushed in, probably only to finish work since he had stayed at your parents for so long, ignoring you even as you stood at the foyer. You turned quickly and called his name. “I apologize, I have work to do,” He said, flatly as he turned to leave. “I’m with child!” You blurted, desperate to have a moment to tell him. You clearly wouldn’t get another. Claude stalled and turned slightly so that he was looking back at you but his body still postured as if he would leave. His face was emotionless for a moment and then a smile touched his lips. That smile didn’t reach his eyes, which still looked lifeless. “Is that so?” He responded with much difficulty, you could tell. The voice that spoke those words barely sounded like him, a voice straining itself, gravely with the effort of holding back sadness.

His expression…one of regret. This child that you knew could never be celebrated by him in such a situation, was already being regretted by him. You knew that it was the probable outcome all things considered. Even so, knowing something that will happen in the future is not the same as knowing how you will feel when it arrives. You hadn’t expected to wound him so deeply with those words, you would not have expected that instead of his anger or his irritation, you would face his wavering form racked with sadness and regret. Yet again the illusion of ever having such a thing as a tie other than marriage to Claude was broken.

And then he disappeared upstairs.

You mused to yourself in bed, curtains drawn, your arrival would perhaps cut through the spell casted by them alone. Alone, they could pretend you were no one of consequence, that there was only their love and nobody else would be needing and wanting them. No greater importance. Your presence was yet another tragic layer, a reminder that they could never be. An omen of the real world. Even though you alone were not what was keeping them apart, per se – you would function as the symbol. For you were his wife. Standing next to Diana you were the chief reminder of duty over love, the weak, beautiful and needing Diana next to you. It was almost a call for rebellion, wasn’t it?

Your mind roved with thoughts about your husband at your little sister’s bedside humming sweet words of assurance while every ache and pain of your body could only be comforted with your own voice. “Everything is going to be alright,” You whispered in the darkness of your room, hands on your small bump, caressing it as if it were a touchstone for hours, unable to sleep. You lost yourself in that large room, lit only by a small lamp. Mindlessly, feeling your bump with some unknown exhaustion and with some desire to simply let the weight piled onto your shoulders droop while you were alone, you contradicted yourself. You whispered to yourself, not even expecting to hear the words aloud. “I believe that it isn’t.”

Nevertheless, your strength did improve some later in your pregnancy and with no help from your mind. On none of those days did Claude come home and you felt every single one of them. Even so, you were tended to by your servants who would of course preserve the health of Claude’s heir. Your days passed without incident, monotonously. Until you received a request from Claude to come to your parent’s mansion.

Your hands shook holding the short and curt note with Claude’s initials. You thought about what front you should take. What expression, what words would be proper in this situation? If you had truly been a devoted sister, you would have already been there regardless of the threat it posed to your health. That was the ideal big sister. But in part, perhaps you had stayed home all this time because you knew that with just one look at her, you would reveal your resentment. Even if you said nothing, your eyes would cast the blame.

You got out of bed and prepared to leave, although you were not nauseous or in pain as you used to be, it was still difficult. Even the effort of dressing in proper outside clothing winded you. The carriage ride was slow, for your sake but still uncomfortable. Still, you could not refuse to see your husband who for months avoided this house. You could not help but follow him when he allowed.

Your escort knight, who had silently accompanied you since you became a young lady, held out his hand for you to steady yourself as you walked. “My lady,” he murmured, signaling you to allow him to help you. His hands were warm and you were glad for their strength, glad that regardless of every anxiety inside you, they pulled you along slowly. You ignored his blue eyes, plied with pity at the state of you.

You arrived at your family’s mansion, your body sore. Your parents did not waste time with greeting, they simply beckoned you in and explained Diana’s current situation. They did not comment on your protruding belly, nor even cast a fixed look at you, their eyes were always directed away from you. The mansion was quiet, nothing except your footsteps could be heard. It was as dim as Claude’s mansion and your parents also seemed washed out. Everything was cast in ashes and deprived of the glow it took on before.

Claude himself had asked that you go to your sister’s room, saying she wanted to see you. It was an absurd situation, having your husband be the one already there, beseeching you to see your sister. But you went along, words lost to you.

When you went into Diana’s room, it was as shrouded as the rest of the house. That thing, that which washed away all color, was the shadow of death. Diana was in bed, weaker than ever, her breathing labored. Her eyelids drooped, under her eyes was colored nearly red as her irises. She laughed pitifully when her ruby eyes fixed on you. “I’ve recovered somewhat, I can sit up now if mother helps me.” What lay underneath that statement, the words to be left unsaid were “It won’t be long.” And you could see it, death had Diana in view.

Even so, she did look very beautiful. Even as the sight of her conveyed pain, she was still beautiful.

Suddenly, she had grown grim. Her small smile dropped. “I’m sorry.” She said, voice wavering more than before.

What could you answer to that? What would a sister who prioritizes her little sister say? You tried to conjure some half hearted words to comfort her and to make yourself seem less like a hollow husk of something born brittle.

“I love Claude” She confessed. Diana confessed her love for Claude as if she were asking for redemption before a statue in a temple. Her fingers, bony and fragile as twigs, clasped each other as if she were praying. Tears rolled down her cheeks which had changed from their natural, sweet blush, into pure ivory.

“I don’t have much time left here.” Though the room was quite warm, you thought surely there must be a draft in the room. It chilled you to the bone.

You could smell, mixed with Diana’s medications, the lingering scent of Claude in the stuffy room. It still remained even with the comings and goings of doctors, even with the seeming stream of air. That was how long he spent in her room.

“I’m afraid to be alone. I don’t want to die alone.” You have never felt more numb. Is it that you must forgive her because she’s dying? No matter what, must she be forgiven? The words passed through you like the reach of a ghost.

You couldn’t, even just shallowly without any intentions, say those words. You left as silently as you came, proper words alluding you just the same. That night, back at the mansion, Claude confronted you as soon as he had come home. He informed you that Diana had cried.

“What did you say to her? She was fine until you came.” His expression was cold.

“Nothing,” You answered lamely with the literal truth.

“Don’t lie to me,” He scoffed “Everything you’ve done so far to other people, how can I believe you? You used that same face while scheming against others without a thought.”

“That child you’re carrying, is it even mine?” He continued, words sharp as blades and aimed to cut you open the same.

In that instance, the world turned white as a snowstorm. Those words were the gentle murder of you. Everything collapsed into itself. And for a moment, you were watching from outside of your own body, passively replaying that voice.

Who knows how long that went on? You blinked and you were in bed again with the doctor in front of you.

“Madame…you’re unwell. Your body is at risk because of this pregnancy. If we act quickly, you can be saved. But that is only if you give up on having this child” The doctor grimly told you. It was clearly unpleasant to serve such an ultimatum but there was no other way it seemed.

He held your hands, his were warm like before. “No.” Your voice was thin as a weak breeze but resolute. If you could only give birth to your child, you could show Claude. That child would dispel his worst suspicions.

…Therein lies the problem. That was why Claude said what he did. You had stepped over others and became stronger for the sake of your love for Claude. You were even willing to use your child to prove your loyalty. You had schemed against many as if it was nothing. Because living otherwise, it would have been hard to protect yourself, protect the fragile semblance of a life you two had. And no matter what, you had to follow that path.

You gave birth months later after much struggle. The strain was enormous to your body, so much so that you thought you may die before the baby was even born. But when the child was finally born, it had the same golden hair as Claude. However, you never saw if the baby had his eyes.

Your vision was hazy and your life was ever diminishing with each moment. No one had even given the child to you yet, you had been watching the midwives clean them off. An impossible yearning, a doomed desire overtook you. You did not even know if it was a boy or girl but your arms would never hold them. Your eyelids grew heavier and it would seem that there was a doctor saying something to a midwife but you could hear nothing but a droning ring inside your head.

Claude had not returned home, not even out of suspicion, to see his child being born. Not even as a marquess, to see his successor. Not even as a ghost. Not even as a hallucination.

In the end, there was no one to look to. Claude was tending solely to Diana even on the day his child was born. Diana had said she was afraid to die alone but Claude had been by her side all this time. You were afraid too. Uselessly afraid of what was before your eyes.

You didn’t want to be brought back. This time was enough to show you that you were not meant to live in this world. You never wanted to again.

tags (i'm doing this on desktop so forgive me if it's not right on mobile): @kage-tobiuo @kreishin @rosephantomhive @yeahdrarry @splaterparty0-0 @dear-dairiess @qluvrv @hafsuhhh @eissaaaa @ayolk @doan-19 @fourcefulcupid @ariachaos @cerisearan

#claude x diana #claude de alger x reader #claude x reader #wmmap claude #claude de alger obelia #wmmap x reader #wmmap fanfic

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pawseds · 4 months

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Buncha monstrosities I drew from my M-EPIC/Delta Green campaign, mostly taken from my campaign session doodles (170 sticky note comic doodles over 18 sessions!). I'll get around to posting those!

cw below: blood, body horror, bugs?

(The two plants things above are from the shotgun scenario 'The Thing in the Sugar Shack')

(I like ghouls a normal amount. Them funky bald strange grave-robbing doggos)

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pinkrifle · 1 year

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UM HI💞-heard you're taking requests??👀

could i get uhhhh some hcs with cartman being best friends with like,, a very smart but absolutely FOUL reader?? they're kind of a nerd(he prob makes fun of them for it lol) but instead of winning science awards and making the world a better place they just... they love to see the world burn

they're totally into whatever idea eric has and they're happy to make it 1000x more illegal AND help him get away with it cause they're the teachers favourite<3

....sorry for such a long request lol hope you like the idea and have fun writing!!💞

don’t be sorry i love long requests!! reader is so me fr ,,, SORRY TGIS WAS LIKE AN HOUR LATE IM AT FAMILYS HOUSE RN

cws/tw’s: none :3

WOWW first meeting!! cartman absolutely rips on you like crazy. always begging you to do his homework even after he says the most diabolical thing ever,,

when everyone starts talking about how ur a menace he’s shocked. “NO WAY that little twerp could out do ME >:(“ yes, oh yes they can, cartman

especially since your Mr/Ms Garisson’s teachers pet, he doesn’t think you could do any wrong. by BOYY is he wrong when one day he catches you taping illegal firecrackers to a makeshift rocket for your science experiment.

“dude, you know those are illegal right.” “so? you do like.. WAYYY worse, man” “touché..” “you think you can make this more illegal? or you wanna help me out, douche”

he grabs random shit from his house that should NOT be there and throws them onto the rocket. you guys finally settle on blasting it infront of the school during recess.

when recess rolls around, your both standing in front of the school, mischievously rubbing your hands together. and that’s when cartman starts saying something to you,

“HHAYY, you kno—” [BOOM] you set off the rocket and accidentally set the front of the school into a mini flame, cartman runs for his life as you follow behind him giggling senseless.

u guys are MATES after that. always up to no good and roasting tf out of people non stop.

he tells you he wants to grave rob a preist’s grave you tell him he should grave rob an entire church gravesite to pawn all the jewelry they might have on.

compliments aren’t constant, but when you guys get sentimental you talk about how good of a friend the opposite is :) when cartman is sad you always do some crazy shit up in his face and he giggles, wipes his disgusting ahh face and thinks of something else illegal y’all can do.

in your guys’ superhero era, he catches your superhero ego setting tissue paper on fire on top of a building and giggles + keeps his mouth shut.

YALL DEFINITELY BEFRIEND CTHULU TOGETHER SND DO CRAZY STUFF 😭 as if what y’all do isn’t crazy enough..

sometimes y’all attempt to vape or smoke etc, and your always standing while cartman is doubled down on the floor sobbing and coughing from one hit.

you back him up in the wendy fight (you and cartman lose ☹️ but it’s fun to accompany ur bestie)

you bring treats for Liane when you go over to cartman’s house and he gets upset cuz he hates his mom, but if it’s food he always stops being a brat and thanks you after (almost never saves his mom a bite 💔)

heyyy! sorry this was short :( I LOCE THIS REQ THO ITS SO ME 🫶🫶 and ty for requesting! feel free to spam req if you want (and sorry this was an hour late)

#（✿ ◞◟）🫧 marj writes! ﹒#cartman #eric cartman #eric cartman x reader #south park #south park x reader #south park x reader platonic

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ryin-silverfish · 7 days

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Fanfic: Bodhicitta

AO3 Mirror

Possibly the start of a short series. About the pilgrims, post-journey, and what led to their reincarnation in LMK.

CW for a bit of body horror at the end.

Tripitaka completes a pilgrimage, ponders his faith, and makes a vow.

bodhicitta: literally "Heart of Bodhi", the motivation and defining quality that makes a Bodhisattva in Mahayana Buddhism.

---

Thus the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara, Deep in meditation, Saw the emptiness of all five skandas, And sundered all bonds of suffering.

…

An old master living in a crow's nest taught him those lines. It shall protect you from harm, he said, sticking his neck out like an actual bird. Perhaps he used to be one. Perhaps he still was. Or maybe there was no difference.

("A single thought can make a Bodhisattva, or a demon," Guan Yin once told his disciple.)

It was hard not to feel a little cheated, though, when he tearfully muttered the sutra under his breath, and still fell off his horse, got dragged into a river, tied up next to a steaming pot after the monster broke his barrier with a single flick of its tail.

Oh, how he had recited the sutra faster and faster, squeezing his eyes shut, and still the demoness's nails pinched at his cheeks, drawing blood, cooing Aren't you a delicious little snack, in both senses of the word?

Why did it never work like those miraculous tales in the scriptures? Was he really that bad a Buddhist? Did such thoughts make him a bad Buddhist? Or were the tales just another product of the rampant mistranslation he was so tired of?

It won't matter, he told himself, trying to steady his resolve. Once they reach the Western Lands and receive the True Scriptures, he would finally be free of all doubts.

…

Here then, Form is no other than emptiness, Emptiness no other than form. Form is only emptiness, Emptiness only form.

…

"Master, if all things are emptiness, why do you care if I kill them or not?"

Patience, how to be gentle yet firm, a willingness to see beyond the words on paper and into ultimate reality. These are things he would come to learn. But he hadn't yet.

So instead, he began a lengthy lecture on just how much a grave misunderstanding of——no, insult to Buddhist doctrines that was.

Form is emptiness, because it never stops changing, like clouds in the sky. There is no permanence when nothing stays constant, going up and down in the wheel of samsara, lifted up or weighed down by their karma.

It is empty because it is a wheel, and doesn't go anywhere. Not because the chain of causes and consequences don't exist.

"But they had it coming!" The monkey pouted, like one of those spoiled aristocratic nuns he had encountered in the Golden Mountain Temple, who hated monastic life with a passion and only came here to escape a worse marriage. "Are their deaths not a natural consequence of, you know, robbing people?"

"Not by Great Tang laws, and certainly not by Buddhist laws." He rubbed his temple, feeling a familiar headache coming. "But that is not the point. What about your consequences, Wukong? How much negative karma are you accumulating by taking their lives? And how much will I receive by association, for failing to stop you?"

"Oh, so it's all about you?" Sun Wukong narrowed his eyes. They were glowing red, like embers in a hearth, which never failed to send a chill down his back.

"Well, even if I somehow end up in Hell again, it's not like the Ten Kings can do anything to me. And since you'd rather die than letting me stain your flawless karma, I'll leave you to it, then." With a single flip, he was standing on his somersault cloud. "Bye, baldy."

"Wait!" He shouted, but the monkey had already disappeared over the horizon.

…

All things are by nature void. They are not born or destroyed, Nor are they stained or pure, Nor do they wax or wane.

…

But if nothing was stained or pure, why, then, would he be horrified at the deaths of six humans, but not an entire cave of demons?

They were but creatures of the Path of the Beast. Yet he was steadfast in his adherence to the monastic codes, which forbade him from consuming meat, for each meal costed the life of an animal. Was the life of a demon even less than that of livestocks, livestocks devoid of the spark of intellect?

Did their blood not stain his hands too?

Indeed, they were man-eating monsters. And so were regular wild beasts. So were two of his disciples, before they joined him on the pilgrimage.

If mercy could be extended to a monkey, a pig, a dragon, and a river monster that ate his nine past lives, why was it denied from the others?

Sometimes, on long, cold nights where nothing happened, and all they could see were the desert sands below and stars above, he wondered if Sun Wukong was right. If the fact that nothing could be truly created or destroyed, merely changed into another form, meant that death did not matter.

If compassion was but another form of attachment that led to suffering, and he would be better off severing it like the rest of his worldly bonds.

After all, he voiced no objections when the bandits who killed his father and destroyed his mother received their just deserts, nor did he do anything that might have stopped her from hanging herself in shame. Unseen laws were just as true as written laws and monastic laws, and beneath it all lay the karmic laws.

An eye for an eye. A good deed begets a good birth. Violence begets violence.

Were his convictions to do no harm just another lie, then? A delusion that he knew better, for he was the acolyte that actually bothered to learn Sanskrit, the good Buddhist, the master? Nothing but him putting his own discomfort and unseen scars above what was truly just and right and wise, and making his disciples suffer in his stead?

People clung to suffering not because they enjoyed pain, but because of the memory of happiness, and the promise of momentary release. It always felt good, until it didn't.

Like love and its inevitable loss.

He knew. Yet he could not stop hurting, could not let go of his doubts.

Maybe that made him an unworthy monk. Maybe the perils kept coming because he had not learned the lesson yet, and there would be a time when he finally stopped caring.

But whatever that time was, it wasn't now.

…

So, in emptiness, exists no form, No feeling, thought, or choice, Nor is there consciousness. No eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, mind; No colour, sound, smell, taste, touch, Or what the mind takes hold of, Nor even act of sensing.

…

Your senses fool you. Much like how the ghostly immortal, hijacking long-dead bodies, fooled him, and Yellow Robed Demon's illusion fooled the king of Baoxiang.

What makes one innocent? He thought, as he sat inside the cage, all four limbs chained to the floor. Or guilty, for that matter? What makes a man into a beast, a beast into human, a mortal into god, a god into monster?

What makes one deserving of forgiveness? He thought, as he looked into the dead woman's eyes, drowning out her shrieks with his chanting of Ksitigarbha's Sutra, suppressing her blue ghostfire with chains of golden light that wrapped tighter and tighter around the coffin. Or a chance, for that matter? Had she ever had a chance when it mattered?

When is an apology accepted, and not merely heard? He wondered, as he made his own to Sun Wukong, and the monkey didn't even spare a single glance at him. Just kept gazing eastward, a haunted look on his face.

…

No ignorance or end of it, Nor all that comes of ignorance; No withering, no death, No end of them.

…

"Is that how I was like?" Sun Wukong mumbled, as he scrubbed at the end of his staff with a rag. If there was still blood left on the metal, it had already been cleaned off ages ago, yet he kept wiping and wiping, like he was trying to yank someone's vengeful spirit out of it. "Is that what I am?"

"No," he said, then immediately winced. Even with a barrier in between, getting hit in the back with a heavy iron stick was no joke.

"How would you know——" he turned back, and almost instantly squeezed out a smile. "Oh, greetings, master! Didn't see you there. Are you hungry again? Thirsty? Need your bandages changed? Sorry about that whole evil doppelganger business, by the way."

"There is no need to apologize. It is not your doing."

"But…" He looked away, then sighed, tossed the rag into the creek, and shrank his staff back to needle size, putting it into his ear once more. "Well, if you say so, then I ain't complaining, master."

"And you are not your Second Mind."

The monkey froze in place, and didn't speak for a long time. When he did, it was in a barely audible whisper. "Does it even matter, if I wanted to do the exact same thing?"

"You still didn't."

"I tried, though, master." He exposed his teeth in what looked like a grin, but, according to Bajie, was monkey language for I'm scared shitless or Bugger off before I eat your stupid face. "Don't you remember? Right after the fillet. And I was so close to trying again, every time you listened to Piggy and recited that spell for a reason that wasn't exposing shapeshifting demons."

It was strange, how reassuring it was to have your biggest fears confirmed. At the same time, it was also deeply upsetting, knowing that the fears weren't just about someone else, but also you yourself.

"Look, I…I know Macaque. Whatever he is, he sure ain't a literal piece of my mind. But that just makes it worse when he wanted to become me." Sun Wukong clenched his fists together. "He would've dragged me back by my tail, once upon a time, kept the worst of me in check. But I chased him away, and now he didn't know how to be anything else, so he just doubled down and became the worst bits of me anyways."

His eyes started glowing bright red again, as he bared his canines and let out a low growl.

"He killed my monkeys. Okay, Wujing did, but it wouldn't have happened if he didn't make them impersonate you guys. And he dared, DARED call me weak when I lunged at him screaming, after I saw what he did to their bodies! The coward who couldn't even be a villain on his own, without hiding behind someone else's shadow!"

The monkey breathed in deeply. "For that alone, I don't regret killing him. But when Di Ting——okay master, I guess you wouldn't know who that is, it happened after we punched each other into the ground, all the way to——"

"I do, in fact," he said. "Ksitigarbha's steed, the All-hearing Beast."

"Pretty much. But it's less hearing, and more…knowing." Sun Wukong paused. "The very earth speaks into its ears, and when Di Ting rises up from the ground, its eyes just see through you, all of you, and knows whether you are good or evil."

"I imagine that must be quite disconcerting."

"You know what's even more disconcerting? When the only answer it gave was 'Go speak to the Buddha.' I mean, it all worked out in the end, but I couldn't help but wonder if it was simply too polite to tell the truth. That we are but two different flavors of evil, capable of wreaking the same havoc, and," Sun Wukong shuddered, his fur standing on ends, "under a different circumstance, I, too, wouldn't see a problem with throwing my monkeys' lives away."

He knew what he should tell his disciple. No, you are not evil. You are not entirely good, but neither am I. Few people are made of one or the other, and it takes a special level of ignorance to claim so.

He also knew Sun Wukong would not believe it, not after hearing the furious speech he made a few days ago. Is your heart made of stone too, just like the rest of you? Are you capable of finding delight in anything, other than death and wanton destruction?

So instead, he lowered his head, knelt down in front of the monkey, and said, "You can do whatever you want to me."

"M-Master? What are you…" Immediately, the monkey moved forward, trying to lift him up. "Have you lost your mind?!"

"You heard me." He smiled. "I swear to the World-honored One, I will not recite the spell, or use my barrier. If you want to beat me up, or bash my head in, you are free to do so."

"No, no, hell no!" Sun Wukong took a step back. "Why do you think I would? No, why do you suddenly have a death wish?"

"I do not," he said. "I merely put my life into your hands, and choose to accept whatever consequences that ensue. Death is but one possible outcome." A pause. "Is it the outcome you want for me, though?"

"Again, hell no!" He shook his head. "I mean, I'm still mad at you, but this…wouldn't solve anything! And I'm not gonna protect you for so long, only to throw it all away for nothing. What are you getting at here, master?"

"Nothing. I'm just wondering, if you would not kill someone you have good reasons to hate," he looked into his disciple's eyes, "What makes you think you will ever knowingly send your subjects, your family, to their death?"

Sun Wukong's lips moved, but no sounds came out. Then tears started coming out those eyes——no longer glowing, but still red. Seconds later, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven was on the ground, clutching his robes, bawling like a little child.

"But I already did, master…not knowingly. But I still did, way back when."

…

Nor is there pain, or cause of pain, Or cease in pain, or noble path To lead from pain; Not even wisdom to attain! Attainment too is emptiness.

…

Reaching their destination did not free him from doubts, though it did lift a weight off his shoulders, knowing that he could begin the real work undisturbed.

Neither did staying in the presence of Buddhas and Arhats for the next few years, as he slowly but steadily gathered the reference materials he needed for a proper translation. Flipping through ancient, ink-covered leaves and scrolls alike, honing his Sanskrit while learning more local dialects than he ever needed to know.

He knew his disciples would fully redeem themselves upon their return to Chang'an, capital city of the Great Tang. That he would attain Buddhahood for bringing the scriptures back to China alone, and could have left the translation to other capable monks.

Alas, much like doubts, he wasn't ridded of his perfectionism either. So he politely asked to earn his Buddhahood instead, by finishing his translation and making sure people could actually understand the scriptures' wisdom, and was granted his wish.

Perhaps this decision was also born out of doubt. How ironic was it, that he wasn't sure if he wanted Buddhahood anymore, only after it was all but guaranteed?

How ironic was it, that he once was so foolish as to wish he could be rid of pain by severing every bond, by throwing his compassion away?

Enlightenment is not isolation. It is not a single snowflake, frozen in time, but a raindrop falling back into the ocean. You would never find true strength, if you dared not even let yourself be human and feel the slighest bit of weakness.

But what happened when the raindrop, so close to the ocean waves, gazed upon its fellow raindrops in the clouds and thought, For their sake, I want to stay? What would happen to it if it stayed?

Then it shall walk on the Path of the Bodhisattva, that was the obvious answer. However, despite his encounters with multiple Bodhisattvas during the journey, he had never really gotten a chance to know them personally, not to mention making inquiries about their nature.

Well, now would be his chance to find out.

…

"It begins with a Vow," the wily old scholar said, twisting a five-petaled azure flower between his fingers. "And the Vow stems from awareness. Comprehension. A glimpse into the void, a spark of Wisdom."

"Then, dedication, in both mind and body," the three-headed woman laughed, gripping a vajra club with one of her six arms and pointing it at the ground. "It takes great Will to descend into the land of the unliving, be a jewel of light amidst unfathomable darkness. Me? I prefer to Act in this world, help the needy before they reach that stage."

"At the root of it all is Mercy," the familiar woman in white dipped her willow branch into the vase, "the desire to see less suffering in the world, big or small. For you, too, have suffered, and learned that pain is no mark of weakness, nor is it unavoidable."

"I would not say there is anything at the root." The scholar corrected. "For that would suggest the superiority of one Vow over the other, one Path over another, when they are but streams flowing into a single river."

"Ever so precise with your words and diction, I see." his three-headed companion teased gently. "But indeed. To put it in the simplest term: practice what you preach."

"True. Compassion without wisdom is dangerous naivete, and sympathy without action is just empty words." The woman nodded. "But wisdom without compassion can quickly turn cold and detached, and actions and worship, done only for the benefits of oneself, is but another form of bribery."

"Mercy is not turning a blind eye to harm, but choosing the path of least harm——sometimes by offering a chance, other times, by recognizing they would not take it."

"But you already know that, do you not? Tripitaka, River-Float-Boy, Golden Cicada."

"Monk, orphan, prideful student."

"Sinner, redeemer, venerable master."

"So go," the three spoke together as one, "and walk upon your own path."

…

So know that the Bodhisattva Holding to nothing whatever, But dwelling in Prajna wisdom, Is freed of delusive hindrance, Rid of the fear bred by it, And reaches clearest Nirvana!

…

Eighteen years.

Eighteen years had passed since his return. An entire tower was built in the west wing of his temple of residence, to store the sutras and holy artifacts he brought back.

He performed countless masses, to free the dead from their torments, one of which was on Flower Fruit Mountain. He sealed away a fire, destined to burn away worlds at the end of each kalpa, yet ignited too soon inside a child's body. He dealt with visits from nobles and high-ranking officials and rich laypeople all over Chang'an, until Wujing had to carry him back to his bedroom while Bajie shooed them out of the temple gate.

He took in more assistants and scribes. Taizong passed away and his third son inherited the throne. The officials made disdainful sneers at the mention of his new favorite concubine ("A nun! And one of the late emperor's consorts, too!"), then talked among themselves in a hushed and fearful voice, as she stepped over her rivals' bodies and became his empress.

His eyesight grew faint, his back ached on rainy nights, and sometimes he dropped a brush right after picking it up, because of the shakes in his hands.

Yet, after translating over six hundred scriptures, his work remained unfinished, and would likely never be finished.

A pity, but the completed translations would at least be in good hands.

He had recited his last prayers in front of the temple's monks——five days ago? Ten days ago? He could not remember. Everything blurred together, as if in a dream, and the only constant was the presence of his disciples.

His first, dearest disciples.

Wukong had stopped pacing, but was no less restless, if Bajie's muffled "Stop hitting me with your tail!" was any indication. Wujing's expression was one of grim acceptance, ever since he stopped eating and drinking and entered a deep mediation on his sickbed.

Ao Lie…they never told him what happened, but he had a feeling that the dragon prince wouldn't be coming back.

"Then stop standing next to my tail, Idiot."

"Excuse ya', there's only so much space in here!" A squeal. Sounded like the pig got pinched in the ear again. "Why are you so damn jittery today?"

"No idea. I just feel like…something's gonna happen."

And it did, the moment Sun Wukong finished speaking. The air grew cold and still. Before Bajie could yell "Don't jinx it, ape!" all the lamps went out in a gust of wind.

At first, there was only darkness. Then came a spark, a cicada's call, and with light, shadowy shapes.

Tendrils solidified into limbs and tails, bent at unnatural angles. Some silhouettes were fuzzy, clad in fur, some had horns and antlers, while the others were covered in bone spikes and scales. Many were missing chunks of their skulls or entire heads. Even more were charred to the bone, bits of cooked flesh sloughing off them as they lumbered forward.

Eyes with slit pupils, eyes that glowed, bug eyes, fish eyes, a pair of giant, lantern-like eyes, eyeballs hanging out of empty sockets——they all gazed into his, with unconcealed hatred and naked hunger. A few lunged at him, but soon staggered back with a pained screech, burnt by the golden light radiating from above.

Once, the mere sight would have sent him tumbling off his horse, trembling in fear, tears streaming down his face. He would not be standing tall, unfazed, listening to the vengeful ghosts of his would-be killers.

The Great Tang Monk, they cried out. Our doom. Our salvation.

A fellow poet, who became our guest. A group of four whispered from afar, branches and leaves shaking in their hair. The rudest of guests, and a deadly one too!

Did our mother wish for our deaths, Venerable Master? Two tiny shadows jumped up and down, behind a towering tiger demon. Was that what she wrote, in the letter she handed you?

Cheater! Devious bald donkey! A headless tiger, a disemboweled deer, and an oil-soaked goat skeleton tutted. Without your disciples, you'd never have won the contest.

Why is it a crime to eat the flesh of men, when they are never punished for consuming the flesh of our kind? A wrinkly fish demoness sighed. Such unfairness. Such hypocrisy.

Says you! I haven't eaten a single human, I'm just a palanquin carrier!

Do you remember us?

We, who are not worthy enough to count among your perils?

Do you even want to remember us?

Give it back, Great Tang Monk! The chorus of wails suddenly rose to a shrill crescendo. We want our lives back! Give our lives back, or grant us peace with yours!

He looked away from the consequences of his causes, and up into the light.

Six magnificent wings, six limbs, eyes like diamonds, a dot in the middle of the forehead. Cloaked in purple-gold kasaya, sitting in the lotus position. A most divine smile on an inhuman face.

A fleshless, miraculous body, a container of all the good deeds performed over his life and prior lives. A gateway to his Pure Land, an ocean of liquid gold.

One step, and he would be freed of birth and death, pain and doubt.

One step, and the spectres of murdered demons would never be able to reach him again, left behind to stew in their misery until they were dragged back to the Underworld in chains; the majority of them were far from innocent, after all.

One step between him and eternity.

And he needed only to reach out his hand and take it.

Idly, he wondered about what the others must've seen. What made them take that vital step, or stop at the last moment.

Then he shook his head and laughed. Those were their paths, were they not? Not his. Walk upon your own path.

He doubted even the three great Bodhisattvas could have predicted what he had in mind, though.

"I hereby forsake my Body of Benefit, to give all my accumulated virtues to the restless dead, so that they may be released from suffering, once and for all."

A crack formed in the golden figure's forehead, growing wider and wider, until it stretched from head to toe. Out crawled little cicadas, wings buzzing, making a beeline for the howling herd of shadows.

They flinched back at first, then, upon realizing what was happening, eagerly grabbed each and every insect and devoured them whole, dissolving into golden light with a joyous expression on their faces.

"I vow to descend into samsara, shedding my selves like a cicada's skin, my inherent Buddha-nature obscured, yet remain unfaltering in my pursuit. For there is no courage without vulnerability, no awareness without experience, no immortality without mortality, no transcendance without having been bound to the world."

As the shadows thinned, he could see his disciples again, their motion slowed to a crawl, the panic in their eyes slowly transforming into dreadful awareness at the words echoing through their mind. But there was no turning back. He had already committed to his Vow.

He only hoped that they could see the look on his face, or hear the warmth and wistfulness in his speech, as he continued speaking. This is not the end. I will be nowhere and everywhere. I will always be by your side, in one form or the other.

"For every life of mine, rich or poor, ignorant or wise, man or beast, ghost or god, I vow to undertake a journey, learn the meaning of compassion anew, and teach it to those denied of such chances: whether by birth, by luck, or by their own stubborn will."

"Only after I have walked all the paths that can be walked, learned compassion against all possible odds, taught all who were forsaken, shall I attain Nirvana."

The last cicada had been caught and swallowed. Fully split in the middle, the remnant of his miraculous body was little more than a shell now——a shell that was starting to shrivel up and burn away in bright golden flames.

"Thus saith Golden Cicada, known in this life as Chen Xuanzang. May the World-honored One be my witness, and grant me strength and wisdom on my journey."

The Vow was almost complete. Its binding words tugged at his soul, drawing him closer and closer, into the flames above. His form was fading, yet it did not hurt.

It felt like peace. Like a pair of glowing palms lifting up an insect, sending it back into the blue summer sky.

"Namo," he said, and let the light take him away.

#lmk fanfiction #lego monkie kid #journey to the west #xiyouji #jttw fanfic #tang sanzang #tripitaka #lmk tripitaka #lmk tang sanzang #sun wukong #lmk sun wukong

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moominofthevalley · 7 months

Text

Sullen Girl

After returning to New York from a few grueling months in Drakovia, Detective Rose looks into her past.

Characters: Trystan Thorne x Emily Rose

WC: 1.7k

R: Teen | CW: Mentions of Grief & Death of a Parent

No matter where she was, Emily Rose was always in Box Thirty-Two. The chanting of the crowd, the stadium organ, the death rattle from her father endlessly cemented in her mind. A ghost in a haunted house, an unwilling participant in an escape room with no key to escape.

She was only thirteen when she found her father dead on the floor, and yet all she had to cling to were faded memories and a tombstone with his name. There were so many moments the late father missed out on. Her first heartbreak, her graduation, the moment she quit the force and became a detective. Emily Rose will spend the rest of her life thinking of her father through a child’s lens.

Emily knew what closure does to people. To Trystan. She stared at Juliana Georgescu's grave, sitting with Trystan as he looked back on the love they once had. The love that was robbed from him. Placing the novel beside her tombstone. The resolve in Trystan's eyes. The robin in the tree from above, chirping knowingly.

When a parent dies, their children are supposed to know how they passed. It broke Emily’s heart to think back to the night of her father’s death. Helplessly staring at Uncle Tommy as he tried his best to sugarcoat the news; staining the two of them with a burning question in their hearts. She should have known then, and yet, fifteen years later, the flame in her heart continued to flicker.

Opening her eyes, Trystan’s arms wrapped around her waist. She scooted closer, her forehead resting on his chest. Trystan squeezed her back lightly, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“What’s wrong?”

Cold tears slipped down Emily’s cheek. She sat up from his bed, her hands trembling. Trystan sat up immediately, his hand stilling hers. Her eyes were baggy and thick with tears.

“My dad,” Emily clutched her chest, “I keep thinking about him.” Trystan wrapped her in a tight hug, tracing circles on her back.

“I’m so sorry.” His arms stayed around her, patiently waiting for her to go on.

“I keep...getting nightmares,” she gulped, “of what happened. It started getting worse again...ever since Drakovia.” Her head drooped low, eyes stinging with heavy tears.

“I’m so sorry...” He trailed off, pondering what to say, “If you’d like...you can talk about him and I’ll listen. Tell me anything about him while I go make you some breakfast, okay?” Emily nodded, rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah, I’d like that. Thank you.”

The couple got out of bed, the windy New York weather sending goosebumps up and down their arms. As soon as Trystan opened the door, a thrilled Twilight ran up to them, her tail wagging. Emily smiled at her furry friend, raking her hands up and down her back.

“Go lay down on the couch with her. Breakfast shouldn’t take too long.”

Emily laid down; Twilight followed suit as she rested her head on the detective’s lap. Emily tried her best to reminisce about the fond moments with her father. She tried, she did, but the only thing her memories brought was bitterness. She’d never have another moment with him. That was the cold truth. She’d never sit on his lap, never be able to watch Ghost Busters with him when she was sad, never be able to tell him another ‘I love you.’ Emily Rose was never granted a gentle last moment with her father. Children are never supposed to lose a parent, not at thirteen, not until they become grey and worn down. She never got to see her father grow old; instead, she saw him bleed out and die right in front of her.

“...Emily?” Trystan looked up from the kitchen, concerned.

“Uh—fuck! Sorry. I got carried away,” she uttered, clearing her throat. Steadying herself, a memory quickly popped up. A hint of a smile curled at the corners of her lips.

“When I was a kid,” Emily chuckled, “I was super into rocks. Crystals, gems, whatever. And one day, Dad told me that he ate a rock and it freaked me the fuck out. He showed me this huge bag of rocks and then he...put one in his mouth and told me to try one. I tried one, and they’re made of chocolate! Chocolate fucking rocks! I don’t know, I just thought it was the funniest thing ever.”

“That’s a sweet story,” Trystan said, grabbing two mugs from his cupboard. “You must’ve gotten your wit from him, huh?”

“Yeah,” she grinned, “I did.”

“So, are you gonna tell me what you're making me?” Emily asked, her eyes on Trystan as he began brewing coffee.

“Nope! You, my dear, will just have to wait and see. Now, tell me another story.”

Grumbling, Emily patted Twilight’s head, searching for another moment to be shared. She scanned Trystan's penthouse as if looking at the abstract paintings around the apartment reminded her of her father. Her eyes turned to a nearby bookcase. Emily marveled at the sight, admiring the scratched-up beauty. A golden snake was engraved at the very top center, clearly a Thorne heirloom. All sorts of books, antique and modern, were delicately set on each shelf. From afar, an entire collection of the Aubrey-Maturin series sat at the very top of the shelf. Emily’s heart grew, adoring that both she and Trystan shared a fascination with literature.

“My dad named me after Emily Brontë. Wuthering Heights was his favorite book. Every night before I’d go to bed, he’d read me a bunch of her poems. I never understood what they meant as a kid, but...I still loved listening to him.”

“Emily is a lovely name,” Trystan smiled, “I don’t have Wuthering Heights, but I do have Jane Eyre on my bookshelf if you’d want to read it.”

Emily glanced at the two mugs sitting beside the stove, her heart bursting. What a joy everything was — to love and be loved. To wake up in the cold mornings with her bare feet cuddling Trystan’s; enjoying the soothing touch of his mismatched socks. It was all so new, how there’d be two of everything every time she cooked breakfast. Two scrambled eggs, two cups of coffee, and two plates to get from the cupboard. It was all so beautiful, so mesmerizing. How someone entered her life, and soon enough, her life no longer followed a single, straight line — instead, it became jagged with two pairs of footsteps following the path. To love another being so intently was the best thing she ever did.

She watched Trystan pour them a cup of coffee, keeping their hearth warm. Emily wandered over to the kitchen, sitting on a barstool. Her head tilted at the tub of peanut butter and a sandwich on two separate plates.

“You made me...just a peanut butter sandwich?” She asked, unamused. Trystan smirked, handing her one plate and keeping the other for himself.

“Just try it!”

Emily took a bite out of the sandwich. Her mouth watered at the taste of peanut butter and marshmallows. Moments of her father and her younger self flickered through her mind. It was silly how such a simple taste made her relive so many memories. Emily swallowed the first bite, glancing at Trystan warmly.

“Oh my God," She gawked, “you made me a fluffernutter sandwich?” The memory of them both trapped in a freezer coursed through her head. Cuddling together, shivering as if they were on the brink of death, and Emily; telling Trystan the loving moments she had with her dad.

“You remember that?”

“Of course, I do darling,” Trystan grinned. “Mind of a steel trap! Even when we’re both locked in a freezer.”

“I love you, Trystan.”

“I love you, too.”

Wiping away a splotch of peanut butter on her lip, Trystan gazed into her soulful eyes before kissing her. Pulling apart, another twinge of grief crept up on her. Emily resented herself at that instant, furious that such a sweet moment lasted only a mere few minutes. Her eyes were hooded with sorrow, bereavement clouding her mind.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s been...fifteen years since he died,” she murmured, “And I’m so fucking scared of forgetting things. What if everything I remember about him just...goes away? What if I never find out who killed him?”

Trystan sighed, sitting next to her. Placing his hand in hers, their eyes met. “Emily, I think...as long as you keep talking about him, he’ll never go away. And one day, you will find out who murdered him. It might not be today, or even this year, but it will come.”

She thought of her father’s face, and how wonderful it was that they shared the same features. Nearly every aspect of him has always been a part of her. She admired that she kept his narrowed earthly eyes, his strong nose, and his heavenly grin.

Emily thought of the engravement on her father’s tombstone. ‘Life is not measured in years, but the memories we leave behind.’ Not only did her father leave behind a loving childhood to look back on; but he also left her his legacy. It’s hers to keep, hers to share if she’d like to; and it’s hers to cherish.

* * * * A/N: today is ‘national fluffernutter day.’ figured it would be perfect to post this lol. and if you can’t tell, i’ve been listening to lots and lots of mitski, watching mike flanagan shows, and re-watching Fleabag as of late! death & love are just such interesting things to write about, and luckily crimes of passion is just full of that haha! hope you liked it c:

click here to find a masterlist of all my writings so far! more coming soon!

tags: @choicesficwriterscreations @jerzwriter @logolepzy @mooserii (let me know if anyone else would like to be tagged when i post more crimes of passion fics!)

#playchoices #choices #choices cop #crimes of passion #choices crimes of passion #crimes of passion 2 #choices game #trystan x mc #trystan x emily #trystan thorne #choices stories you play #jimmy rose #moominofthevalley

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berylcups · 24 days

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What type of music do you think la squadra members are into?

Also what type are you into!

What’s La Squadras Favorite Music?

Oh good question! This one definitely made me think! Thinking about their lives outside of their work makes you wonder…

CW: weed? And Melone just being Melone

Risotto

Music genre: Definitely metal this poor guy is a walking stereotype I stg 😭

Bands: Opeth, Dream Theater, and a classic-Rob Zombie

Where/what do they do while listening to music?-

He’s usually listening to his favorite songs in his office doing paperwork. Rarely if he’s in a good mood you can hear him lowly hum to the melody 🥺

Formaggio

Music genre: stoner rock - I’m not familiar with this genre but Formaggio would be! I HC him hard as someone who’s super chill and wants to relax with some psychedelic music.

Bands: Grateful Dead, Black Sabbath, Fu Manchu