Thinking so hard about William decaying btw.
Under a cut bc I started saying words and didn’t stop. Tw for discussion of body horror n gore n stuff ig. He is decaying.
His digestive system doesn’t work, he can’t eat because it’ll make him sick because it doesn’t digest. He doesn’t tell the others about this, he just refuses to eat because he physically can’t.
His body won’t let him sleep because if he’s already dead there’s no use. Body does not regulate hormones well enough to allow him to sleep, there’s no production of melatonin or anything. He doesn’t produce saliva it’s hard to swallow because his mouth is always dry. He’s moodier and more irritable (bc again no hormone regulations).
When he bleeds it’s… not like normal blood it’s old it’s not fresh this is not blood that should come from a regular person. It’s darker, it’s thicker, it’s almost like syrup. His heartbeat is… it still *beats* but it’s very weak, very slow, it might as well not beat at all.
It’s hard for him to move because his muscles are very, very stiff, a lot less motor control because of it. His body doesn’t have enough energy to move so it’s very hard some days, especially when he can’t eat or sleep to make up for that lack of energy. He “wakes up” (decides it’s an acceptable time to stop laying in bed) in a state of rigor mortis that is so hard to shake from and is incredibly painful.
But even so he can barely feel pain, it’s very dull. All his senses are dulled. It’s as if he’s underwater. No sense of smell or taste. His ears are constantly ringing. His vision is a lot blurrier than before, touch receptors are very muted. Someone touches him and he can barely feel it unless they try to hurt him.
His thoughts are so muddled all the time it’s hard to think because he’s so exhausted, his in so much pain (but it doesn’t actually hurt) and he’s trying so hard to navigate in a world where one wrong thing will make him fall apart. And he can barely think. His memory is so much worse, it was the one thing he had going for him and he can’t even do that. He can barely write bc muscle and motor control are very bad so he can’t take notes to remember.
He’s just ghosting this world with a fuzzy feeling inside him, like a soft apple, because everything is falling apart. I think his skin is so sickly colored, he doesn’t produce body heat, it’s like touching wax. I think liver mortis happens to him a lot (blood pooling in places) bc his heart is beating so slowly and so weakly it barely does anything so it’s so uncomfortable.
His skin is easy to pull from the bone, not off, bc it’s still a bit difficult to rip. But it’s stretchier for sure bc nothing is connected right anymore. Connective tissue is decaying, not enough energy in bodies for muscle contraction so cells are eating away at themselves to try and conserve energy. Etc.
His bones are also falling apart, specifically his joints bc again connective tissue is decaying. His shoulders and elbows dislocate and he can barely put them back into place, walking will throw his hip out. I cannot stop thinking about his jaw falling apart like Eben Byers, idk why his jaw would be a notable source of decay, but it’s a disgusting sight that he tries to hide as best he can.
He won’t wear anything besides long sleeves and pants because he’s trying to hide the patches where his skin has started to mold and decay. He wears gloves to hide the blue/purple color of his fingers bc there’s no circulation and he stood in one position for too long so the blood started to pool and never… fixed itself.
He was unpleasant to touch before bc of how cold he is, now it’s even worse. The others won’t touch him because both it’s… really scary and gross… and they’re so scared of making it worse. Dakota is so physically affectionate with people but he… doesn’t with William anymore. It’s so painfully isolating because they treat him different, they notice he’s decaying and they act different.
William is so… isolated… he’s falling apart at the seams and there’s no support because everyone will treat him weirdly or like a fragile thing. Sure he’s fragile but he doesn’t want to be treated that way. With people skirting around touching him because it’s… he’s just a corpse no one wants to touch that, or talking to him differently.
And I think that’s the worst part about the entire situation. Everyone treats him differently. They’re weird about it, everyone is weird about it for understandable reasons bc who the hell is gonna know how approach that kind of situation. It still hurts though.
He’s so cold and he misses those nights that he would cuddle up with Dakota because Dakota is warm and loves to cuddle. That doesn’t happen anymore. He misses it.
William is so touch starved and lonely, he isolated himself so much more because he wouldn’t dare subject someone to the hell that is his body. Because he’s falling apart, he’s decaying, it’s gross. And the loneliness is almost the worst part.
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☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, violence
{☆} word count 0.8k
You are dying.
Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.
It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.
You will die.
"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."
A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.
"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."
They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.
"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."
Silence.
You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.
It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.
In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.
They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.
And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.
And alone, the cold remains.
Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.
But the cold remains, bathed in gold.
It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.
It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.
Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.
But you are yourself.
And you are where you belong.
They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.
All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.
One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.
Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.
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