the are few lyrics that make me sadder than “familiarity breeds contempt” because uhm. no it doesn’t? irritation sometimes maybe. but there is something so sinister about the idea that the more people got to know her, the more they disliked her. and the way she talks about it in bejeweled is accepting that as fact and saying “but here’s why i can still be worthy of your love.” and it’s DEVASTATING.
i mean think about it. the old quilt your grandma made. your stuffed animal you’ve hugged countless times. the relief you feel when you finally get to see the person who understands you best. how nice it is to be in your home town after being away for too long. familiarity doesn’t breed contempt. it breeds peace. but someone made her feel like getting to know her made her seem worse
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☆ from gold, i am undone
{☆} characters tsaritsa
{☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader
{☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts
{☆} word count 0.9k
You weren't meant to be here.
You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.
You are changed, and you are whole.
But you are so unbearably broken.
A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.
Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.
All you see is a monster.
Something new, something old.
A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.
But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.
You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.
But you know it will not satisfy you.
Nothing does anymore.
You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.
And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.
There is nothing left but absolute authority.
You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?
Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.
Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.
You welcome it.
It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.
Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.
You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.
For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?
Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?
Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?
Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.
For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.
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Jason *not looking up*: Gullible is written on the ceiling
Tim: you think you're so funny don't you? I'm not falling for it.
Jason: seriously, it is. Look.
Tim: no. I don't know what you're getting at here. But I don't want a part in any of it.
Jason *looking up*: nope. It's written there.
Tim: fine. I will humour you... You know it's not funny if you actually write gullible on the- AHHH!
Jason *who just shot Tim in the foot*: HA! You're so gullible!
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while i wouldnt necessarily disagree that childe seems to be on edge more so than usual (and he himself mentions being in a poor mood in act I) in the fontaine archon quest i do have to say i find it a little funny that theres people who think hes behaving, like, completely out of character in the court scene when he decides to go apeshit after being judged guilty by the justice.exe AI bot like.
did it somehow escape peoples memories that this man when presented with the idea that we as the traveler mightve tricked and gotten ahead of him with the geo gnosis just. entered a state of complete murderous rage leading to him activating foul legacy in the golden house. which actually ends up self-sabotaging his current objective more than anything bc unlike the clear way they struggled against childe before now the traveler just won by default by outlasting him
he mightve gotten over it fairly easily afterwards (in no small part bc traveler actually fought him which automatically translates to equal=respect=friend in his fucked up head) but childes been shown to be a highly dangerous individual with a massive ego prone to outburst in the heat of the moment when outplayed or his pride wounded before even when it isnt the smartest course of action like. this isnt new lmao.
getting accused of a crime he had never even heard of in a foreign nation he only recently arrived in and then sitting through all that court drama and being assured afterwards that he only needs to partake as a mere formality for declaring his innocence only to be somehow declared guilty by a machine is very much realistic grounds for childes patience to reach its breaking point if you ask me lol
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