kinda what it says on the tin

I agree, my dude, Xatu is one of my favorite psychic types! It’s on my breeding list :3

* Xatu spends a lot of it’s time either meditating or staring off into the sun, both which it will do for the entire day, not moving an inch. It’s best not to disturb Xatu when it’s in these states or else it’ll get spooked.

* Although Xatu is one of the few pokemon that can actually communicate and speak to humans, it chooses not to. The reason for this is because it doesn’t wish to scare the person it’s talking to by accidentally saying something it saw in their future, especially about their death.

* When Xatu isn’t spending it’s time meditating or spacing off, it’ll sometimes take a look at whatever their trainer is doing. They can be very curious at times and are always eager to learn new things so it’ll observe their trainer’s activities, especially if they’re reading or researching about something.

Natu and Xatu like to Stare at trainers they like. Not blinking while doing this is considered a sign of affection.

They generally don't try to interfere with the future they see. However, if they see that their trainer will be in danger in the future, they go uncharacteristically berserk.

The line is somewhat uncommon; at one point in the past, they were considered a psuedolegendary.

Both Pokemon can fly short distances, but neither do it often.

The eyes on their chests were once mistakenly believed to function, but it's now known that they're just markings used to scare off predators.

Some of the patterns on Xatu have inspired ceremonial dresses in the region they originated from. Temples to these Pokemon offering fresh food and water also aren't uncommon.

The line is very long lived, with the oldest known individual making it to 153 years before passing.

They have nictitating eyelids to protect them from desert sand. Alarmingly, these eyelids have an eye pattern on them, so you can never tell when they're closed or not.

Sigilyphs are obsessed with routine. It’s best to only raise them if you have the energy needed to both establish and stick to a routine for them. Otherwise, they will establish their own with unpredictable results.

Despite their natural tendencies, it is rare to see a Sigilyph as a guard. Unsurprisingly, most people do not want to deal with potential property damage from their psychic blasts, and the Pokémon can struggle to tell friend from foe.

Sigilyphs are speculated to be an artificial Pokémon, formed by an ancient civilization. While they undoubtedly show protectiveness towards the ruins, it is difficult to determine their origin. Telepathic means of communication have always failed with these Pokémon, something attributed to their old natures.

Sigilyphs are not social Pokémon, but tend to get along with members of the Golett line for unknown reasons.

In terms of care, Sigilyphs fare best in arid regions of the world. They should be kept indoors or within a Pokeball if it begins to rain. They do not seem to eat, drink, or sleep.

Your Sigilyph may let you pet it. Though they will not react with any noise, they will hold still for the duration before flying off again. They are otherwise not cuddly creatures.

@splatdoofus This is inspired from your ideas and others I've seen awhile back. 😌💜 You get to see me yap about the single father.

c00lkidd isn't really a yandere in this... this is mostly just 007n7.

Yandere! Pre-Forsaken! 007n7 using c00lkidd against you HCs

Pairing: Romantic (007n7)/Platonic (c00lkidd) - Sharing

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Reader, Obsession, DILF 007n7...?, Manipulation, Possessive/Overprotective behavior, Clingy behavior, Stalking, Delusional behavior, C00LKIDD IS JUST PLATONIC, Toxic behavior, Jealousy, Guilt tripping, Kidnapping, Dubious relationship/companionship.

Immortal whumpee who hasn't eaten in years, reintroducing food into their shriveled stomach.

#354

thank you for this prompt i'm actually really proud of how this turned out, i hope you guys enjoy as well :)

content: immortal whumpee, past trauma, aftermath of whump, captivity, starvation, emeto, rocky recovery, recovery fic, comfort, multiple whumpers (referenced, not in the story)

It had been years.

At first, the hunger pangs were bearable. Even when days passed, Whumpee could tell itself it would be over soon, their captors would return and feed it, and it wouldn't rot away in a cell forever. Days turned into weeks. Whumpee got hungrier. It started to punch the walls so that plaster would fall off, and it would eat that. It wasn't satisfying, but it was something in its stomach. Weeks turned into months. The plaster was gone from the wall in most places. Months turned into years. There was nothing but the dull constancy of hunger pangs coming and going like waves in the ocean.

When the door finally opened, Whumpee didn't even move. It stayed lying on the cement floor, staring up at the ceiling. It couldn't be bothered to move its emaciated body an inch.

They were still pretty new to drinking and had vastly overestimated their limit— again. It was better than last time, at least; you’d convinced them to stop before they got sick. Couldn’t do anything to stop them from getting slammed, though. Not to the point of being incoherent or incapable of processing anything, more just… Way less filtered and worse at holding themself up. You joke it’s convenient they’re hollow, leaning on you as they are. They pause, for a moment, and you watch in real time as some dots connect in that empty head of theirs, visor looking from you to themself to you again, before they conclude, voice a bit slurred, “Waaaaait you could totally wear me.”

And this proceeds to become their fixation for the next several minutes. Going on about how they’ve never thought about it before but now they wanna know what it’s like(you are also curious but maybe not right now), don’t need to make a big deal or be weird about it(bringing up the possibility of being weird about it makes it weird), come on humans wear armor all the tiiime it’s not that different(vastly overestimating how many people have even touched a suit of armor and generally the armor people wear isn’t alive), until you capitulate and agree to do it at home. You had assumed maybe the walk home would give them time to reconsider, but you arrive and they’re still dead set on trying this. Whatever, you don’t have any plans and you’re not gonna go back on your word. What's the harm in it?

It was a bit awkward putting them on while they could hardly avoid stumbling any time both boots weren’t on the ground, but once you were in their lower half and the two of you were stable, things came pretty naturally. You’re relieved to know they’re not wet inside, the organic components present feeling more like padding than meat with how relaxed they are. Granted, they do smell like cheap booze, which isn’t particularly ideal, but it could certainly be worse.

They, however, seem to be having an even better time of this, sitting down and sighing and mumbling about how different and good it feels to hold you like this instead of just with their arms… Along with a few other things you'll attribute to the alcohol in their system. And then, evidently comfortable as can be with your warm weight inside them, they promptly pass out.

Armor is, after all, meant to be quite light to minimize the restriction of its wearer. Wouldn’t it be easy to lift and carry them to a place where the only prying eyes are yours? Pin them to the floor, or a wall, run your fingers along every gap in their metal form, watch your breath fog up their helmet as you hold your face close to the one they lack. They had been all well and good when it came to looking after others, stubbornly protecting them, but absolutely melted the second you began exploring them in this way. They are so excited by the prospect of being the one who is wanted for once, their interior exposed not to attack a person within but to allow curious hands to slowly drag down their cuirass, feeling so different from the backs normally pressed against it. And yet who says this armor is even worn often, or at all? Imagine being the first one to glimpse their insides in ages, gently dragging a finger through years of layered dust, reminding them that the inside is far, far more sensitive than the outside— that they, too, have a soft underbelly, even if only metaphorical. You write or draw something in it; a name, a message, or even the classic “wash me”, and it takes the armor all they have not to look their innards in a mirror later to see what mark you left them with. If it is important, you can tell them yourself when you take them away again.

It’d come down to individual preference! Some wouldn’t like to be pet, others wouldn’t have a favored spot at all and would just enjoy any sort of contact. If you’re not sure, the cuirass or pauldrons are generally safe options to explore. Being scratched under the chin is a common like as well, but it can be pretty awkward if the armor in question sees it as condescending when you try. The plume can be high risk, high reward among those who have them; for some it’s completely numb, for others it’s very sensitive and they will either really like having it touched or really, really hate it.

Cut is just to prevent text wall you know how it is

You know what? I bet some of them can to some extent, though it might not sound like a traditional sort of purr. With some it’ll be so slight you might not notice it, certainly felt more than heard(especially if you’re wearing them), but others might be a lot louder and have a distinct rattle accompanying it, heck some might sound like an engine. As is the case with cats, how easy it is to make an individual purr will vary.

Yesss, although I think rattling can mean different things depending on context— it can also be a fear response or sign of agitation, like bruxing in rats. It makes understanding body language all the more important!

Signs it is a positive rattle: relaxed posture, visor and/or eyes(if present) partially or fully closed, weapon(if present) not drawn nor reached for, armor remains in place, teeth(if present) concealed, neutral stance, rattling is even and continuous

It depends on what it’s inoculated with!

-Floral armors will likely need occasional pruning, weeding, and fertilizing. Pests can be a potential issue, but harsh pesticides are not recommended. Make sure they don’t rust, but water thoroughly every once in a while— you’ll want some water to come out the bottom, as that helps to wash out the buildup of excess salts. Also keep the needs of the plants used in mind; some plants are pickier than others when it comes to things like pH, temperature, humidity, and sun exposure, and many will need time to go dormant for best health— in some cases you can mimic this with a large freezer. You may occasionally have to disassemble your inoculated armor, as they are prone to becoming root bound. Older individuals will likely develop a unique microbiome which should be taken into account when performing maintenance, but you can assist by inoculating the internal substrate with beneficial microbes. If you have multiple of similar composition and one becomes infected with some sort of infectious disease or virus, it is imperative you at least quarantine it. In the worst case scenario, you may have to destroy it via burning; many plant pathogens do not show symptoms until it is too late. Removing flowers and fruits prior to seed set is important if the plants used are not native to your location and have the potential to become invasive.

-Fungal armors will need regular additions of suitable organic matter to grow on in addition to the armor. Make sure they do not dry out or become too wet. Upon initial inoculation, you should pay close attention to what is actually growing, as it is possible for your intended fungi to be outcompeted by another type or by bacteria. Also be sure to wear appropriate protective gear if the fungus is known to be toxic, especially when fruiting. Edible mushrooms should not be harvested from inoculated armor unless you are certain of where the individual has been. Be careful to manage how much organic material you add at once, as it is very possible for it to rot rather than decompose, which can produce unpleasant smells and introduce undesirable competition. Make sure to dispose of all materials responsibly, including water used for cleaning, as fungal spores can cause problems if allowed to spread in the environment unchecked; for the same reasons you should not keep them in locations the fungi are not natively found to prevent potential invasion. Always keep detailed notes about what your fungal armors are composed of in the event someone else needs to deal with them, especially if they are potentially poisonous.

(The employees know what’s going on but it helped them deal with a bad customer a while back so they turn a blind eye)

Yandere! Holy Knight x Reader

⤷ TW: dark themes, yandere tendencies, violence, implied coercion & threats.

The people of the kingdom always said the holy knight was not born from a woman, but carved directly from the light of the sun. He was their ultimate savior, a perfect hero built of silver and gold who never tired, never bled, and never made a mistake. When he rode his great white horse through the capital city, the busy streets would instantly go dead silent. Regular citizens, wealthy merchants, and even noble lords would drop to their knees in the dirt just to touch the hem of his long white cape, begging for a scrap of his divine attention. They did not speak to him like a human being. They spoke to him like a god who belonged to everyone and belonged to no one.

But you were just a regular, low-ranking scribe working in the deepest, darkest corner of the Church’s royal archives. To you, he wasn't a god at all. He was just a severely tired man who desperately needed a glass of water and a warm bed.

The first time he ever stumbled into your library wing, he looked like he was about to collapse. The high priests had spent the entire morning parading him through the upper cathedral, demanding miracles and blessings from him while completely ignoring the fact that his knees were shaking under the weight of his armor. When he finally escaped the crowds, he wandered aimlessly down the stairs, ending up in your quiet room. His silver armor was covered in dust, his golden hair was messy and damp with sweat, and his shoulders were drooping.

You didn't fall to your knees when he entered. Instead, you stood up from your desk, bowing your head slightly in a gesture of quiet respect, and pointed to a sturdy wooden chair nearby.

"Welcome to the archives, sir," you said softly, keeping your voice gentle so as not to startle him. "You look incredibly faint. If it pleases you, would you care to sit down and rest for a moment?"

He froze, his wide golden eyes completely shocked. For his entire life, everyone had either looked away from him in fear or ordered him to perform tasks. No one had ever asked for his permission just to offer him comfort. No one had ever treated his comfort as something that required consent. Slowly, with a quiet hesitation, he walked over and sat down. The heavy metal of his armor groaned as he sank into the wood.

You didn't say much else. You walked over to your small stove in the corner, brewed a cup of cheap chamomile tea, and brought it back to him along with a small plate of sweet crackers you had been saving for your lunch. As you set the tray down, you noticed how raw and red his skin was beneath the edges of his metal gloves.

Instead of just grabbing his hands, you knelt right beside his chair, keeping a respectful distance, and looked up at him.

"Your wrists look terribly chafed from the gauntlets, sir," you murmured gently. "May I have your permission to unbuckle the straps and clean the skin for you? I have some soothing ointments here."

He stared down at you, his chest moving up and down with shaky, shallow breaths. His hands trembled slightly on his lap. He had faced monsters and armies without blinking, but your quiet request for consent made his breath catch in his throat. Slowly, he nodded, offering his heavy wrists to you.

You worked with absolute care. You gently unbuckled the leather straps of his massive silver gauntlets and used a wet cloth to clean the chafed, bleeding skin on his wrists. You wrapped them in soft, clean bandages, your fingers brushing against his skin with the utmost tenderness.

"They treat you like a weapon," you muttered softly, frowning as you tied a neat knot on his left wrist, ensuring it wasn't too tight. "But weapons don't get tired. People do. You carry the weight of the whole kingdom, sir, but you are allowed to rest."

He didn't answer you. When he finally looked up at your face, his eyes were incredibly bright, almost glowing in the dim candlelight of the archive. He looked like a traveler who had spent years walking through a freezing, lonely wasteland and had suddenly stumbled into a warm, roaring fire.

From that day on, your quiet archive became his secret sanctuary.

Every single time he had a free hour between his training and his prayers, he would slip away from the grand halls and hide in your room. The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him, his perfect hero persona completely fell apart. He would take off his heavy helmet, let his massive sword clatter uselessly to the floor, and sink down onto the rug right next to your desk.

He didn't want to talk about his battles, the monsters he killed, or his divine duties. He just wanted to watch you work. He would rest his chin on the edge of your desk, his large golden eyes following every single movement of your feather pen as you copied old history books.

Sometimes, if you worked too late into the evening, he would get restless. "Are you tired?" he would whisper softly, reaching out a hesitant, trembling hand. He would gently take the pen from your fingers, placing it safely on the table so he could rub your sore wrist. His hands were always incredibly warm, radiating a soft, comforting heat that instantly made your fatigue melt away. "Let me do it. Let me carry your heavy books. Let me copy the pages for you. You shouldn't have to strain yourself like this."

"I'm fine," you would laugh softly, reaching over to pat his soft golden hair. Every single time your fingers touched his head, his face would turn completely red, and he would let out a small, happy sigh, leaning his head deeply into your palm like a pet begging for affection. "This is my job. Unlike you, I actually get to rest when the sun goes down."

"Then let me stay here until it does," he pleaded, his voice small, desperate, and entirely pathetic for someone who could slay monsters. He gripped the edge of your shirt sleeve with two fingers, holding on tightly as if he was terrified you would disappear into thin air if he let go. "Just a little longer. It's so loud outside. Everyone wants something from me. But here, with you, it's the only place where my head stops hurting."

You smiled and let him stay every time, thinking he was just a sweet, lonely man who desperately needed a real friend. You had no idea that to him, you weren't just a friend. You were his entire world, his only source of sanity, and his new religion.

While the holy knight fought dangerous monsters at the kingdom's borders, you were fighting your own quiet battle inside the castle walls. For months, you had been secretly digging through the Church’s old financial records. You had uncovered something terrible: the High Priests were stealing massive amounts of money meant for the poor villages and using it to buy luxury goods, gold jewelry, and expensive wines for themselves. It was an incredibly dangerous secret to hold, and you knew that if they caught you, they would lock you away in the darkest dungeon forever.

But lately, strange things had been happening around you.

Every time a corrupt official started getting suspicious of your research or asked too many questions about why you were looking through old vault ledgers, they would suddenly vanish from the castle. There was a cruel bishop who had caught you in the hallway and threatened to have you fired and thrown into prison because you asked for his department's budget sheets. You had spent a whole night panicking in your room, unable to sleep, terrified of what the morning would bring.

But the very next morning, the bishop was gone. The Head Priest announced to the castle that the man had suddenly decided to retire to a silent, lonely monastery deep in the freezing mountains, vowing never to look at or speak to another human being again.

A few weeks later, a rude royal guard shoved you hard in the stone courtyard because you were walking too slow, making you drop all your heavy library files into the dirt. He had laughed at you, calling you a useless library rat. You hadn't told anyone about it, not wanting to cause trouble.

But the next day, that guard went missing. He had been stripped of his rank and forced into a lifetime of hard labor in the deep, pitch-black salt mines, never allowed to see the light of day again.

Then there was the corrupt merchant who had tried to corner you in the lower halls, threatening to tell the priests about your suspicious archive research if you didn't give him your files. Within twenty-four hours, his entire business empire collapsed due to a sudden, unexplainable audit by the crown, leaving him completely bankrupt and thrown into the city's worst common debtor's prison.

You thought the system was somehow fixing itself. You thought your anonymous letters to the king were finally working. You had absolutely no idea what the holy knight was actually doing during the dead of night.

He never used a physical weapon on those men, nor did he let them stay in those prisons or mines for long. Before their official sentences or relocations were carried out by the kingdom, the holy knight would step into their locked quarters or holding cells while they slept, his silver armor casting a bright, beautiful glow against the dark walls.

When the corrupt men woke up in terror, trying to scream for help, they would find that they couldn't move a single muscle. The air in the room would become incredibly thick and heavy, filled with the faint, sweet smell of church incense. The holy knight would stand over them, his face completely calm and peaceful, looking down at them with soft, genuine pity.

"Why did you make her cry?" he would ask in a gentle, polite whisper, his golden eyes wide and completely empty of any human emotion. "She was so stressed today because of you. She couldn't even smile at me when I visited because she was worried about your threats. She didn't even touch my hair today."

The men would try to beg for their lives, crying and shaking under the weight of his presence. But the holy knight would only tilt his head, a soft, saintly smile appearing on his lips as a beautiful, blinding white light began to grow from his palms.

"Don't worry," he would murmur softly, his voice sounding like a sweet lullaby. "I am not an evil monster. I am a hero. I am just purifying the world so she can live in peace. Anyone who hurts my precious person doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her."

With a silent flash of immaculate white light, the men would simply melt away. There was no blood, no pain, and no sound. A faint, beautiful sound of angels singing would echo in the empty room for a few seconds, leaving nothing behind but a neat pile of clean, white ash on the floor. To the rest of the kingdom, it looked like they had simply run away to escape their punishments, but the holy knight knew the truth.

The next afternoon, he would walk into your library wing, looking as innocent and sweet as can be. He would drop to his knees beside your chair, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and burying his face in your lap, breathing in your scent to calm his racing heart.

"I made sure your day would be peaceful today," he would whisper, his voice muffled by your clothes as he squeezed you closer, his fingers digging into your shirt. "No one will ever hurt you again. I promise. I will clear away anyone who stands in your path, so just stay here with me forever. Don't look at anyone else."

You would laugh softly, running your fingers through his golden hair to comfort him, completely blind to the terrifying, unhinged power of his love.

The High Priests were greedy, but they were not stupid. They quickly realized that their political allies were disappearing one by one. More importantly, they noticed that their perfect weapon was changing. The holy knight was no longer listening to their orders with blank, mindless obedience. He was skipping mandatory prayers, refusing to attend royal banquets, and spending every single night locked inside the dusty archive rooms with a low-ranking scribe.

They realized he had a weakness. They realized you were the one controlling his heart.

"The Vanguard is compromised," the Head Priest whispered to his council during a secret meeting in the dead of night. "He no longer belongs to the Church. He belongs to that pathetic scribe. If we do not cut this cord immediately, he will turn his divine light against us."

They didn't want to just kill you in secret. They knew that if the holy knight found out they had murdered you, his grief would cause him to lose his mind and destroy the entire kingdom. They needed to make him hate you. They needed to force him to destroy you himself, proving to the world that he was still nothing more than their loyal, brainwashed tool.

They waited until the holy knight was sent away on a three-day mission to clear monsters from a faraway valley. The moment his white horse left the city gates, the trap snapped shut.

A dozen heavily armed guards stormed into your quiet library wing. They smashed your wooden desk, tore your favorite books to pieces, and dragged you out of the room in heavy iron chains. They took all the evidence you had compiled against the priests and threw it into a roaring fire, burning your months of hard work into nothing but smoke.

They locked you in a cold, dark dungeon beneath the cathedral, leaving you without food or water. They beat you until your body was covered in bruises, demanding that you sign a fake confession stating that you were a dark witch who had used evil curses to brainwash and control the holy knight.

But you refused. Even when you were bleeding, cold, and terrified, you held onto your pride. You knew you had done nothing wrong, and your respect for the truth kept you silent.

By the third day, the grand cathedral doors were opened wide. The entire royal court, the wealthy nobles, and thousands of regular citizens filled the long rows of stone benches. They had been told a lie that a dangerous heretic had been caught trying to poison the kingdom’s savior.

You were dragged up the long center aisle, the heavy iron chains dragging loudly against the marble floor. They forced you onto your knees at the top of the sacred altar, right in front of the massive golden statues of the gods. Your clothes were torn, your face was bruised, and your hands were bound tightly in heavy iron cuffs that cut into your skin.

The High Priests stood behind you on the elevated platform, looking down at you with smug, evil satisfaction. They had won.

Suddenly, the heavy doors at the back of the cathedral burst open with a loud bang.

The holy knight had returned. He strode down the center aisle, his silver armor gleaming brilliantly under the colorful stained-glass windows. He carried his sacred sword in his right hand, the blade radiating a soft, comforting warmth. To the cheering crowd, he looked like the ultimate picture of divine justice.

He marched straight up the stone stairs of the altar, his face completely blank and emotionless. The Head Priest stepped forward, a cruel smile on his face as he raised his golden staff into the air.

"Vanguard of Light!" the Head Priest shouted, his voice echoing through the massive, high-ceilinged room. "This filthy heretic has confessed to using dark magic to corrupt your pure soul. In the name of the heavens, we command you to raise your sacred blade and purge this evil from our kingdom!"

The crowd cheered wildly, screaming for your blood and waving their fists in the air. You looked up at the holy knight through your messy, blood-matted hair, your heart breaking into pieces. You didn't care about dying, but the thought of him being the one to do it made you want to sob.

"I'm sorry," you whispered softly to him, your voice trembling as fresh tears finally spilled down your bruised cheeks, dripping onto the cold marble floor. "I tried to fix the church... I tried to help the people. I'm sorry I ruined everything for you."

The holy knight stopped a few inches away from you. He didn't look at the screaming crowd, and he didn't look at the proud priests. He only looked at you. He saw the dark bruises on your face, the blood dried on your split lip, and the heavy iron chains cutting into your small, delicate wrists. He saw the tears in your eyes, the very same eyes that used to look at him with so much gentle warmth.

The blank, empty look in his golden eyes suddenly cracked, shattering entirely.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his sword. The heavy silver blade dropped from his fingers, hitting the marble floor with a loud, ringing clink that instantly silenced the entire cathedral. The cheering stopped. The nobles blinked in confusion, murmuring frantically to each other.

"What are you doing?" the Head Priest hissed, his face twisting in sudden anger and confusion. "Pick up your weapon and strike the heretic down!"

The holy knight didn't listen to him. Instead, he stepped past you, turning his back to your shaking body. He placed his large, broad frame directly in front of you, completely shielding you from the view of the crowd and the priests. He became an unbreachable wall between you and the rest of the world. No one could see you anymore; they could only see him.

When he looked up at the High Priests, his expression was completely serene. He didn't look angry or vengeful. He looked deeply, beautifully at peace, as if he had just figured out a flawless plan. But his golden eyes were wide, completely dilated, and glowing with an absolute, terrifyingly blinding white light.

The air pressure in the massive cathedral dropped so fast that everyone in the room suddenly gasped for breath, clutching desperately at their throats. The heavy stone pillars began to shake, and a faint, hauntingly beautiful sound of an angelic choir began to echo through the high ceilings. It wasn't a comforting sound; it was heavy, suffocating, and terrifyingly cold.

"You told me that heresy is the act of defying the divine," the holy knight whispered. His voice was soft and gentle, yet it carried flawlessly to every single corner of the silent, terrified room, vibrating in the bones of everyone who heard it. "You told me that anything which threatens the light must be completely purified. But you fools made a terrible mistake."

He slowly turned his body back around to face you. The stoic, unshakeable hero of the empire dropped to his knees right in front of you, his heavy silver armor clattering loudly against the stone altar.

He didn't care that thousands of people were watching him ruin his perfect reputation. He reached out his hands and gently cradled your bruised cheeks. His touch was incredibly soft, but his grip was unyielding. He wouldn't let you turn your face away.

Leaning in closer, his lips brushed against your ear as the choir outside reached a deafening, terrifying crescendo. His golden eyes locked onto yours, wide, unblinking, and swirling with a dizzying, manic light.

"Look only at me," he whispered, his voice dripping with a dark, suffocating possessiveness that made your blood run completely cold. "Don't look at them. Don't listen to their screams. They touched you, so they don't deserve to exist anymore. I am going to erase all of them. I will build a new world where there is no one else left to hurt you. A world where you will never have a reason to look at anyone but me."

He slid his hands down from your face, his fingers glowing with a soft, divine warmth. He gently touched the heavy iron cuffs on your wrists. With a bright, silent flash of heat, the iron simply turned to mist, freeing you completely. He didn't want you in chains. He wanted you to willingly stay by his side because there was simply no one else left in his universe.

"You don't need these filthy things," he murmured, his voice shaking with a manic, obsessive adoration as he took your newly freed hands and pressed them against his cheeks, leaning heavily into your touch. "I will be your shield. I will be your weapon. I will do absolutely anything you ask of me, slay anyone you point your finger at, and burn every kingdom that fails to bow to you. You are my only god now."

He leaned closer, his fingers tightening around your wrists with a desperate, crushing intensity that directly contradicted his sweet tone. The manic smile on his face widened, his dilated golden eyes fixing on yours with a dark, terrifying clarity.

"I want to give you everything," he whispered against your skin, his breath hitching. "I want to let you walk wherever you please in a world I cleared just for you. But if you ever try to walk away from me... if you ever try to leave my side, I will break your legs myself. I will forge new chains out of my own light and bind you to my chest so deeply that we will never be separated again. Please don't force me to do that to you. Just stay with me willingly."

You shivered against his touch, realizing that his warmth was no longer a sanctuary. It was an absolute, blinding force of nature, and the freedom he was offering you was contingent on your total submission to his presence.

"Vanguard! Stop this madness!" the Head Priest screamed, his voice cracking as he began to step backward in absolute terror, his golden staff shaking in his hands. "You are God's chosen weapon! You cannot do this!"

The holy knight stood back up, slowly turning his glowing golden eyes toward the council of priests.

"She is my light," he breathed into your skin, his voice cracking with an intense, desperate reverence that made your blood run cold. "Every single prayer I have uttered for the last three years has been whispered to her name, not your silent, useless gods. If you declare her a heretic, then you have declared the heavens themselves a sin.”

A blinding, immaculate white glare began to bleed from his armor, so incredibly bright that it looked like the sun itself had just forced its way into the room. The intense light began to slowly spread across the marble floor like water, and the moment it touched the edges of the wooden altar and the grand banners of the church, the material simply dissolved into silent, pristine white ash.

He gave the screaming, scrambling priests a gentle, beautiful, saintly smile.

"And as the Vanguard of Light…," he murmured softly, raising his hand into the air as the blinding white glow completely consumed the entire cathedral, erasing every single shadow and turning the world to pure, silent white. "I have no choice but to purge this temple."

In this scenario:

y/n would have been baked not long before their beast parent corrupted and was still a child when they were sealed.

By the time the beasts escape, y/n is a fully grown adult, maybe even with a spouse and children of their own?

How do you think the beasts would feel about that, not only seeing their precious child again, but realising just how many milestones they missed while in the tree?

🧂 Silent Salt 

When he first lays eyes on you again, his whole body goes still. For a long, trembling moment, he doesn’t breathe.

The child he cradled, the one whose laughter once echoed in the dunes, now stands taller, wiser — an adult with eyes that no longer look to him for protection.

The pride hits first. He murmurs your name like a prayer, like it’s something he’d been repeating every day to keep from losing his sanity in the Tree.

“You’ve grown… you look so much like your mother.”

But then the grief comes crashing in. You speak to him with the calm patience of someone used to comforting others, not the wide-eyed adoration of a child — and that realization hurts him more than any wound.

When he learns you have a family of your own, the salt in his veins burns. He’s proud that you’ve lived, loved, thrived… but the possessive ache in his chest whispers: They took my place.

He doesn’t lash out — he’s too controlled for that — but there’s a quiet despair in how he starts calling you “my little knight” again, as if saying it could rewind time.

You might find him lingering outside your home, leaving small mementos of your childhood — the first carving he ever made you, a toy you once loved. He’s trying to reclaim memories that time stole.

🥛 Shadow Milk 

The reunion is messy — all tears, trembling hands, and broken laughter. He can’t stop touching your face, your shoulders, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

“You were so small… so small. How did I miss everything?”

His obsession reawakens tenfold — it’s consuming. You’re the living proof that time moved without him, that life continued while he was sealed away. It terrifies him.

He becomes clingy, following you everywhere under the excuse of “catching up.” He insists on protecting you, even though you’ve long since learned to protect yourself.

When he sees your spouse or your children, the jealousy is instant and bitter. He doesn’t hate them, but the sight of you laughing with someone else — loving them the way you once loved him — cracks something inside him.

He’ll try to involve himself in your family’s life, calling your children “my little ones” and shadowing them in the same way he once did with you. It’s protective… and unsettling.

Deep down, he knows he can’t have those lost years back — but his heart refuses to accept it.

🌶️ Burning Spice 

He’s angry when he sees you — not at you, but at time.

“They sealed me away, and the world moved on. You grew up without me… you didn’t need me.”

He paces, burns the ground, rants at the sky — until he looks at you and realizes you’re trembling. His fury vanishes in an instant. He kneels, apologizing in a voice that cracks like cooling embers.

His pride swells when he learns how strong you’ve become — how you built a family, defended others, maybe even led a life of adventure. “That’s my kid,” he mutters, almost smugly.

But every milestone you mention — every birthday, every scar, every story — feels like another dagger. He should’ve been there. He wanted to be there.

He tries to make up for it all at once: overprotective visits, constant gifts, insisting you call him whenever something happens.

He becomes that overbearing presence that loves too loudly, hugs too tightly, and can’t stop saying, “I missed you so much,” like it’ll fill the gap of decades.

🌾 Mystic Flour 

Her first reaction is disbelief. She studies you like she’s seeing an illusion. “You’re… grown?” she whispers. “No, that’s not right. You were just—”

When the truth settles in, it breaks her composure completely. Her calm expression trembles, and her magic flickers like a candle in the wind.

She’ll ask endless questions, trying to piece together the years she lost: who raised you, what you learned, what made you smile, what made you cry. She wants every fragment of your life she missed.

When she realizes you have your own family, she reacts with bittersweet grace — she smiles, but her voice wavers. “They must be wonderful… I’d like to meet them.”

In private, though, she creates small illusions of your younger self — just to remember what it felt like to hold your hand.

She doesn’t try to control your life directly, but she’ll subtly weave protective charms around your home, your children, your spouse — keeping you all safe in a web of quiet devotion.

🍬 Eternal Sugar 

The moment she sees you, she freezes mid-step, tears already gathering before she even processes what’s happening.

“My sweet one… look at you. You’re… grown?”

Her first instinct is to embrace you, to hold you like the child she lost — but when you hesitate, her heart fractures. You don’t need her anymore.

She becomes heartbreakingly clingy, trying to reinsert herself into your life like she never left. She cooks for you, brings gifts for your children, hums lullabies you no longer remember.

When she meets your spouse, she’s polite, warm even — but her eyes linger too long. She wonders if they were there when you were scared, when you needed comfort. If they got to do what she was supposed to.

Sometimes, when you’re not looking, she talks to your children as if they were you — retelling stories of “when you were small,” her voice trembling with a mix of love and grief.