Jun 12, 2025
“but i would’ve felt him go,” oh chaghan
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“but i would’ve felt him go,” oh chaghan
drowning in your bloody ashes (take me back, ignite me, consume me whole)
A/N: rinzha angst - takes place several months after the burning god, is in Nezha's perspective
word count: 1519
trigger warnings: implications of death, loss of loved one, self harm, self harm scars, death, mentions of war, mentions of dying
✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
He calls her name every night in his dreams, searching for her amongst the vivid flames.
Rin, he calls, over and over again.
Rin. Rin. Rin.
Every night, he catches a glimpse of dark, choppy hair. Every night, he catches sight of wide, crimson eyes.
Rin, he calls again, and she turns towards him, lips curving upwards in that smile that he loves so very much.
She beckons him closer, and he hurries forth, arms outstretched like a child to his mother.
I missed you, he murmurs as his arms wrap around her, holding her close.
She smiles wider, but her body is cold within his embrace, and when he pulls away, blood dribbles from her lips.
I missed you too, she whispers, and drives a knife through his neck.
。 。 。
It's been months, and whenever he sees the colour red, he still aches.
He misses her, and he hates it. Something within him twists when she crosses his mind, and although he will never admit it, he swallows back his tears every time. Something within him dies every time he does; the boy who was bested in a sparring ring wouldn't do that. The boy who laughed at her wouldn't hold back his tears once in private. The boy who she knew would never forget the strength in softness.
But the boy she left behind would.
"You can't do this for me," he had once said, as they stood face to face for the last time. His eyes had filled with panic, but he hadn't tried to hide it. No matter how much he tried to hide from her, he knew she would always see through him. "I won't let you."
Her slow smile, filled with pity and sorrow and cruelty, would haunt his dreams for weeks.
"It's not for you," she had replied. "It's not a favour."
"It's the cruelest thing I could do."
He realised the truth in her words heartbeats later, but by then crimson had spread across the sand and she had already taken her last breath.
。 。 。
Sometimes, when the sky is filled with the rising sun and he has still not slept, he hates that he misses her.
He knows that it is futile. Pleading with her did not save her; hating her will not bring her back. Yet in the gentle gold of sunlight, its rays a soft twin to her brilliant, raging flames, he hates that he still loves her; he hates that he never told her, that she already knew, that she left before they could even try.
He hates the fact that that they would never have worked with every inch of his being.
Perhaps, more than anything, he hates himself. He hates that he held the blade to her neck, but he hates that he couldn't stop even more. He hates that he misses her, that he can't help it, that he is drowning in his grief, but even more that some twisted part of him loves the darkness of it all.
He hates that after all this time, she still terrifies him, and he still loves her so much that it hurts.
。 。 。
"Ruin me, ruin us, and I'll let you," she had told him.
Like a fool, he had.
He had promised himself in that moment that he would not miss her. He had promised himself that he would let his hatred win out against his love, that time would heal the gaping hole she had left in the world, that her flames would be snuffed out by the wind if his water could not diminish them. Missing her was pointless, he tells himself. She handed him the victory of their war on a silver platter, even laid his hands on the hilt of her blade to place on her neck, guided his hands to make the killing blow.
But how can he not, when she is everywhere he goes? He sees her in the hallways, in the flickering flames of lanterns; he sees her in the stillness, in the darkness, in his reflection in the water; he sees her in the sparring room, the barracks, the sound of her footsteps echoing through his ears.
He sees her in the darkness of the night when he ventures out onto the water alone, and when he feels her ghostly hands on his shoulders, he cries yet again.
She is everywhere she should not be. She is everywhere she has ever been.
She is everywhere she can never be again.
。 。 。
His wounds do not heal with time. Instead, they rot, the flesh festering, decay darkening their edges; they soak in his grief, their edges still raw and torn.
Sometimes, when he hopes no one is watching, he tears them open a little more.
He knows that he is doing is wrong, and yet he cannot stop. Memories come in tidal waves; they sweep through him in storms, in tempests, in swirling, uncontrollable bursts, and what can he do to help himself? The president of Nikara cannot show weakness - not when they have earned their independence through blood and war and endless sacrifice.
He cannot afford to weaken now after all that she gave.
But the pain comes, without fail, unrelenting; eventually, it snakes across his skin in thin, slanting scars.
He remembers the small puckered scars marring the skin on her arms, the jagged lines running across her back, and he wonders if his own pale in comparison. Hers are battle scars, trophies of her work - his are an embarrassment, signs of guilt and struggle.
Even in death, every part of him is diminished in the face of her brilliance, and like a moth drawn to a flame, he still cannot pull away.
。 。 。
One night, alone by the water's edge as the moon watches from above, he realises that she will never truly age.
His own hair is greying at the temples now, crows feet marking the corners of his eyes, and something about it all feels so very bizarre. It fascinates him, that life itself is a paradox; that living is also the process of dying, that ageing is a sign of the approach of death, that once you die you become immortalised within the minds of others.
Her body is nothing but rot in the ground, and yet she will be remembered as a young woman forever.
Perhaps that is not right. She was something so much worse than a woman; something darker, twisted, crowned by a hatred so crushingly deep that he could see it in her eyes.
And yet he remembers a time before the hatred had settled into her soul.
He remembers a laugh, sharp and too quick, as if it had been torn out of her against her will. He remembers a smile, fleeting yet bright in the morning sunlight; a shooting star, gone far too soon. He remembers eyes tilted at the edges, crescent moons of happiness glimmering with unspoken contentment.
He remembers all the versions of her that he has ever known, and he loves her wholly regardless.
He loves the irises that shifted from mahogany to crimson, markers of her newfound strength. He loves her smile while dimples still winked at the corners of her mouth and when they faded, her smiles rare and rougher, bitter at the edges. He loves her battle scars, the candle-wax burns, the stump of her missing hand; they are imperfections, but in his eyes, they are perfect.
And yet she is so very far from perfect.
She was something that parents warned their children to avoid; to never grow up to be, to strive for something the opposite of her image, and yet something some yearned to be anyway. She was something whispered about around campfires, told about in legends and horror stories, prayers whispered to her and about her.
She was a hero and a monster, but perhaps she was neither.
Perhaps she was merely what happened when you gave a broken soul power.
。 。 。
He realises, as he lies on his deathbed, that she has never truly left him.
She has always been with him, carried in the parts of his world that he had scorned before. Her voice echoes through the hallways; her face greets him in his dreams. He whispers her name every night, just once, to make sure that he will not forget her.
Rin, he whispers once more, the word as sacred and hated as the Phoenix had been to her.
Rin. Rin. Rin.
He has never forgotten her. Not for a single, lonely moment.
And when his last breath rattles through his old, weary bones, his lips curve upwards.
Because finally, at long last, he sees his Speerly.
Her eyes tilt upwards at the edges, crimson crescent-moons of silent happiness, and within her eyes he sees not the man he had become, but the boy she left behind.
He feels his heart lift, hope racing through his veins, and he says it one more time just to be sure.
"Rin?"
Her lips curve upwards into that smile that he loves so much, and he hurries forth into her arms, like a child to his mother.
"I missed you," he murmurs as his arms wrap around her, holding her close.
This time, she is unarmed.
This time, she hugs him back.
"I missed you too," she whispers, and he smiles the widest he ever has since crimson had spread across the pale sand.
JIANG ZIYA: Master of Lore, The Gatekeeper
Fang Runin🔥
I never posted about rin so HERE WE GOOOO also I am a mega simp for her ✋Instagram is giving me no justice so I'm posting here to show this sexy piece. Damn also Nezha is trashy in the end of tdr 🚶♀️
“𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞?” 𝐃𝐚𝐣𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬. “𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤.”
𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐱.
-
𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐱, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝. 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲.
We've been reading and discussing our way through The Poppy War by @kuangrf on the podcast! Tune in on any streaming platform and catch up! . . . . . . . #thepoppywar #fangrunin #rin #thephoenix #speerly #podcastlife #bookworm #bookquote #bookish #bookpodcast #podcasting #podcaster #podcastersofinstagram #newepisode #rfkuang #nerdpocast #geekpodcast #thenaptimepod #quote #wordart (at Grand Rapids, Michigan) https://www.instagram.com/p/BumzVsMh4tv/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=omivrjhs18q5