#but not solely his pov

[devondespresso]

OK I NEED TO SHARE THIS FIC RIGHT NOW OR I WILL DIE

THIS. FIC. IS. FUCKING. EXCEPTIONAL.

it was a one-chapter idea that had so much good going for it that the author is expanding it into a full fic and series. it has 12 chapters out right now (total undetermined but they seem to have a lot planned) and every single one is absolute art. its also at a pretty good place right now so stopping at chapter 12 isn't cliffhanger torture or anything, it has questions unresolved and whatnot but im not falling apart at the seams from not knowing what happens next.

no im falling apart at the seams from everything thats already happened.

(this is your vague spoiler warning. im mostly warning/disclaiming shit and roleplaying a car salesman as i try to get you to give this fic a shot)

fair warning this fic is heavy. it deals with the upside down trauma and the canon-divergent trauma the author introduced so incredibly realistically that it kinda makes you realize how desensitized we are to steve getting hurt. its amazing.

also feel the need to tell you its not the type of realistic that leaves you depressed after reading thank god. its real and heavy but not demoralizing. characters cry and grieve and scream but characters also hug and comfort each other and make little jokes to lighten the mood. there are worst case scenarios and best case scenarios and you get to be with the characters in the aftermath and their healing.

the structure and pacing is really good. it centers around steve but it alternates povs to most of the other characters and gets their perspective and struggles (has switched between steve, eddie, hopper, max, lucas, dustin, nancy, wayne, b*lly, and steves mom) and that makes almost every character feel like they're a main character or at the very least really well developed.

also this is your anti-b*lly h*rgrove warning. hes 100% an irredeemable monster here so if that bothers you definitely skip this because his impact is felt every chapter. all the other characters are flawed but understandable and definitely not malicious.

and ofc read the tags and chapter notes for content warnings and such. the author tells you what areas to skip over if certain subjects bother you but some aspects (like what happened to steve and max and eddie's childhood traumas) are too integral to the story and can't be glossed over without missing plot details.

if its at all interesting to you (and its safe for you to read) please just go check out the first chapter and you'll get it. its really good.

[shiraoyagi]

hot take ??

the only reason people say that "mafuyu and tsukasa have nothing in common" when presented with mafukasa parallels is because they equate mafuyu and tsukasa being similar to "tsukasa has depression" because the fandom equates mafuyu's personality to being depressed and nothing else.

it doesn't help that people (primarily younger people in the fandom) who DO believe in mafukasa parallels end up making the mistake of portraying tsukasa as depressed because as of right now he is not (although it's possible he was in past because of his Very Unclear Middle School Backstory but that's irrelevant)

anyways, mafuyu and tsukasa are narrative foils because their core personalities are built off of the concept of wanting to make the people around them— especially their families— happy.

they both developed personalities at a young age based on someone they looked up to. for tsukasa, it was seiichi amami's performance that inspired him to be a star— a hero that could cheer anyone up. for mafuyu, it was her mother taking care of her that inspired her to be a nurse— and you can see the similarities from there.

for mafuyu, her identity would first come into conflict when her mother expressed her want for mafuyu to be a doctor— suddenly, "everyone's" happiness didn't match what she wanted to do, leaving her in a state of disorder and eventual depression.

for tsukasa, his identity was something he nearly forgot in its entirety at the start of the main story— becoming arrogant and fully absorbed in a hero persona, forgetting the kind person he truly is. furthermore, his current character arc seems to be foreshadowing that what "being a star" to him is going to be called into question— maybe it is something more than just being the main character that saves everyone.

their insecurities are incredibly similar.

in mafuyu's first mixed, mafuyu feels insecure towards ichika because unlike ichika, she feels as if her lyrics have no genuine meaning to be expressed to other people— despite them being her very real feelings. this is brought up again in her second mixed as well.

in tsukasa's third focus event, something similar happens. when watching seiichi's performance, he thinks that his acting is "real" and feels inferior towards him, which is ironic because tsukasa has been method acting this whole time. when tsukasa is acting out rio or bartlett or really anyone at this point in the story, it's not just those characters— it's a reflection of his traumas.

just like mafuyu, tsukasa undermines his passions he's poured his feelings into because someone else's work is more genuine in his eyes.

now, then, foils have many similarities and parallels (and i could honestly list a lot more), but how i define them is that they usually have some kind of major branching difference that MAKES them foils.

for mafuyu and tsukasa it's pretty straightforward.

mafuyu's people pleasing behavior comes from external expectations and pressures— her mother's demands.

tsukasa's people pleasing behavior comes internally, from himself— if he can't meet his own standards, if he can't be the perfect big brother or the perfect star, then he is nothing.

and even then, there's some overlap.

tsukasa's behavior was indirectly encouraged by his mother praising him for being a "good big brother" over the phone instead of asking him if he was okay while home alone.

mafuyu's terrified to be herself around other people because she doesn't want to worry or bother them— she doesn't want to be a burden— and projects her mother's expectations onto them, not realizing that they would prefer the real mafuyu if they knew the truth.

and the concept of mafukasa being foils is most perfectly and blatantly portrayed in these two cards.

mafuyu, the marionette, sitting limp on the floor— puppeteered by her mother's demands and donning a mask to hide her true self.

tsukasa, the jester, standing above everything else— puppeteering silenced plushies— his feelings. he's not being completely honest with himself, and he doesn't even realize it.

mafuyu has cut her strings and ripped her mask in half. she has acknowledged her true feelings and expressed them to her mother, even if she had to run away in the end.

tsukasa has not yet cut his.

[backpackingspace]

Okay so this purely applies to the odyssey. Not epic but the way odysseus's crew is so so stupid like actually the worstest people to be stuck on a boat with. Just the the most incompetent crew ever. So what if they were on odysseus's boat because they needed his personal supervision.

[sciderman]

Were Peter and Harry properly a thing? Or was it more of a spur of the moment hook-up?

in 9319? it was just two sordid nights – and sweet, sweet lingering trauma...

harry so nice, peter had to have it twice.

[fluffypotatey]

"Ignoring his own impact on wukong" owww. That got me. Fell into the same trap while reading the fic

yee that’s what hay we get with a Macky only pov :3 he is so biased and full of self loathing and projection please get therapy my guy

[pretendygood]

I started writing something I'll probably never post that was supposed to be a pretty simple s3 scenario. Not even a good one. Just had to get it out of my system you know?

Somehow all plot flew out the window immediately. It turned into "Crowley accidentally stumbles into a support system" and honestly? Thank you brain. I needed that.

[iron-sparrow]

唯 【 wéi 】 so·​le adjective

being the only one having no companion : ALONE

I grieve for you.

I draw my anger and hold it tight until my shoulders hurt and the pain sweeps over every thread of flesh in my body to burn the entire tapestry away.

My fingers peel and bleed trying to keep their grip on the rage contained between each knuckle ready to be unleashed if only I could find something — someone — to take it.

I feel the wetness in my teeth become smoke when they touch the air and rising upward to rob me of my senses, my eyes overflowing to force the taste back down between my lips like salt and bile that needs to be swallowed before I drown on it.

I wish you were here to taste it with me because maybe then I would know the sweetness buried somewhere among the ashes.

I will find you — another moment longer on this star without the simple comfort of knowing you too exist will break me into amber and bone.

I cannot be the last one left.

[spellmage]

Gort pov??

i'm so sorry i'm only just getting to this my brain is everywhere right now !! @plethomacademia also asked about this one !!

i honestly don't know what i'm going to end up doing with this fic, but so far it's been a weird experiment in getting into gortash's head a bit.

The plan was simple enough.  The Bhaalspawn had tells, hidden deep but not so far as to be untraceable. Not to him. It was just a matter of finding, understanding, and then pressing them. In the end, he was nothing more than a well-built machine, and Enver Gortash was a master at taking machines apart and putting them back together. In the end, the Bhaalspawn was no different to the clocks he’d tinkered with in his youth, and the engines he’d built in his prime. No, the method was simple. The execution, though, was a far greater pleasure. At first, the Bhaalspawn had railed against his every effort, had protected himself with one-word answers and snide remarks, had lied about his desires so boldly that it had taken everything in him not to laugh in his face.  It had become a game of sorts, to say just the right thing to rile him up, and then just the right thing to soothe, like he’d never said anything wrong in the first place. They both knew what was happening, of course, the Bhaalspawn would have been a fool if he didn’t, but the knowing did not make the game any less sweet. If anything, it was the opposite. So Enver had waited and persevered and chiselled down each sharp edge just enough to carve space for himself in his dreams, in his mind, and then, inevitably, in his body.  Making the Bhaalspawn his hadn’t been easy, but it wouldn’t have been worth it if it was.

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Surprised jayeddie isn't a bigger ship, but happy at least that Eddie probably isn't getting his tag filled with edgy batboy number 1billion

[livvyofthelake]

insufferable men in romance novels are addicteddddddd to being like “this is just casual sex so DONT expect me to be having feelings or whatever 🙄” and then they gently cradle the other lead’s face in their hands and kiss them reverently and cry. man i don’t mean to be this much of a hater but you can’t expect me to take you seriously anymore when you’ve already broken the pretty woman rules so casually… you’ve already done the most basic Romance shit and you’re STILL playing like you’re casual fwb??? what if i killed you.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Awh, Pac switching to English during his pre-QSMP chat and telling Fit chatters he'll take care of us and Ramon too if he wakes up :'))))

[sabraeal]

The Sword Between, Chapter 5

[Read on AO3]

Blue silk settles over her like an estranged acquaintance; two years ago it had fit like a second skin, but now it squeezes at the bust and requires far fewer petticoats to pad out her hips. The hem, however, settles perfectly— a finger’s breadth above the the floor, just as it always had. A terrible way to learn she hasn’t grown a single, vertical inch since seventeen. Makiri will be practically unlivable.

“Such a pretty color, my lady.” Ami’s hands smooth over the skirt, coaxing out the creases that linger at her waist. Haki is half-tempted to tell her not to bother; it’s a fabric that begs to be rumpled, the furrowing above her hips only serving as a reminder of how hands might sit there, silk wrinkled in their grip. Of how easily it might crumple beneath the slightest pressure, like petals plucked from a flower's stem.

The last time she had worn this dress, she'd been more concerned about whether her prince might find her singing voice pretty, or hear rumors of her fair face and be tempted to sneak north simply for a glimpse of it than what an enterprising young man and a willing young lady might get up to in Wilant's dark corners. But Lowen had been her age now-- older, if she does not mistake her figures, though not by much-- and more than ready to contemplate such arrangements. Had he thought of it even as he knelt before her, head bowed in deference, swearing to protect her body with his own? Had he gazed up at her with that that placid mask of his, still as a lake's surface, and felt the first ripples of--?

“His Highness will surely think it suits.”

Haki's secretive smile sours to a pout. “I look young.”

Feels young is more like it, fingering the fall of lace at her décolletage. She’d been little more than a child the last time she donned this particular frock, and it’d been a season out style even then, the seamstresses of the city unable to keep up with the rush to raise bust lines and drop hemlines and overhaul sleeves altogether. But she had been proud of this one, so unlike the other gowns father had gotten for her— practically modern and made with silk bought off Tanbarunian traders instead of salvaged from one of Mother’s old gowns. A fairy tale of a dress, a dream, and...

And she’d put it away with all the others when the first prince had made clear he was in no rush to settle down with a lady wife. Yet here she was now, trotting it out to spin another story for a child even younger than she. There was poetry in that, perhaps, even if it was only the sad kind.

“Boys like His Highness do prefer a youthful lady,” Ami muses, gaze meeting hers in the mirror. “At least, if he’s naught but sixteen, as your father’s man says.”

Haki hardly misses the stress on that— your father’s man. As if she could not lay the same word's at Ami's feet-- her father's maid, paid to make sure all of her most embarrassing escapades ended up in the duke's ear.

“A pity there’s no time to have me done up in ringlets.” Fine hairs flyaway from the loose braids behind her ears; she smooths them down. “It would have made for a much more convincing ingénue.”

Ami is not the sort to smirk or sneer, but there is a twitch at the corner of her lips, a wryness that not even her scrupulous good manners can smother. “You are hardly old enough to need tricks for that, my lady. Sir Lowen is right” —as much as she is loath to admit it now, her sigh says— “it would be little hardship to fall in love with you in this dress.”

She doubts that this prince will be moved to devotion by a frock near three years out of date or by the older woman wearing it, but she must admit-- there is some charm left to it. The blue brings out the palest shades of her eyes and complements the most honeyed tones in her hair; a far cry from the humble damsel awaiting her rescue, but a fairy tale princess nonetheless.

“One can hope,” she breathes, hand splayed over the fabric at her belly. “Or at least fair enough to inspire some foolishness.”

Ami hums; a melody that swings between agreement and agitation with every note. “Certainly more reasonable men have made themselves fools for you.”

It’s a pointed remark, for all that she can’t think of a single one. The men who frequent Wilant are friends of her father, old enough to have children her own age. Few of them spare her a glance, save if they have a son her age, though those have been few and far between since her betrothal. There are soldiers of course— guardsmen who care more about Makiri’s skill than her conversation— and servants, but none that—

“Is there anything else I’ll be needing to take care of, my lady?” Ami asks, solicitously smoothing out the lace at her shoulder. And yet her gaze fixes elsewhere in the mirror, somewhere over Haki’s shoulder. The door to the sitting room, as if she’s waiting for someone to walk through. A ridiculous worry with Lowen guarding the door. “Anything that needs an extra cleaning?”

Her gaze cuts towards where the dressing screen sits, toile covered in scenes of young ladies picnicking and small dogs running over picturesque stone ruins. There’s not a stain on it, as cream-and-teal as it was the day she’d had it brought it, hoping that it might help keep the heat in around her—

Her bed. A pertinent question for a maid to ask after she had been sent away for the night, assured that there would be another set of hands to help her charge undress. Who had only seen a rumpled mess of sheets when she arrived in the morning, fire lit by an expert’s hands. And now with whatever she had seen in the hall…

Well, if she had thought her reflection young before, her flush makes it positively childish now. “N-no. There’s no need to—”

It’s mortifying to try to put the night into words. How close she had trod to impropriety, only to be rebuffed. How sure she was of his interest even so, only for yet another prince to put himself between them. Oh, if that Bergatt boy put himself before her right now and asked if she would like to see the end of the Wisteria reign, she could hardly be responsible for the answer she might give.

A practiced breath draws her upright, shoulders square as her father had taught her— you are my daughter, he would grunt, holding them straight in his hands, there are few to whom you must bow, and none to whom you must bend. It is not a sweet young princess that looks back at her in the mirror, but a lady of the North, ready to defend her walls.

“There is nothing with which you must concern yourself with,” she says with all the ice her blood can summon. “I think you will find your hands full already, trying to find more dresses that will please His Highness during his stay.”

“As you say, my lady.” Ami bows her head, as a servant ought, but it does little to conceal her smile— or her relief. “Though I’m sure there will be quite a few, if I look among some of your older wardrobe.”

It takes a concerted effort not to grimace. She too had been a more whimsical girl once, as taken with fairy stories as she was with the old lays, dreaming of knights and their ladies. Of princes disguised and true love’s kiss. “They will need to be retrimmed.”

“Of course.” There’s a fondness as Ami lays her hand on a trunk, a wistfulness Haki cannot quite understand. “I’ll see to it.”

“Good.” She steps down from the mirror with a sigh, her dress rustling after her like leaves in the underbrush. “I’ll need all the help I can get.”

*

Lowen is on his feet when she sweeps into the parlor. Odd; for all his much vaunted skill in the ring— a beast with a blade in his hand, Makiri had always told her, like he’s fighting for his life— her guardsman always seemed more apt to lounge than lunge outside it. And yet as he stands there, attention drawn to the angle of her entrance, his weight shifts in a way that implies movement rather than repose.

“Come.” It would be simple to brush too close as she passes him, to let their eyes meet in a gaze so heavy it might well be a caress, but she bustles past instead, careful to keep even the barest hint of ruffle from slipping over his boots. “My father calls.”

It is not until her toes cross the carpet’s edge that she realizes their are no footfalls behind her, that Lowen has not fallen into step, using that rangy stride of his to eat up the distance between them. No, when she glances over her shoulder, he is still where she last left him, hands curled to fists at his side.

“Sir.” There is a layer of reproach as she speaks, covering the concern beneath it. “He is waiting.”

His fingers twitch, the barest flinch. “Are you certain?”

Haki does not turn to him— that would be a concession too far, a confession with a dearer cost than she can afford— but her shoulder does lower. “That Father waits?”

“No.” Lowen hardly allows a thought to stray across his face, let alone wears his heart on his sleeve, but there is something that lurk beneath the gaze he fixes on her, a castigation and a plea all in one. “That it is wise to bring me.”

A princess does not allow her mouth to thin, does not let her eyebrows angle to imply impatience; a good thing, then, that Haki is not one yet.

“Sir, if there is anything that I am certain of, it is that.” She shifts— not a ceding of ground, but a firming of resolve. A planting of her feet, gaining better leverage to yank on his leash. “Come. You would not have your lady go to battle without her knight.”

Still, he remains unmoved. Not even the barest sway to show he’s heard her.

“Is that what this is?” he says after a long moment. “A battle?”

Her mouth works for a moment, uncertain. “What else can it be? If my father were to bend any more…”

Then the North would be broken. On one side would be the ones who still clung to Father’s prudence, who would see profit in playing Wistal’s games, and on the other—

Well, it had been said once that the stones between Wilant and Oriold would never wash clean. That even now, when the snows melt, the side of the roads run red. The lords of the North may play at civility now, nodding at the southern court’s fashion of love and courtly graces, but that only hides the histories written with bloodied hands.

Lowen breathes, eyes fluttering shut as he takes it in, but when they open—

There is steel there. A resolve that does not waver. “Then let us go to battle, my lady.”

*

She is too aware of Lowen as they make their way through Wilant’s halls; aware of how his gaze lingers on her, tracing the fall of lace along her collar and dragging down the silken curve of her waist. Aware of the space between them, just enough for an arm to reach across and grab, for the inches to disappear between them and to finally finish the conversation Ami had so unfortunately interrupted.

It’s tempting to turn, to catch his eyes and invite the sort of resolution it would bring. But even though his stare burns hot enough to catch her alight, he does not speak. Not a single word to draw her attention, not a single brush of skin against skin to call her to him. Although her legs tremble effort with the effort to keep putting one slipper in front of the other and her neck aches from keeping it angled straight ahead, he does not stop her, not once.

It is too important, she realizes. For all that she wants to clutch at Lowen’s shoulders and ask just what thought churn behind that stare of his, it is a distraction she can ill afford. Her father’s plans are balanced on a blade’s edge, and it is her who decides which way their fortunes tip.

She will not disappoint him.

It is still Arleon guards on the door to the great hall, and they move aside before she even utters, “My father is expecting me.”

A single step inside is enough to know why: the prince’s party has already arrived. Still covered in the dust from the road by the looks of it, harried and eager to be shown to the privacy of their chambers. By the wary angle of the royal guards’ shoulders, Father and Makiri have resorted to thin excuses to keep them here. Waiting for her.

With a steeling breath, she nods to the footman at the door. “Lady Haki,” he announces, the slightest tremble in his voice. He’s not used to such esteemed visitors, it seems. “First daughter of his lordship, the Duke Arleon.”

If she thought she might have trouble picking out the prince from among all this white and blue and broad shoulders, she is saved the trouble; his party drops to show the deference due to a duke’s daughter, leaving only a single one of them on his feet.

The queen consort had sent her a gift once, during the months in which her father and the king dickered over the finer points of her betrothal of the first prince— a miniature, done fully in oils, of Izana himself. Long engagements may be prudent, she had written in her elegant hand, letters looping across the page, but they often are lonely. Let this satisfy both your company and your curiosity.

He could not have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen when he had sat for the portrait, but even so, there was a gravity to that narrow face, a piercing quality to the deepness in his eyes. A regal tilt to his pointed chin, a knowing that lingered in this corners of his mouth; strangely serious for a prince who would become more known for parties than policy. Not yet a man, but she could see the one he would make once the last of childhood was stripped from his cheeks.

What they have sent her now is hardly more than a child.

His brother’s portrait might have hinted at manhood, but this boy— his face is still round, baby fat still clinging stubbornly to his bones. Perhaps there is a threat of a heavy jaw lingering there, a promise of something masculine and square opposed to Izana’s more feminine angles, but it is impossible to tell beneath those full cheeks, flushed and flawless as a doll’s. His hair is cut the same way of his brother’s, but instead of falling with a stately sort of grace across his forehead, it is a dandelion’s tuft, baby-fine and untamed.

“Ah, Your Highness.” Father’s gaze holds hers for a long moment before it drops to the would-be heir,  meeting his wide eyes with no hint of his displeasure. “You have yet to meet the reason for all our celebration, I assume. Haki” — his hand sweeps out, beckoning— “come. Greet our honored guest.”

She doesn’t not so much walk as float down the runner of the Great Hall, skirts swaying as if it is only clouds that ruffle their hem, not carpet. It takes hours of practice to turn that which is earthly to the ethereal, but Haki had long shouldered every ache and tumble in the name of causing her prodigal husband to swallow his tongue at the altar.

There is something far less satisfying about inspiring the same reaction in his brother. “It is an honor that you have come for so humble an occasion, Your Highness.”

“Of course.” His voice is reedy, not quite finished changing even if she can hear the man in it. It breaks at her flawless curtsy, flustered. “I mean, the honor is mine. It is hardly every day that we can celebrate such a fine young lady becoming a woman.”

It’s the sort of thing a fond uncle might say, not a boy four years her junior, but Haki smiles nonetheless, hoping it does not sit as stiff as it feels. “You are too kind, sir.”

“Not at all,” he insists with a graciousness that would seem more natural on a man three times his age. “It is its own sort of accomplishment. To be, er…”

“Twenty.” When Makiri smiles it is all teeth, a wolf scenting blood on the snow. “That’s how old my sister is. Old enough to get married now, according to your southerners, isn’t it?”

The prince is too earnest— and his skin far too pale— to cover the flush that blooms up his neck, painting him pink from collar to brow. “T-that is true. But, erm…” His gaze casts about, trying to find a safe place to perch. “Ah, b-but I haven’t yet introduced my party. Sirs…?”

One of the men rises— dark hair shorn short enough that she can see a neck as brown as a laborer’s, far from the lily white of the noble son knelt beside him. He unfurls to a startling height with the same lassitude as the castle’s cats, as if he was only ever on his knees because it pleased him to do so. There’s a cant to his mouth that only supports the implication, but when she raises her eyes to meet his eyes—

She flinches. There’s a scar there— a gouge, badly healed, that stretches from cheek to cheek.

“Sir Zakura Shidnote, my lords— and lady.” He nods at her, mouth tilting toward a smirk. “Lately of the Royal Knight’s Circle. And this is Sir Michel” — his hand cuts toward the noble son getting to his feet, a boy just about Makiri’s age, though he carries it better— “one of the more promising squires from our last bout of new blood.”

“I’m a knight, really,” the young man insists, pushing back the hair that’s flopped over his eyes. “Though I am, ah…new, my lord.”

“Just earned your accolades, is it?” Father may not be a man of smiles, but his eyes crinkle at the corners, warm. “My son—”

“Earned them two year ago,” Makiri interjects acidly, brows bent in his most surly scowl. As if that would help him look any older than his scant years.

Practically a veteran, she almost says, but there is not enough wide-eyed sincerity in her to cover the bite. As much as she might like to tease, she hardly needs to be reminded: they are not among friends.

“Just so.” Father squints the way he does at their accounts, tallying up the men before him. “Did you not have another man in your party?”

“Ah, yes, Sir Mitsuhide.” The prince's mouth pulls thin before he recollects himself, grimace turning to boyish grin. “My apologies, I had hoped for all of us to be here to greet you, but time was short, and there was an issue with our…baggage. We left him to sort it out with your staff.”

Father’s mouth turns stern. “Then should it not be I who apologies to you, Your Highness? If there was some issue, then surely—”

“Ah, no no! This was, er…our fault,” His Highness insists, oddly guilty. “I’m afraid my mother insisted on one last gift, even after all the carriages had been packed tight! It changed…quite a lot of our travel plans.”

“I see,” Father murmurs, though it’s quite clear he does not. He is not a man of last-minute anythings, let alone travel plans.

“But he will be here for the formal reception, of course!” The prince smiles, bright. “He wouldn’t miss it— he’s a northerner, trained at your very own Sereg.”

“Sereg.” Now her brother straightens in his seat, an excited sheen in his eyes. “So he’s skilled, then?”

“Some,” Sir Zakura drawls, a corner of his mouth creeping up his cheek. “Enough that the king requested him by name.”

“By name…?” Now it is her father who leans in, brow furrowed. “You cannot mean— Mitsuhide Lowen?”

The prince nods, pleased. “The very same.”

“I’ll be damned.” Father settles back in his seat. “I nearly asked him here, before His Majesty snapped him up. He was one of Sereg’s finest swords. ”

Sir Zakura smirks. “And now he is one of Wistal’s.”

“Lowen?” Haki keeps her voice low, pitched for only her and her shadow to hear. It's a curious coincidence, considering how closely her knight has always played his card to the chest. “Is there any relation to…?”

Her chin tilts, hoping to catch his eye-- or at least the angle of his mouth, but--

But when she slants her eyes to his usual place at her shoulder, there is nothing behind her but empty air.

[yakny]

Try to hide your hand, forget how to feel Life is gone with just a spin of the wheel

[samglyph]

Realizing there’s probably only a week or so till the new malevolent drops. Hooo boy. I’m still jumping between a John pov episode or a dark world arc. Who knows. Could be neither. Will kayne be there? If he isn’t I’m reblogging the meanwhile image again. Every episode kayne isn’t in the podcast that image is canon.

[lavellane]

if maric theirin has a million haters then i am one of them. if maric theirin has ten haters then I am one of them. if maric theirin has only one hater then that is me. if maric theirin has no haters then that means I am no longer on earth

[familyofpaladins]

okay so I came up with this idea long before season 4. Possibly after I first watched the show (which was after season 2). And while its aleady poven wrong, theres a couple things I want to add to theories about what's happening in season 4, but i will put those thoughts (and any season 4 spoilers) under a cut. But the rest you can read as a story idea or au if you want

(Also, sorry for typos and lack of capitalizing, I typed it in a note app first and it doesnt automatically capitalize new sentences)

ok ok so this idea is basically MK is a stone egg baby kinda based on the idea of hatching an egg under a toad makes a basilisk, but if you sit a mystic monkey on a rock and have him wish for a successor he hatches one ANYWAY idk if this stone is already magic or not. but wukong sits on a stone on a mountain near the city and looks over the city. he admires the view and kinda wishes how he had someone to spend it with. but also he's lonely and maybe is kinda preparing to end his immortality. but he doesnt want to leave the city/world unprotected, and that maybe he could train someone to take over for him. but this is all just a passing thought! he barely even realizes that he thought it! he turns into a bird and flies back to ffm little does he know that in his thinking, some of his magic was absorbed by the stone. but that alone isnt enough to hatch a baby.

the stone sits on a hiking trail. A hiking trail that a certain pig likes to hike when he needs to get out some of his frustration when it's been a bad day in the noodle shop. He likes to sit on the nice big stone and look at the city. He can see his shop from here and he knows no matter how bad a day he had, the shop is worth it. And maybe he thinks about how the building had been passed down through his family, but who was he going to give it to? (not that he's anywhere near old enough to give up the shop, but… he didnt have any family.) hmmm maybe he should hire some help? hmm other places deliver. maybe he could get someone to do that? absent thoughts, and relief gained, the pig continues home. none the wisher that the stone has taken in his thoughts and wishes

And maybe the pig comes back on the trail with a scholar to show him the view, and maybe the scholar complains about his ankles and asks to sit down. and maybe he starts to tell stories of the Monkey King and maybe the pig is a little less than attentive , and the scholar wishes for someone who enjoys the tales as much as he does. And after they finish enjoying the sunset they continue on their way. none the wiser to the stone that holds warmth from more than just the setting sun.

More people come and sit on the stone to look at the beauty of the city and bask in its warmth. A couple with their baby daughter who has too much energy for their house of collections. A big blue guy who is trying to cool his temper by going on hikes and befriending the wildlife. and maybe they all come back at various times. and they sit on the stone.

And the stone has been storing their energy and wants and desires until one day

one day the pig is hiking to his favorite spot. but before he gets there he finds a little lost child on the path. who would just leave a child on the trail?? he takes the child back to the city. no parents are ever found and well, they've gotten a little attached to each other. it's not for another couple months that he has a chance to go back to the trail and is very disappointed that his favorite spot to sit is no longer there. (who moves a stone?!)

As for the monkey king. maybe he senses something (but doesnt know what exactly) when the stone hatched. or maybe he's observing the city again when he's drawn to a noodle shop. Inside he sees the pig and the scholar and a child. He thinks what ever he sensed was the pig and scholar, since they so closely resemble his old companions. However the child steals his attention as he climbs the stool onto the counter to swipe the noodles from a bowl with out the other two noticing at all. the King finds the kid amusing and decides to check in on him anytime he decides the visit the city. and finds he does so more and more often and the kid reminds him of himself.

And as the years go on, he thinks that maybe just maybe, he could retire and this kid could be his successor. yeah, that seems like a good plan! the kid was just like him, but also better. who better to give his powers to?

SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 BELOW

okay. so obviously this idea is wrong firstly in that in canon MK's stone came from Moneky King's stone, whereas my idea had it be a completely different stone.

Canon also makes it seem like someone deliberately made MK. But I do wonder if the person or whoever or whatever realized what they were doing though, and didnt realize they succeeded and that's why MK was able to just wander up to Pigsy's shop. Maybe. Idk

I DO THINK that the whole reason Monkey King started watching Mk was because he sensed Something about the kid (even if he didnt consciously realise it or pinpoint what exactly he was sensing) and decided to keep watching him. And after a while decided that if anyone would be his successor it should be this kid! (Genuinely unaware of the link they share)