#but once you do i will hold a grudge for the rest of eternity

[quitealotofsodapop]

Speaking of family is the rest of Macaque's sworn family gonna be just as pissed at Macaque like Iron Fan in this version of century egg?

In short; YES.

Tieshan is quick to try to kill Macaque when she sees him next.

The rest of his sworn family are just as angry at him.

Whilst Chang'e may forgive Macaque for not knowing about the First Egg when he did, she is certainly grilling him for going on the offensive instead of actually talking it out with Wukong on the Journey. All Macaque ended up doing by trying to hijack the Journey is separate him from Wukong for over 13 centuries, and leaving him with breaks in his heart that are unlikely to heal.

Jiuweihuli only let Macaque crash on her couch because by Buddha she thought she lost her son when he had died. The knowledge that he was responsible for the loss of Wukong's First Egg was tragic sure, but the Vixen could sense that her protégé wouldn't have done something so stupid had he had known of the pregnancy. When she learns that he's willing to bind himself with the Circlet just to have a fighting chance to say he's sorry, the old fox is quick to rush over and embrace him. The fact that Wukong is technically her son-in-law unnerves her a bit - he did kill her, her boys and brother once on the Journey. But she's quick to enter Grandmama-mode when she realises that Macaque only gathered the power to come back because he learned of the Second Egg! Wukong tries to tell the Vixen it's no big-deal, but he doesn't turn away the peach offerings of apricots and baby clothes she leaves on FFM for him.

And since a certain white celestial fox used to roll with a certain tigress, the reunion after the coup is a bit surprising.

Jiuweihuli: "Xī Hǔ!" Xiwangmu: "Bái Hú!!"

The two ancient women are ecstatic to see one another again, their sisterly friendship torn by the chaos caused by Su Daji during the Investiture Crisis. This fact may soften Xiwangmu's opinion of Macaque just a little, but she's still a woman that keeps a grudge.

Xiwangmu: "But darling, why are you here now of all times?" Jiuweihuli: "I heard that my idiot sworn son did something stupid again, and nearly died taking care of that Bone Demon he brokered with." Xiwangmu: "Wait you don't mean-?!" Jin & Yin: (*pop into the scene holding Macaque like he's been captured*) "Hi mum!" "We found 'im!" Macaque: "Hello madam." Xiwangmu, gasping with delight/disbelief: "No!" Jiuweihuli: "I know! After all that horridness he did during the Journey, somehow he nearly outdid himself by getting revived by that demoness. I mean really, son? I knew some very good necromancers that could have solved the whole issue if you had asked." Macaque: "Hard to do when I was in a pitch-black infernal void." Xiwangmu: "Don't talk back to your mother, mister. Son-in-law or not, if you even say a cross word about my grandson again, you'll be cleaning the imperial toilets for the rest of eternity!" Jiuweihuli: "Grandson?" Xiwangmu: "It's a very long story, dear. You must stay for tea so I can explain everything." Jiuweihuli: "Of course! I already intended to stay a while so I could see my son-in-law! I brought plenty of goodies for the new kit." (*turns to the twins*) "Boys, untie your brother." Jin & Yin: (*disappointed groans*) "Never get to have fun."

The twins really want to beat up Macaque, but they settle for harassing and pranking him for now. Especially when knowledge of Macaque's own twin eggs gets out - Jin and Yin were messing around in Lao Tzu's office when they found the super-confidential paperwork of their bro's vitals taken after LBD's defeat.

[higanbana-writer]

Wavering Gaze

Pairing: Kyōjurō x Gn!Upper Moon!Reader Prompt: [Soulmate AU where one of your eyes is the same color as your soulmate’s.] Kyōjurō has finally met his soulmate. But what was he supposed to do when you're an Upper Moon and he, a Hashira? C/N: Just Shinjurō being an ass during his brief screentime. A/N: Hoo boy. I was originally going to just make this a two part series, but I got a bit carried away and the 'second' part ended up being waaaay too long. So, three parts it is! Part: 1, 2, 3 (coming soon)

“Follow your heart, Kyōjurō.”

Those had been his mother’s last words to him and Kyōjurō knew that she’d been referring to his soulmate. How could he not? Though he had been but a mere child then, he could still notice all the grief his mismatched eyes caused his parents – namely his father. He saw how often Shinjurō would cast subtle glances at the eyepatch that hid his soulmate’s eye from the world. A conflicted expression would always rest upon his face whenever he did so, although Kyōjurō could never tell what exactly lay behind it. And he noticed it, how often his father would remind him more than he did with Senjurō, that demons were the enemy who preyed on the innocent and deserved no mercy. But he didn’t mind the extra reminders, always wholeheartedly agreeing with him.  

So, why had his mother left him with those final words? He’d always clearly expressed that he had every intention of following in his father’s footsteps to become the next Flame Hashira, and in doing so, rejected the very notion of his soulmate. Every time he picked up his practice sword to train, with the sole goal of being able to protect the weak, he was following his heart. Not once had he wavered over what he should be doing. So…why? He had puzzled over her words for the longest times.

He never harbored any grievances towards the fact that his soulmate was an Upper Moon. Sure, hiding his eye all the time was a bit tiring and troublesome, but it wasn’t your fault. After all, it hadn’t been as if you’d specifically picked him to be your soulmate. And it weren’t as if you had caused him or his family any harm. He had absolutely no reason to hold any personal grudges against you.

As a matter of fact, even though he’d see your eye reflected back at him on the occasions that he’d take off his eyepatch and gaze into the mirror, he always felt a strange sort of detachment. To him, you were simply a demon whom had taken many lives and needed to be killed for the future safety of many others. Perhaps your eternal life would be ended by a demon slayer before the two of you would ever meet, or perhaps Kyōjurō himself would be the one to end you. Soulmate or not, it was his duty to protect all the precious human lives out there from the likes of your kind.

At least, that’s what he’d told himself throughout his entire life. And yet, as you stood there before him, hesitant but captivating smile on your lips, all of that shattered into tiny pieces.

Kyōjurō had wondered from time to time about what you would look like, but never did he expect you to be so enchanting. Everything about you was perfect. Were you truly a demon? It seemed more fitting to call you a celestial being.

He stared at you with a wide eye, the right words to say completely eluding him. Then, all of a sudden, an intense heat flashed through his left eye. Though it was an extremely strange sensation, it was far from unpleasant. Still, he brought his hand up to his eyepatch out of reflex and you, almost simultaneously, did the same while lowering your head.

When you looked back up at him a few seconds later, hand dropping away from your face, he inhaled sharply at what he saw. Your eyes, which had appeared as those of a human mere moments ago, had now reverted back to their original demonic look, unnaturally vibrant with kanji etched across them. It felt so odd, seeing the eye that had been his since birth returned back to its rightful owner. However, the thing that shocked him most was the rank displayed on your right eye.

Three?!

Out of all the Upper Moons, his soulmate had to be rank three. That meant that as of the current moment, he had the fourth strongest demon in the entire country standing right in front of him.

“Is…Is something wrong…?” You hesitantly asked, not seeming to realize what had happened, but certainly noticing the way he was looking at you.

“Your eyes are, uh…” Still reeling from the shock, Kyōjurō wasn’t quite sure what to say. He tapped a finger against his eyepatch, “I can see your rank.”

Panic flitted over your face at his words and you immediately turned your face away. The next time you look at him, your eyes were back to their human appearance. The two of you stared at each other in silence, each trying to guess the other’s thoughts and waiting for them to speak first. Well, this was turning out to be one very awkward first meeting between soulmates.

“I, err… I apologize that you had to see that?” You ended up being the one to speak first, though you sounded completely uncertain about your own words.

Were you really Upper Moon Three? Were you really a demon that had killed numerous people? Your entire demeanor seemed so… So human-like. Looking at you, all he saw was someone elated at finally meeting their soulmate, someone who wanted to create a good impression and yet was nervous about making a blunder, someone who feared that their soulmate would reject them. All of those were emotions Kyōjurō would attribute to a human, not a demon. He couldn’t even sense a hint of malice from you.

But the memory of the kanji engraved across your eyes flashed through his mind, proving to be a harsh reminder that he couldn’t afford to let his guard down around you. Though he intended to question you about your motives behind acting so docile, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so when he saw your hopeful expression. Quietly clearing his throat, Kyōjurō gave you the brightest smile he could muster. “Come on now, you shouldn’t be apologizing during our first meeting! Besides, you have absolutely no reason to do so in the first place, especially since it was effect of our soulmate bond.”

Your face lit up at his positive response and in that moment, his heart melted. He watched as your gaze then drifted past him, trained on a large, noisy group of people passing by. Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly in annoyance and though he found that simple action to be strangely alluring, he couldn’t help but feel alarmed for their safety. You were a demon after all. Who knew what you were capable of? His hand tensed, ready to draw his katana if needed.

Much to his relief, however, you eventually looked back at him and suggested, “Shall we go to some place quieter, er…?” Trailing off, you tilted your head with a questioning gaze.

It was then that he realized he had yet to give you his name, and you yours. “Ah, I am Kyōjurō Rengoku, the Flame Hashira.” He gave a slight bow as he introduced himself, not missing the way your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Since he knew what rank you were as an Upper Moon, he thought it fair to let you be aware of his position in the Demon Slayer Corps. And if this piece of information changed the way you viewed him – such as being a threat that needed to be eradicated immediately, soulmate bond be damned – then it would be better to get it out in the open now, rather than later.

After a moment, you simply mirrored his bow and said, “It’s such a delight to finally meet you, Kyōjurō. You can call me [Name]. As you might have noticed earlier, I'm Upper Moon Three.”

No surname, he noted. Then again, none of the demons he had encountered before seemed to have one either.

“Well then, [Name]. Shall we?” Kyōjurō extended his hand towards you and upon seeing your puzzled expression, added, “Since it’s very crowded around here, we should try to avoid losing each other.” If neither of you intended to kill each other at that moment, then it would only be proper to behave as a gentleman towards his soulmate.

“Of course, if you’re not comfortable with that, then…”

As he began to withdraw his hand, you hurriedly grabbed it. “No no! It’s a good idea.” Your skin felt cool against his own and though you seemed slightly flustered by his sudden suggestion, you also appeared quite thrilled.

Thus, the two of you set off through the heart of the city, remaining hand-in-hand while scouring for a decent place to rest and talk at. Eventually coming upon a teashop with few costumers – which you had pointed out – it was settled between you both to go there.

So there he was, sitting across the table from you with a cup of tea in his hands. You had gotten one for yourself too – much to Kyōjurō’s surprise, as he thought demons were unable to consume human food or drinks. However, whenever you brought your cup up to your mouth, you simply wetted your lips instead of actually drinking the tea. Was this your way of trying to be considerate and make him feel more at ease? Well, he was probably getting ahead of himself, but it certainly made for an unexpected and rather heartwarming thought.

Neither of you spoke for a while, simply taking in each other’s appearance. And then, with your gaze lingering on his uniform, you asked, “Were you in the middle of working?”

Kyōjurō shook his head, taking a sip of tea before replying, “I had actually just finished a mission before we met.”

“Ah, I see…” You pursed your lips, not sure of how else to respond. It must have felt odd for you, hearing a demon slayer – and a Hashira, no less – talk about killing your brethren through a calm conversation over tea. Shifting uncomfortably, you then brought up your next question. “Do you intend to fight me?”

He raised an eyebrow, finding your choice of words interesting. Do you intend to fight me, instead of, do you intend to kill me. Were you implying that you believed yourself to be much stronger than him, therefore there was absolutely no chance that he would be able to kill you? Well, he may have been a mere human, but he was by no means weak.

Although his answer should have been an instant ‘Of course!’, he instead shook his head once more, gripping his cup tightly as he answered, “…Not for now, no.”

Guilt had begun to grip his heart before he’d even finished his sentence. Just saying those four words were like a betrayal to everyone he knew: his mother, father, brother, master, fellow Hashiras, the rest of the Demon Slayer Corps, as well as all of its fallen members. And more importantly, by not killing you the very instant he'd met you, he had turned his back on his position as a Hashira and condemned innocent people to die by your hands in the future. Kyōjurō knew all of this and yet, somehow, for some reason unknown to himself, he couldn’t quite bring himself to kill you.

Clenching his jaw, he didn’t realize just how much strength he’d been putting into holding his cup until it shattered, hot tea spilling over his hands. You gasped, immediately reaching over the table and using your sleeves to wipe the liquid off his skin.

“They’re red.” With a concerned tone and a knitted brow, you carefully took his hands into your own and examined them. “It looks like you didn’t cut yourself, so that’s good.”

When a server hurried over to see what the noise had been about, you requested for some cool water and a clean cloth so that he could soothe his hands. Kyōjurō had tried to protest, saying that it wasn’t a big deal and he felt fine, but you stubbornly insisted.

“Humans are such fragile creatures. You have to take care of yourself or you won’t know what will happen.” You huffed, almost sounding like a nagging spouse. As Kyōjurō let out a small chuckle, you wetted the cloth the server had brought and began gently dabbing it over his reddened skin.

“Please have some faith in me, [Name]. I��m sturdier than you think.”

With a light laugh, you playfully teased, “Right, tell me that after the next time we’re able to have tea without you burning yourself.”

Kyōjurō exchanged an amused smile with you, the mood now more relaxed and lighthearted than before. The two of you continued to chat and though touching on various topics, there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the both of you to refrain from bringing up any subjects on the conflict between humans and demons. Time passed quickly and before either of you knew it, dawn was rapidly approaching.

Glancing out the shop’s window, the grin you wore from his joke mere seconds ago began to fade.  “…I should probably get going now.”

Kyōjurō looked out as well and when he saw the sky’s dark beginning to gradually lighten, doubts which he’d managed to distract himself from through his conversations with you started to flood back in. If he wanted to, he could easily try to keep you here until the sun’s first rays were able to reach you. That’s what he should be doing as the Flame Hashira. And yet, something in him held him back. Was it guilt? Sudden fear of losing the soulmate he’d just met? Perplexment at how different you were from how he’d imagined you? He couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact emotions that prevented him from drawing his blade and all he could do was sit there, watching as you procured a small bag from within your sleeve.

The clinking of coins sounded from within the bag as you plopped it onto the table. His eyes widened when he realized what your intentions and he immediately began reaching for his own money.

“No, please let me-“

You raised your hand to stop him. “I insist. Consider this as my thanks towards you for giving me your time tonight.” The corner of your lips tugged back up into a playful smile at his reluctant expression and you added, “But if it makes you feel better, then you can repay me by meeting up with me again some time. I know your schedule must be busy with the kind of work you do, so when you have the time, come find me at that abandoned shrine near the western outskirts of the city.”

Not waiting for his response, you rose from your seat and bowed in farewell. “Until we meet again, please stay safe, Kyōjurō.”

Though slightly taken aback by your sudden rushed demeanor and having not been able to properly agree to your suggested rendezvous, he quickly got to his feet and bowed in return. “I pray that our next meeting will be as harmonious as this one.”

“…Indeed.” Was all you simply responded with before you hurried out of the shop, now in a race against the rapidly approaching sunrise.

Kyōjurō sat back down as he watched you go and remained there long after you’d left, all the while mulling over the soulmate bond he shared with you and the consequences that would inevitably result from it.

———

“Useless!”

A sake cup smashed against the wall next to Kyōjurō’s head, splattering its contents onto him. He didn’t even so much as flinch, however, simply letting out a soft sigh as he gazed on at his raging father in a steadfast manner.

Shinjurō gritted his teeth, his foul mood further spurred by the irritation he felt towards his eldest son’s calmness. He jabbed a finger towards Kyōjurō’s left eye, which no longer remained hidden away behind an eyepatch. “You come home, flaunting the fact that you’ve met your soulmate, and you’re telling me that you didn’t even kill them? You had an Upper Moon in front of you and you let them go.” Banging his fist on the table in front of him, he raised his voice into a shout. “You let an Upper Moon go! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Then, he suddenly quieted down as quickly as he had began yelling. Letting out a resentful scoff, he sneered at his son. “You’re always sprouting crap about doing your duties as a Hashira and protecting the innocent, but look at you now, going soft over a demon. Well? What rank are they? I bet they’ve killed more people than all of the demons you’ve killed combined.”

Kyōjurō pressed his lips together, knowing that his father was right. Even now, as he sat in front of his father to be berated, he still felt conflicted over his choice of letting you go.

Taking no notice of his silence, Shinjurō took a large swig from his sake bottle before continuing on his rant. “You know, when you were born, I worried that other slayers might call you a traitor. Looks like I worried for nothing, since you really are one now. But who cares, right? Go ahead, continue being a Hashira! Whether you bed a demon or not won’t matter, since every other person in the Corps are fakes, just like you. All their breathing techniques are just cheap imitations.” He grumbled the last part, downing more sake at his rising anger. “And while you’re out there, parading around with your hypocrisy, why don’t you go dragging the Rengoku name through dirt? Help yourself in trampling on the family’s honor too! Go against everything that Ruka-“  

Shinjurō abruptly stopped at the thought of his late wife, a shadow of grief crossing over his face.

“Father-“ Kyōjurō began, only to be interrupted.

“Get out!” The older male snapped as he turned his back to him, emptying his sake bottle in an attempt to numb the old wound left on his heart by his wife’s passing.

Knowing that there was no use trying to carry on their conversation, Kyōjurō rose to his feet.

“Please take care of yourself and try not to overdrink.”

Leaving his father with those words, he exited the room. As he slide the door closed behind himself, a loud shattering noise could be heard coming from within. No doubt it was Shinjurō smashing the sake bottle out of anger towards Kyōjurō’s parting words.

Kyōjurō heaved a deep sigh as he briefly leaned against the wall near the door, tiredly closing his eyes. He’d expected this reaction when he decided to tell his father about his soulmate, but there had been the smallest spark of hope in him that Shinjurō would be more accepting of the news. He couldn’t help but wonder how his mother would have reacted, had she still been with them. Would she be as disapproving as her husband? Or would she have been more accepting and understanding?

“Brother?”

Senjurō’s timid voice suddenly broke his chain of thoughts. Opening his eyes, Kyōjurō pushed himself off against the wall as he smiled brightly at his younger brother. “Senjurō! What brings you here? If you’re looking for Father, I believe he’s just left to buy some more sake. I might have put him in a foul mood, though.”

He let out an awkward laugh and Senjurō shook his head. “I, um… I heard what Father said to you…”

Kyōjurō’s smile faltered for a moment. Well, their father had been loud. It’d be hard not to hear him, even from all the way down the hall. “Ah, pay him no mind. You know how he can get when he drinks.”

“I…I know. But…” The youngest Rengoku fidgeted, wanting to say something but seeming uncertain about it. However, at his brother’s encouraging gaze, he worked up his courage and came out with it. “I-I trust you, Brother! No matter what Father says, if you think what you’re doing is right, then you should keep going with it! Even if Father disapproves, I’m always here to support you!”

Caught off guard by the unexpected consolation, Kyōjurō blinked. His gaze then softened and he reached out, ruffling his brother’s hair. “Thank you, Senjurō. It makes me happy to know that I can rely on you.”

Senjurō’s cheeks reddened and a small, but happy smile appeared on his face. They stayed like that for a minute, enjoying the brief bonding time between brothers. That was, until Senjurō abruptly leaned in and sniffed him. His nose crinkled slightly as he drew back, “You smell very strongly of sake, Brother.”

“Do I?” Brows furrowed, Kyōjurō sniffed the parts of his hair and clothes where sake had gotten splashed onto earlier. “It doesn’t seem very obvious to me.”

With a small laugh, Senjurō shook his head and took hold of his hand, beginning to drag him off to the washroom. “Come on, I’ll help you wash your hair. And while I do that, you can tell me all about your soulmate!”

Kyōjurō obediently followed his younger brother, his lips stretched out into a grin. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze, feeling at ease now knowing that no matter what choice he made towards his future with you, Senjurō would always be there for him.  

———

The following week, he met up with you at the abandoned shrine as planned and you had greeted him so happily, as if you hadn’t actually expected him to show up. Though Kyōjurō had arrived feeling uncharacteristically tense, not quite knowing what to anticipate from the rendezvous, the endearing grin you gave him put him a little more at ease.

That night ended up being rather similar to your previous meeting, with the two of you just chatting and getting to know each other further while enjoying a beautiful view of the stars twinkling above. It would have made for a rather romantic date, had Kyōjurō not remained on guard the entire time. He kept his wariness well hidden behind an easy-going smile, ready to defend himself the instant you decided to launch a surprise attack on him. It was true that at that moment, you lacked any animosity towards him. However, demons were fickle creatures who would kill at the simplest flick of a switch and he didn’t know when or if your attitude towards him would change.

But lo and behold, not once did there come a time where Kyōjurō needed to draw his blade and the two of you ended up parting with the promise of another meeting. And thus began the frequent trysts between you and he. With each night he got to spend with you, his guard began to gradually lower and his relaxed façade soon became genuine.

At some point, he stopped wearing his eyepatch whenever he met up with you. While he still wore it around others, like his fellow Hashiras to prevent them from asking questions, he figured there wouldn’t be any harm in going without it around you. It was much more comfortable, plus he could see better, and you seemed to enjoy seeing him without his eyepatch. There were times when he’d find you just randomly gazing into them and when he asked you about it, you told him how you loved his eyes and how comforting they seemed – like warm, gentle flames in which one could easily lose themselves in. He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t been flattered by your words.

Being only a city away, the shrine was located at a convenient spot to get together. It was far away enough from the Rengoku estate that someone would have a difficult time following him and finding out about you, and it was close enough to get to – well, it'd be hard for an average person, but Kyōjurō was far from average. Not to mention, it had long been abandoned so people almost never came by. That being said, the two of you began going on dates in the city and the neighboring areas. Night festivals quickly became a favorite date spot for you guys and you'd often go whenever there was one. At some point, it became a mini competition between you to see whom could win the most prizes.

As an avid sumo fan, Kyōjurō would often invite you to watch matches with him. He took no offense when you declined, as everybody had their own preferences. But he’d always be delighted when you went to watch with him. After all, who doesn’t love sharing the things they enjoy with those close to them?

When he told you that he enjoyed eating sweet potatoes and salt grilled bream, he underestimated the effects it would end up having. Not too long after he'd shared that small bit of information with you, you had presented him with a bento you cooked yourself. Kyōjurō eagerly accepted it, touched that you had gone out of your way to make it for him. However, he neglected the fact that you were a demon whom had lived for centuries and hadn’t eaten a single morsel of human food during that time. So when he took a big and unsuspecting bite of your glazed sweet potatoes, he almost died.

Kyōjurō appreciated the fact that you had cooked for him, he really did. But your cooking was, to put it bluntly, absolutely horrible. Glazed potatoes were supposed to be both savory and sweet, not overwhelmingly bitter. Was that also a hint of sourness he tasted?? And the texture. Oh god, the texture. It was a mixture of mushy, hard, and even just pure goop at some parts. He had always thought he’d be able to love every sweet potato dish he came across, no matter how bad they may have tasted. This however… Could it even be classified as edible?

Well, no matter! You had been so proud when you presented it to him and he refused to let anything you gave him go to waste. Once he’d gotten over his initial shock, he finished his bite, gave you a big smile, and shouted his usual ‘Umai!’. Then, he turned his attention onto the included salt grilled bream. It looked good, just like the sweet potatoes had. Question was, would it taste as bad? Though hesitant, he took another bite, albeit much smaller than the previous one. Thank goodness he did, because it was somehow worse than the potatoes. Had you mixed up the salt with sugar? Because eating that one bite of fish was like eating a bowlful of sugar. The flesh was also crunchy and he was certain it wasn’t because of the bones. He was also quite sure you had forgotten to descale the skin before cooking. But just like with the sweet potatoes, he forced himself to gulp it down and attempted to finish the entire bento. It went relatively well, until it didn’t.

“Oh my god, Kyōjurō! You’re turning green!”

With a horrified gasp, you snatched the box away from him. Though he’d tried to take it back, insisting on finishing it, you refused to let go of it. Instead, you had declared that you would keep trying until you were able to create a dish that he would find delicious. And while Kyōjurō was moved that you were determined to put in so much effort for his sake, at the same time, he couldn’t help but dread the impending assault on his tastebuds.

For the next three months, every time he was able to meet up with you, you had a fresh batch of potatoes and fish waiting for him. Sometimes you’d change things up and cook other dishes, but they were always as bad. Kyōjurō still ate them all though. As much as you’d allow him to eat, that was. You didn’t allow yourself to be fooled by his shouts of ‘Umai!’ and would always stare intently at him as he ate. If his eyebrow so much as twitched, he would find his meal gone from his hands in an instant. And finally, the day came when the contents of his bento actually tasted like real food. It was, at best, just enough to be considered as decent, but to Kyōjurō, it was the best thing he’d eaten. He may or may not have shed a happy tear or two, which may not have been a very good idea, as upon seeing that, you were once more filled with determination and had declared that you'd make it your goal to master cooking all of his favorite foods.

———

One night, out of curiosity, Kyōjurō had asked you what your Blood Demon Art was. He hadn’t actually expected you to tell him though. After all, even if the two of you had grown close, you probably wouldn’t want to reveal what your fighting techniques to someone who was technically your enemy. But to his surprise, you’d happily answered and even went as far as to actually show him, withdrawing a pair of mai-ougi* from inside your sleeves. You explained that while the fans themselves were weapons – with the edges being as sharp as a blade – its true power lay in what was painted on them. Each fan had a different painting on them and whenever someone looked at them, they would be hit with different effects depending on which they looked at. To demonstrate, you opened up one and allowed him to take a look.

At first, all Kyōjurō saw was a painting of a woman dancing with a mai-ougi in hand, the background a sky of gold with faint cloud patterns. It was a beautiful painting, but nothing special particularly stood out to him. That’s when it happened; the moment he locked eyes with the woman, his surroundings instantly changed and he found himself on a stage with a golden backdrop, four women with appearances identical to that of the woman in the painting lunging at him from every side. The edge of their fans glinted dangerously and just as he drew his weapon to fend them off, he suddenly found himself back in reality with you, the previously open mai-ougi now closed. You grinned at him as he tried to calm his pounding heart, clearly proud of your Blood Demon Art.

“They’re clearly much better than those metal slabs that Dōma lugs around.” You had proudly proclaimed, although it was more to yourself than to Kyōjurō.

He had no idea who you were talking about but decided not to probe into it when he noticed the extremely fierce look in your eyes. Instead, he asked about the effects of the other fan. Happy to show him your powers once more, you spread open the second fan and revealed a painting of a daimyō* sat atop a pitch-black horse against a blood red background, tessen* in one hand. When Kyōjurō’s gaze met with the one in the painting, rather than finding himself in a different environment, he was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of fear so great that it immobilized him. Now, Kyōjurō was not a man who would typically freeze from fear. And yet, it took a great deal of willpower to even just move his eyes enough to tear them off the painting and free himself of its effects.

If there was one thing he had to say about your Blood Demon Art, it was that it was as every bit dangerous and powerful as he’d imagined, if not more. Though the painting had influenced him for no more than a few seconds, to him it’d felt like much, much longer. Had he been in a real battle with you, he most likely would have died the moment he froze up. Or who knows? Maybe his survival instincts would have kicked in and override the mai-ougi’s powers. Well, battle or not, it was good to know what exactly you were capable of.

Once Kyōjurō had regained his composure, you suggested that the two of you have a sparring match –with you fighting with your fans closed, of course. He immediately accepted, not wanting to waste the opportunity of being able to fight against an Upper Moon without it being a life-or-death situation. In the end, he lost the spar as expected. However, he found his loss to be an extremely fruitful one, as he’d been able to notice the weak points in his own fighting style much quicker than he normally would have by sparring with his fellow Hashiras.

Needless to say, it quickly became a common thing for the two of you to have random sparring sessions. Sometimes you’d be on the offensive with him on the defensive, and vice versa. Either way, Kyōjurō would always be able to learn a thing or two from each spar and you would also give him advice from time to time. Although you hardly gained anything from doing this – maybe except for familiarizing yourself with the Flame Breathing style – you were always more than happy to spar with him, glad that you could help him get even stronger.

———

Kyōjurō truly enjoyed spending time with you, cherishing every moment he could. Yet, no matter how many happy nights he shared with you, he couldn’t ignore the guilt that had rooted itself so deeply into his heart. Guilt that he felt towards neglecting part of his duties and at the thoughts of how many people fell prey to you the longer he left you alive. It became someone of a frequent occurrence for him to remain awake for hours during the times he was supposed to sleep, plagued with all sorts of gut-wrenching emotions. But no matter how much the guilt continued to pile up, he couldn’t bring himself to kill you. He finally understood now, what it truly meant to have a soulmate.

A soulmate wasn’t someone whom the universe had randomly picked out for him and whom he was obligated to love. A soulmate was someone who complemented him better than anyone else out there, who understood him and accepted him for everything he was, who stood by and supported him, and so much more. His better half, if you will. The universe was only there to help make identifying his soulmate easier; it was up to him whether he chose to love you or not. And Kyōjurō did. He loved you.

He didn’t know exactly when he had begun to fall in love, but by the time he realized it, he was in too deep to turn back.

He could still remember how clear the sky had been, each star twinkling like jewels and the full moon’s light bathing everything in a soft silvery glow. The two of you were on the shrine’s engawa to admire the view, his head resting in your lap and your fingers running through his hair. A comfortable silence filled the air between both of you with the occasional chirping of crickets being heard from off in the distance.

Basking in the peacefulness of everything, he closed his eyes in bliss. You continued to run your fingers through his hair for a short while, stopping when you quietly spoke, “…Kyōjurō?”

He hummed softly in response.

“I love you.”

Kyojruo’s eyes snapped open and when he looked up at you, he found you gazing down at him with a tender expression. Well, that was certainly one very sudden confession. Though the two of you had been intimate with each other for a while now – such as being physically affectionate, going on dates, and even buying gifts for each other that only couples would normally exchange – neither of you had ever vocalized your feelings towards each other. Even then, while he’d acknowledged to himself that he liked you, he never quite dwelled on the thought of whether he loved you. After all, it would unacceptable if he, a slayer of demons, were to fall in love with a demon, wouldn’t it?

And yet, after hearing your words, he knew without needing to think about it or question himself.

Sitting up, he brought a hand up to your cheek and gently caressed it, leaning in until your lips were almost touching. He paused, wanting to give you time to push him away in case you didn’t want this. All you did, however, was lean in into his touch as your eyes fluttered closed with anticipation. That’s when Kyōjurō closed the remaining space between the two of you, softly pressing his lips against yours. Your lips were cold against his, just like the rest of your body. But as you kissed him back, all he felt was a gentle, yet passionate warmth. In that moment, he let all his doubts and concerns melt away, instead allowing himself to be overtaken by his feelings for you and conveying those emotions through the kiss.

Eventually pulling away, he rested his forehead against yours and gazed into your eyes with adoration as he softly murmured, “And I love you, [Name].”

———

*Mai-ougi are folding fans used in traditional Japanese dances *Daimyō were feudal lords who used to serve under the shogun *Tessen are also known as Japanese war fans and have varying looks and purposes

[halfbloodgf]

"For the Love of the Memory"

The rest of the few individuals who had attended to the ceremony, more out of respect and affection for the sisters of the deceased than for her herself, had already left. There were only the two of them left; the rubble of the noble and ancestral house Black...

The youngest of them had her blue eyes dull, irritated and tearful, and they were decorated with huge, deep circles under their eyes as they insisted on staying glued to the dark lid of the coffin. A tear escaped, and she hurried to subtly wipe it away with her handkerchief. Her sister, a few years older than her, had not lost her composure. In fact, she had been relentlessly unflappable throughout the entire funeral, appearing to be deep in thought as she stared at the coffin three feet from her feet with a completely serious expression, standing rigidly next to the blonde. Seeing that her sister was stifling a sob, the brunette looked at her with a frown.

   "Honestly, I don't understand how you can feel this loss," Andromeda spoke, emotionless. "No one who has even the slightest degree of morality could feel affection for... her. And yet here you are, sister, completely destroyed... I don't understand. I don't understand you.

   "You're talking about our sister."

   Narcissa was crying but, despite that, her voice sounded firm, and she looked at the brunette with spiteful eyes. A grudge too familiar to cause anything in Andromeda. Cissy had been looking at her that way for years.

   "She wasn't my sister," Andromeda cut her off, her tone sharp as Sectumpempra. "Not anymore. The soul that left the body that lies inside was not my sister's," she said looking at the coffin.

   "She was our sister, and she's dead," Narcissa hissed, and more tears slipped from her eyes.

   "She killed my daughter, and the father of my grandson. She killed our cousin. She deserved to die."

   "They murdered her!," the blonde interrupted, helplessly.

   "She was murdered a long time ago!," Andromeda refuted, and Narcissa sobbed, looking away. "My sister, our sister, died many, many years ago..."

   "She still—"

   "No," Andy objected, trying to sound gentle. "She was an extremely dangerous maniac. She was crazy."

   "They drove her crazy!," Cissy exclaimed helplessly. "Our family is responsible for her changing. Our damn father drove her crazy. She just wanted someone to tell her that, for once, she was doing it right..."

   The blonde woman no longer bothered trying to hold back her tears. Andy gritted her teeth as she felt a lump building in her throat, and her eyes threatened to water.

   "Did you really love her?," she asked shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. "After everything she did, you—"

   "No," Narcissa responded, and her sister turned to look at her, bewildered. "I didn't love her. All these years... Bella was a torture. But I stayed with her, out of love for the memory I have of her, of what she once was; who once was." As she spoke, Cissy kept her anguished eyes fixed on the dark wooden lid that covered the lifeless body of who was once her sister. She then turned to look Andromeda in the eyes and said: "I still love that memory."

   Then Andy felt her heart burn. Not out of anguish, but out of happiness. She allowed her eyes to unburden themselves and, as a genuine smile spread across her face, tears ran down her cheeks.

   The two witches did not remember the last time they had physically touched each other, but it had surely been more than a decade ago, so the hug they both gave each other seemed to last an eternity, as if wanting to reward through it all the hugs they had denied each other during all that time.

   "I'm sorry about your family, Andy..." Cissy spoke softly, without turning away.

   Andromeda held her a little tighter in her arms for a moment, in gratitude.

   "You will come to have tea at my home with me and your nephew," Narcissa told her, once they separated.

   It hadn't been a suggestion, much less a question. It was a statement that gave rise to no room for objection. However, despite being aware of this, Andromeda chose to accept the invitation personally, causing Narcissa to shed tears of emotion when she said:

   "Of course. I don't plan to miss any more opportunities to spend time with my family."

------

Note: I was bored one night and this scenario crossed my mind, so I decided to write it down and... why not share it with you too? Hope you like it<3

fanart: starsinthedark.arts on insta

[serenailith]

two + two equals four(ever) ii

chapter one here

in which hob sticks his nose where it really doesn't belong

on ao3

Hob sighs and rests his palm on Toivo’s head, scratching behind the great wolf’s ear as they stare at the door. The clock ticks away the seconds, the minutes, and closing time draws nearer. Never before has so much time slipped away before his Stranger appeared. He has always shown up, always arrived no later than eight in the evening. They may have parted after the calendar flipped to the eighth, but his Stranger always, without fail, spent the night of the seventh with Hob.

But…

12:01. After midnight, and no Stranger.

Hob swallows thickly and finishes off his glass of whisky. Toivo whines low in his throat, pressing closer into Hob’s leg, and rests his head on his front paws.

“Ah, it’s fine, Toi. We—we don’t need him, anyway, do we?”

“He’s a constant,” Toivo rumbles back, and Hob can’t argue with that.

Sighing, Hob rises to his feet and heads toward the bar. Toivo pads along beside him, easily winding his way around the humans and other dæmons crowding the pub. No one gives them a second look despite Toivo’s size. Why would they? A wolf is hardly unsurprising; there are odder dæmons. Lushing Lou’s had been a spider—a black widow, if Hob remembers correctly—and that Marisa lady has a golden-furred monkey.

After paying, Hob heads outside and pulls a silver tin from his pocket. It’s old-fashioned, carrying a case for his cigarettes, but Hob likes to think old-fashioned isn’t always a bad thing. At least his smokes go without being crushed in the case. Toivo’s lip curls when Hob lights a cigarette, and Hob blows out a heavy breath full of smoke.

They’re both feeling the loss, and Hob wonders if there is anything he can do. Any way he can apologise to his Stranger. Wonders if he will be left drinking alone in a hundred years’ time.

As they walk through the midnight dark, Hob ruminates over the last century. He had so much to tell his Stranger. He’d received a teaching degree—twice. Once as Rob Gelding for a uni in London in the fifties, another in New York in 1974 under the name of Gilbert Holden. He nearly got caught in New York; it was the shortest life he led thus far at only six years.

He’d adopted a dog and fostered two children, two boys. They were wonderful little ones, and they grew so fast in the three years he cared for them. It was only his immortality that prevented him from adopting them, as well. Children need stability, and that’s something he will never be able to provide, not for anyone. He’d relinquished them to the next foster parents and given his dog to the family down the street. He’d left Brooklyn with a broken heart and a vow to never put himself in such a position again.

He knew it was a lie even then, but it helped to ease the pain.

He’d had so much to tell, but his Stranger never showed up. Hob snorts and scrubs a hand over his face. How can one person hold a grudge for so long? It was a misstep, a piss-poor calculated risk that proved Hob was horrible at odds, but it shouldn’t have severed the… not-friendship as it had. They’d had an agreement, after all, and now his Stranger was going back on his word? All for what he considered an insult?

“Bah.”

“And you say I shouldn’t dwell,” Toivo remarks before sniffing the air. His ears flick, but then he relaxes. “We don’t need him, remember? Him or his dæmon.”

“Don’t we, though?”

Toivo doesn’t respond.

By the time they reach the flat, Hob has sobered and long grown exhausted. He readies for bed silently while Toivo lies curled up on his side of the mattress. Hob turns out the light before sliding in under the blankets, pulling them up to his chin. A warm nose presses to the back of his neck, then the wolf lets out a huff and falls asleep. Hob closes his eyes and drifts into the blank void that has greeted him since 1916.

It’s been seventy-five years since the dreams stopped, since a large swath of the population fell into eternal sleep or stopped being able to sleep at all. Hob himself has been lucky enough to avoid the worst of it. All he’s had to endure is a lack of dreams. It suits him fine enough—he’s had six hundred years of living. There are far more horrible memories that replay night after night, than there are good. Dreams are more often than not nightmares. So this reprieve is… Well, it’s a blessing.

The information comes from a weasel, the dæmon of a former maid to some eccentric old man named Burgess. The woman drinks and chatters on about the man who has the Devil locked in his basement. Everyone titters and ignores her after a moment. Burgess may be an odd duck, pompous and arrogant, but an amateur like him could never harness anything.

Everyone turns away, everyone except Hob. Toivo’s ears prick up when the weasel notices them watching. With a quick glance at his human, he inches closer.

“It’s true, you know. The man has the Devil locked up, inherited from his father, they say.” The weasel wipes his paws over his face and stares at Toivo with beady eyes. “Says he wants the Devil to make a deal, to fix his son.”

Hob frowns, mind turning over the new information. The name sounds familiar, and he struggles to figure out why. It takes a moment, but then he places it. Roderick Burgess, the father of Britain’s first test subject for something called intercision. No one really knows what it is, but everyone knows what happened to the poor Burgess lad.

He hasn’t been quite the same, has he, since the operation. No one sees him anymore. Apparently, he’s still alive, if the weasel is to be believed. The weasel inches even closer to the wolf when Toivo opens his mouth.

“What happened to the boy?”

The weasel blinks then blinks again. On his face is, remarkably clear, sadness and hurt. Disgust. “Intercision happened.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

The weasel gulps audibly and twists his paws over one another. “They—oh, my, this is—do not make me say it, please.”

“If you can’t, then don’t,” Toivo says gently.

“They cut away the boy’s dæmon!” the weasel squeaks, words tumbling out in a rush, paws covering his face. Without another word, he scurries back to his human, leaving Hob and Toivo fighting nausea.

Neither speaks as they hurry out of the tavern, into an empty alleyway. Hob leans against a wall and claps a hand over his mouth. They cut away a dæmon? How is that even possible? No, he doesn’t want to know. He’d much rather remain ignorant of the process.

The question, really, is why. Why would they want to separate child and dæmon? Dæmons are beneficial to humans; anyone would be a fool to think otherwise. After all, dæmons have been around for as long as humanity has. Dæmons are nothing to fear and everything to love.

Hob digs his fingers into Toivo’s fur and lets his head fall against the brick behind him. He must find out more. He must do something. There has to be something he can do, right? Therefore, he must figure it out and do it.

Right, then.

Loosening his grip on his dæmon’s fur, Hob takes a step toward the mouth of the alleyway.

He spends the next four weeks searching for an answer. Hardly anyone speaks of intercision, and those who do extol its virtues. They can’t explain why dæmons are bad or why the separation must happen; they only say that it’s what is best for the child, for society.

No one speaks of the Sleeping Sickness, either, though people keep dying.

Hob wants to throttle them all, but he keeps his composure until he and Toivo are alone in the flat once more. Each night, he rails against all that is transpiring everywhere, for it isn’t just London in which this is happening. No, it’s happening all over the world, and Hob is only one man. He can only do so much.

He sets off into the world to find anyone who can explain, because he isn’t getting any satisfactory answers in London. All he has learnt is something called the General Oblation Board has infiltrated the Magisterium. Hob knows, even if no one says as much, that were it not for the Board, this whole ordeal with incising dæmons from their children would not be happening.

The Sleeping Sickness is harder to explain.

A witch finds him in the deepest heart of Australia two years after the conversation with the weasel. Hob’s surrounded by the heat of summer, the silver glow of moonlight, a vast emptiness, and a sudden strike of fear. Her dæmon circles overhead, occasionally hooting, and she looks up to track his movements in the sky. After a moment, she turns her attention to—

“Hob Gadling.”

He swallows and pushes sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage, though it is, I presume, a pleasure to meet you.”

The witch smiles, a beautiful thing that he finds no danger in. “I am Meritta Vesa. We have heard word of your presence here.” Her smile disappears, and she gestures toward the ground. Hob keeps a hand on Toivo’s head as they lower themselves to the dirt. Meritta Vesa’s lips curve again, though this smile doesn’t meet her eyes, and she sits facing Hob. “You wish for answers regarding what they call intercision.”

“And the Sleeping Sickness,” he provides, and she shakes her head.

“That, I know little of. The realm of sleep is not within my purview to know, though I have heard rumours.”

She lets out a breath that could be mistaken for a sigh, and her gaze flicks up toward her dæmon. Hob waits in silence, nearly vibrating with his need for answers even if they bring more questions. After a few minutes of silence under the midnight moon, Meritta Vesa looks back at him.

“The Devil you seek is no devil, though he is in peril. Or so I have heard it said. What you call the Sleeping Sickness has more to do with this ‘intercision’ than first meets the eye. After all, how do you think they perfected the process?”

“But it’s not perfect, is it, not when the Burgess boy is so muddled from it? And I’m sure London isn’t the only place with intercision.”

“You are right. It happens everywhere. But it was worse in the beginning.” She glances at the sky; the moon washes her skin a lovely pale bronze, haloes her black hair that flows free around her angular face. Her eyes hold many lifetimes. “The process has been happening for longer than anyone knows, though we witches have listened for all information, no matter how small. Irrelevant.”

“Why?”

“Another thing I, unfortunately, know little of.”

“The Devil who isn’t a devil… He’s in danger?”

“He is. The world is. This one, the next, all worlds that exist are in danger if something should befall him. I believe it best that you return to your London. Find him. Free him. He will be of use.”

Meritta Vesa rises to her feet, and the barn owl gives yet another hoot. Hob remains seated as Meritta Vesa readies herself for flight. Wishing him luck, she vanishes into the moonlight glow, and Hob exchanges a look with Toivo. They now know where to start, but not how to start. Hob swallows against the questions that will go unanswered, for Meritta Vesa is far out of sight, then rises to his feet. Brushing the dirt from the seat of his trousers, he and Toivo set off toward the town they’d just left behind.

It’s easy enough to get a plane ticket back to London. It’s only marginally more difficult to forge the documents he needs. Faking an ID to label him a member of the press is simpler than all the work he puts into creating a new life, so Hob doesn’t complain that it takes two days before all is prepared. He and Toivo do what is necessary to end the current life of Gilbert Holden before making arrangements for a lift to Fawney Rig.

A certain Roderick Burgess is hosting a gala, to which members of the most prominent presses have been invited, and Hob has made damn sure he was on the list.

Hob shows his badge, tries not to show his impatience as a man double-checks it against the paper in hand. After a long moment in which Hob worries he will be turned away, he’s beckoned forward, into the mansion. He clips his badge to his lapel once more and hurries-without-hurrying inside. The gala is already in full swing—loud chatter fills the spaces, and Hob and Toivo exchange a look. It will be almost impossible to find any answers here without drawing attention.

Time stretches on. Hob socialises and laughs though he doesn’t feel like it and pretends he isn’t here to potentially rescue the Devil from a man who wishes for more than he deserves. It’s harder than it should be, acting as if he is merely an inquisitive journalist intent on hearing more about how Burgess’s second son is offering up his daughter for intercision.

“He was right coerced into it, mind you, but he’s doing it,” the maid had said over her gin. “Maybe he’ll finally make that mad old man proud.”

Hob amends his plan: Save the Devil then perhaps the girl, if at all possible. He’d learnt enough from the 1700s, Hob did. Too many people he could have saved but ignored for his own selfish greed, his own desire for wealth.

The hour comes that the party should wind down, but it doesn’t. It seems, in fact, to grow even more bacchic. Despite this, a dark-skinned man appears in the doorway and calls for the press members. Hob shows his ID once more then follows the man who introduces himself as Sykes. Through the corridors they are led, and Hob presses his fingertips into Toivo’s fur. The wolf trembles minutely, and Hob swallows down the rage and fear.

Roderick Burgess meets them in a grand study. It’s opulent, dark woods and richer reds. His smile doesn’t meet his cold eyes, but he plasters it on anyway. It fades as he launches into his speech, the reason this group has come: Dorothy Anne Burgess has been accepted as a test subject for the latest updated process of intercision. The girl in question stands at her grandfather’s side. She shifts her weight between her two feet, gaze darting here and there as her dæmon, a small ferret, remains wound around her throat. A man coughs quietly, and she glances at him before stilling.

The man—Alexander, if Hob’s guess is correct—rests a hand on her shoulder and smiles gamely for the cameras now flashing. “Dorothy here is incredibly excited to be chosen. This will be a wonderful step forward in the process, in the curing of this country. Perhaps even this world.”

Roderick’s glare vanishes when the group turns back to him, and Hob frowns. He’s never seen a father look upon his son with such hatred. But no one else seems to have noticed, so Hob pretends he hadn’t, either. Pretends to be as guileless and mindless as the people he’s surrounded by. Roderick’s gaze lands on him then slips away. Toivo nudges Hob’s hand with his great head.

Burgess doesn’t trust Hob and Toivo, and they all three know it. The question is: How dangerous is Roderick Burgess, truly? If the weasel—the rumours—are to be believed, it wasn’t even Roderick who captured the Devil in the first place. Hob makes a mental note to keep an eye on Roderick anyway.

He doesn’t miss the calculating look as he passes Roderick on their way out of the study.

[xaracosmia]

ꕥ — WELCOME TO NEFE COSMIA, MACAQUE. 🌓

ꕥ — ooc information;

name / alias: juni age: 21 pronouns: he/she ooc contact: p3remake twt i dont really use my other account lol other characters in xc: n/a

ꕥ — ic information;

name: macaque age: ageless (really old. adult. idk) pronouns: any series: lego monkie kid canon point: post-s4 app triggers: baby monkey

personality: the six-eared macaque, or just macaque, is an ages-old mystic monkey who is great but sucks sometimes. he’s manipulating, selfish and conniving, rarely above playing dirty or using cheap tricks to win, though he dislikes when others hold back against him. as confident and smart-talking as he is, he’s kind of cowardly (or has a strong sense of self-preservation, if you want to be nice) and will retreat when he knows he doesn’t stand a chance. he’s incredibly petty and can hold a grudge for millennia. just a huge hater. as dubious as his moral character is, though, he has some good qualities! umm. he’s smart. he can occasionally be persuaded into doing the heroic or otherwise selfless thing, or just does it of his own volition. definitely not irredeemable… mostly just an asshole though.

although he was once much more timid and loyal, after the perceived betrayal done by the hands of his best friend, he’s become cold and mostly disinterested in anyone’s well-being but his own—believing that if he doesn’t look out for himself, no one will.

something your muse struggles with: self-centeredness

your muse’s greatest strength: NONE. idk… wit

history / background: many, many, many years ago, there were two baby monkeys who lived in flower fruit mountain. macaque and his best friend and fellow monkey, who would be known as sun wukong, the monkey king. after wukong experienced an extreme existential crisis and went on desperate escapades to become immortal, he left the mountain to go on various hijinks and cause monkey mischief and mayhem. macaque wasn’t really as interested, waiting for the day that wukong would become satisfied with his power and return back to the mountain and live out the rest of eternity together with him.

unfortunately, that day never came. wukong’s desire for strength and immortality could never be sated, and it led him to taking greater and greater risks, making worse and worse enemies. when wukong and their mutual friend group (an ox, a lion, a peng and an elephant) decided to challenge the jade emperor and claim the celestial realm for themselves, macaque was more than hesitant but reluctantly went along with it.

of course, it ended terribly, just as macaque had feared, and he was among the first to flee. with the war lost, the monkey king was sentenced to a punishment of being imprisoned under a mountain. not too long after, macaque decided to drop by and cheer wukong up with a consolation peach, his favorite fruit. this was very unhelpful, as wukong pointed out, and after their argument escalated, he accused macaque of always abandoning him in his time of need. to this, macaque angrily replied that it was wukong who was the one always leaving macaque behind in his endless pursuit of power. he crushed the perfectly good peach and left.

later on, wukong was freed by a traveling monk and became his disciple. macaque watched on from the shadows, jealous and fearful that wukong had truly left him behind for good this time. even later on, the two monkeys fought each other in a battle that apparently ended with wukong killing macaque. it’s kind of unclear if he actually did or not, but that’s what macaque believed. regardless, macaque died and was left to rot in the underworld for an eternity.

it was the lady bone demon who resurrected him from his grave, in exchange for him freeing her from her ancient tomb. after he was returned back to life, he decided not to do that. who gaf.

eventually, he crossed paths with the monkey king’s successor, mk, and deceived the boy into giving him his powers with the promise of becoming his mentor. although he was swiftly defeated, he was still around to cause more chaos next season.

powers / abilities:darkness manipulation. able to control and utilize shadows as a form of attack, defense or stealth. he can use it to create portals, illusions, clones of himself (shadow monkeys) and probably other stuff too. shapeshifting. can transform himself into various different animals and even people that he knows. smoke monster. he can make a big scary avatar made out of smoke.

inherent abilities:enhanced hearing. has six ears, hence his full name. demon physiology. mystic monkey stuff. immortal and much stronger, faster and more endurant than like. a normal monkey... baby monkey

items / weapons:shadow staff. a black, glowing weapon with spikes on either end, similarly to a cudgel. he has othber stuff but i don’t really want him to have a mech in xara cosmia :/

starting ability: n/a starting item: shadow staff

would you like this character to be housed upon arrival?: no

extra:baby monkey

discord id: sixeared.

[icharchivist]

Honestly, it makes sense then

With Siete, the mind control seemed less obvious, so the others might have felt like he genuinely just decided it was time for the Eternals to stop being a thing and also alive and he also is arguably the one who took away the least from the experience, seeing how he still very much tries to handle everything by himself and is allergic to relying on others, while Tweyen overcame a huge thing for her and I'm sure the same applies to the other Eternals, I'll read it later probably, but I'm assuming here that everyone had some character development, except for the guy who probably also could 1v1 them if he just randomly decided that this is what he wanted to do. Also the insults, obviously, yeah

I can see why they'd hold on to that particular grudge

Yeah right?

like, it wasn't straight up mindcontrol like, say, the way Belial mindcontrol MC in the Seraphic quests. It's not like they were helpless puppets being pulled around yaknow?

It's the specific type of mindcontrol that read their heart and find their greatest flaw and fear, and blow it up of proportion until they have no one left to trust but the weapon who is clouding the truth in favor to tell them "see? your fears were justified all along, and with my power, you can no longer be afraid."

Everyone has gone through it to an extend, and yes, all of them grew a lot from it. (i don't know the details, but like, Seox had to learn to let go of his guilt being a killer, so he's probably like Tweyen on that regard. I've seen bits of Tien's where she comes out of this fight remembering that she can't just self sacrifice all the time and need to take care of herself as well. I know Feower gets even more murdery than when we meet him, because on his hand he had relied on violence to threaten people so that no one can hurt what he loves again, for example).

But therefore, it means, everyone knows exactly what part of their brain the weapons talk to. They know that this fear is anchored in something very real. The fear of being a monster, the fear of not being good enough to defend what they want to defend, this type of things. And all of them have to learn to be better than their fear to break free from the mind control.

So, when Siete starts to lash out that he doesn't trust any of them, that he could handle things alone, it means that deep, deep down, Siete has reasons to believe that. And the problem is that they are AWARE that Siete tends to handle everything on his own.

It's when it becomes muddy yaknow? how much are what he says what he really believes, how much is what the sword make him believe?

And then by the end of it, Siete still do things on his own. he still lies, he still doesn't tell them when he's using them -- but now they KNOW that deep down, once, Siete had enough self-reliant thought that on a bad day he can see all of them as people he has no reason to rely on.

Siete got character development from allowing himself to trust MC in particular, and also in doubting himself from being able to handle everything i think, even if he didn't conclude that therefore he should rely on other people more.

But, compared to the rest, i doubt it changed his perception of himself and of others as much as the rest had to learn.

So yeah, in the end i think everyone has reasons to still hold it against him, because when then Siete goes and do things on his own without telling them, all of them get to remember the time Siete voiced that he specifically didn't trust them yaknow?

so yeah. It's understandable yaknow.

[shuaflix]

how eagles take flight (preview)

PAIRING ▸ slytherin!boo seungkwan x ravenclaw!fem!reader

GENRES ▸ fluff, humor, smut, angst, fantasy, action, enemies to lovers au, hogwarts au

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, slowburn, insane amount of lore, hurt/comfort, mild descriptions of violence, more to be added

SUMMARY ▸ on the night of halloween, you're selected as hogwarts' champion for the triwizard tournament, a competition for eternal glory held between three major schools of magic. of course, this makes absolutely no sense to you because you didn't put your name in the goblet of fire. you have a feeling someone's out to get you, though, and a certain slytherin who's hated you since your first year might have the answers you're looking for.

or, you and boo seungkwan hate each other's guts, but he might just prove to be an unlikely ally when you're selected for the triwizard tournament.

RELEASE DATE ▸ TBD

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ since i don't have much to show until the full fic is out, you can anticipate heavy slowburn, some blood purity prejudice, me racking my brain to come up with tasks for the tournament, the yule ball!!, enemies forced to work together, and ft. jeonghan, wonwoo, joshua, seungcheol, and irene (rv) ♡ send an ask or comment if you'd like to be added to the tag list !!

“AT LEAST YOU DON'T HAVE TO TAKE YOUR N.E.W.T.s NOW,” Wonwoo tried to console you while you two were walking to your Defense Against the Dark Arts class. “Charms is gonna kick my ass this year.”

Due to the strenuous challenge the tournament offered, testing your strength, courage, intelligence, and resourcefulness, the champions were exempt from exams. You figured it was because being a Triwizard champion was far more valuable than getting Outstanding scores on your end-of-year tests.

You snorted. “I’m still taking them.”

“But you don’t have to,” he said with a disapproving frown. “You should really be taking the tournament seriously, Y/N. People have died doing these tasks.”

“I just don’t understand how my name ended up in the Goblet of Fire,” you muttered. “I tried to explain that I didn’t put my name in, but they just told me that rules are rules. I have no choice now that I’ve been selected.”

“Just… make it through alive, will you? Don’t get yourself killed over eternal glory.”

“I don’t even care about eternal glory,” you whined. “Eternal glory isn’t gonna get me five N.E.W.T.s to get into the Auror recruitment program.” 

“I doubt you’d need five N.E.W.T.s if you won.”

“You’re generous for thinking I have a chance against Seungcheol and Joohyun.”

When you opened the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, you nearly groaned out loud once everyone’s eyes landed on you. A lot of talk had been going around about you being Hogwarts’ champion, and the attention wasn’t all that great. Some of the support was nice, but plenty of people had been betting on your loss and talking smack about how the Goblet of Fire should’ve chosen a better representative.

The only one in your class who appeared as though they couldn’t care less about you was Boo Seungkwan, a Slytherin who you couldn’t stand since your first year. You two got off on the wrong foot right off the bat, with you accidentally spilling ink all over Seungkwan’s new textbooks and him talking down to you for the rest of the year. It was a trivial thing to hold a grudge over, but as you two got more and more hostile toward each other over the years, you eventually just realized that you and Seungkwan weren’t meant to get along. 

You two hated each other so much that in your third year, you sent each other Howlers back-and-forth until a professor had to intervene. Apparently, screaming at each other through Owl Post was going too far, especially when the Howlers started arriving in the middle of classes.

Your dislike for him grew even more when he was picked as Head Boy for Slytherin. Although you had no qualms about the Head Girl chosen for the Ravenclaw house, you were still bitter that Seungkwan was effortlessly getting the opportunities that were always just out of your grasp.

Wonwoo grimaced once he took a look at the board. Apparently, you were graced with the pleasure of sitting next to the bane of your existence today.

“Think you can get through a class without killing Seungkwan?” he asked, squinting to make out who he was sitting next to.

“I think I have a better chance at winning the Triwizard Tournament.”

Wonwoo laughed, even though you were dead serious.

When you got to your table with Seungkwan, you did your best to avoid eye contact. You shrugged off your book bag and sank back into your seat without another word. Maybe if you tried hard enough, you could forget he even existed. 

“Your arm’s in my table space, champ,” he started, and although you tried to resist, your head shot up to see what the hell he was talking about. You rolled your eyes when you noticed Seungkwan pointing at your sleeve, which was barely on his side of the table. You moved your arm without another word. “Anyway, I didn’t think you’d be the kind of person to put your name in the cup.”

“You must know me so well, huh?” you sneered. “And, for your information, I didn’t put my name in the cup.”

Seungkwan stared at you with a strange look in his eyes before shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, growing defensive. You didn’t mean to raise your voice, but you quieted down after a few stares from other classmates.

He scoffed. “Take some accountability, Y/N. I literally saw you put your name in.”

You seized up. There was no reason for Seungkwan to lie, but you couldn’t fully believe that he actually saw you putting your name in the Goblet of Fire. You nearly started questioning whether you had been sleepwalking or something, but you were positive that you slept peacefully throughout the night. There was no rational explanation as to how you entered yourself into the tournament.

“Are you serious?” You turned around in your seat to face the Slytherin, nonplussed. “You saw me? You’re positive it was me?”

“Yeah? I know an idiot when I see one, you know?”

“Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Seungkwan shook his head at you. “You better have a plan to win. It's gonna be humiliating for us if you die out there.”

“Gee, thanks,” you replied bitterly. Your voice teetered on nervousness when you asked, “When did you see me put my name in the cup? Honest to God, I didn't do it, Seungkwan. You know I wouldn't.”

Even aside from Wonwoo, who looked at you skeptically after your name was called, you knew that Seungkwan saw right through you. He knew that you didn't have the guts to enter your name into the tournament. By no means did you consider yourself brave, and the Slytherin knew that quite well.

He looked at you strangely. “Last night. I was debating entering myself before I saw you.”

Before you could press him to elaborate, Yoon Jeonghan made a show of dragging his chair out from under the table that was in front of yours and Seungkwan’s, eyes locked on you as he did. He was one of the most popular wizards in your year with his charming looks and brilliant wit. He was sweet and friendly on paper, but he was notorious for dating around. You were pretty sure you saw him with a new girl every other month. Although he was one of Seungkwan’s best friends, you found him to be far more amiable. 

You pressed your lips into a thin line. Jeonghan was who everyone was expecting to get picked for the tournament. He was definitely more capable than you, and he posed a threat to both Seungcheol and Joohyun with his abilities. You were sure he would sweep the competition if he was selected as champion.

“There’s our champion,” he greeted with a crooked grin. “You’re gonna win for us, right?”

“Uh.” You paused. “No promises, Jeonghan.”

“Hey.” He lowered his voice to hardly a mutter, a playful grin on his face as he leaned in close. “You know my dad’s Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, right? Just say the word and I’ll find out what the first task is for you.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” you asked.

“Think about it this way: Durmstrang won’t stop at anything to make sure Seungcheol wins, and Joohyun half-Veela. She just has to bat her eyes at someone and they’ll cough up any information they have on the tournament for her.”

Seungkwan scoffed. “Jeonghan, you’re being careless. What happens when your dad finds out you’re helping the champion cheat?”

“Lighten up, Kwan. There hasn’t been a champion for centuries who hasn’t bent the rules a little.”

You swallowed hard. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to accept Jeonghan’s help. After all, Wonwoo told you that Seungcheol and Joohyun would be using their resources to figure out tactics to go about their tasks. It would be no surprise if they had already found out what the first task required. If you had someone like Jeonghan on your side to help you, then you would’ve been stupid not to accept his assistance. 

Rules were one thing, but the entire school was counting on you to represent Hogwarts. You couldn’t make a fool out of yourself when the time came. 

“Well, if you happen to find out,” you told Jeonghan, “then I wouldn’t be opposed to hearing what the task is.”

He winked at you. “Just give me a day or two.”

send an ask or comment if you'd like to be added to the tag list ! hope you guys enjoyed the preview & look forward to the full fic ♡

TAG LIST ▸ @wonudazed @delicatewinterenthusiast @aaniag @punkhazardlaw @cottoncheol @zzoguri @peachyaeger @jsopinha @blurryriki @mangocustard16 @wqsty @jakeslvt @yawnzshit @myseokjinji @the-boy-meets-evil @wonvsmile @hanversace @jebetwo @ourkivee @primoppang @deekaye @yonabutnotyuna @seokqt @sarcasticsweetlara @littleredskies @apricottulips @hey-syia @elfoscheirosos

[tasap-official]

BEFORE THE NIGHT ONCE FELL

An original poem

The warm morning lights still drop down with dew,

With my eyes to the sunlight, only to catch a few,

The green scenery that awaits me treats me to its call;

I can only wonder how great it is to know what I saw,

To know and to live life.

I must tell you, the most beautiful thing I saw

Was the truth by a path way, where the critters crawled;

Two young ones, much younger than me,

Two young girls, two beauties to see,

Chatting and playing in the green.

Their hairs flew and glittered in the air,

Their lips moved as though there was no care;

Side by side, the girls shared moments,

Laughed, joked, played in excitement,

And then it came to me ...

"Talk and talk, talk as you might, 

Let your voice sound high above the heights;

Kids are wiser than most humans know,

They know who friends are, so no grudge they hold,

True friends are friends who don't chat alone."

There was another time, during the heat of day,

When the dews had all dried, and time too small to waste,

Walking by the yellow, and staring at the blue,

I trod across the shore way, beside the ocean view,

Walking and thinking about life.

Quickly, an accident, and I was sure to fall,

Two teenage 'Messis' pushed me, dashing after a ball;

I looked around and caught my breath

And saw the boys who'd broken my rest,

Running and chasing in the sand.

Side by side, with their hands swinging through the air,

Their legs running and galloping, like the wheels of the fair;

Sweat dribbling, laughter bustling,

Arm over arm, the boys there smiling,

And then it came to me ...

"Do, do, whatever you wish

Don't give a damn or just give it quick;

Kids have companions 'cause they're the same at heart,

You cannot make friends for them, you cannot choose or chart,

For true friends are play pals and are the same."

Yet again, before the night once fell,

Whether yesterday or last year, I really can't tell;

I was strolling up the hill way, up and down the heights,

And could see the city faraway - oh what a place of sight!

An evening for all mankind.

It dawned on me too late, that under a tree

Could be the best of love, there, it looked like a dream!

Two young people sitting under the tree,

Young grown-ups, male and female, their eyes together did meet,

Looking and loving under the leaves.

These two tender birds, their hands clasped,

Side by side they were, ignoring who passed;

With eyeball to eyeball, they spoke to one another,

With compassion and truth, professed devotion to each other,

And then I knew the words to say ...

"Oh what love! How boundless it is!

How it longs for all to be under its wings!

Kids know better how to share the gift of love;

With innocence and simplicity, they'll rise higher than the sun,

For true friends are friends whose love never ends."

What have you to say to me now,

That friendship is cheap, is simple and sound?

Tell you what, sadly, you don't know

That the gift of love is eternal, or do you have to be told

Why Love has brought you into this world?

Then again, it is the truth to tell,

"True friends know that true love is never self."

So here I stand, by way of the green, shores and leaves,

And here I am, I declare my greatest defeat 

In my battle against Love, now this I say:

"Friendship, for me, is all that matters today, 

And I cannot lie but cry, that love empowers life;

So say what you want, do what you want

Yet I will never deter from what I was taught ...

"True friends are a blessing that ever to life was brought,

They are never alone, they are the same, their love never ends."

Loved this poem? Then why not share and leave a comment? That'll be really appreciated :-)

Tobi Ayeni

Photo by Jack Redgate

[asshymar]

Figment

Figment, Figment of my Imagination

I ring, and sing, tinge or hue of the dead

I spin my red head in my cozy bed

I said I said I'll get to it

Again, again,

The room spins, rinse the taste

Apply the toothpaste

And don't waste, yr space

Tidy up, hup ho

The show commences

The suspense is immense

But seriously, i rarely, barely, and scarcely

Embarrassedly, stand in

I miss the stars

My tiny heart scars

Northern light would free me

From this blight, tight my chest

I cannot rest, the best

Behest test of the holy crest

I spend my rending, unendingly

Candle flames as fan cuts air waves

Loaded video game saves

Unreal lights cast, color raves on

Flower, sun, & Rain,

Kill the past, Kill yr pain

Okay say what you mean pal

My mouth melded shut, knock’d flat

On my butt, cut the tape

Vape, crepe in Amsterdam, damn

The dutch interior is awfully inferior.

And no fever beaver, believer deceiver,

Receiver of this message, blessed is

The words like tiny buddhas

Who'da thunk it? Chunky

Monkey, it’s all a bit funky.

Hieroglyphics pictorial intelligence,

Expects correct verbal connects

From obscure texts with next to

No context, what’s next…

Ancient enchanted hex

My pictures are richer than

Cheesecake, never faked

Not once half baked, hey

Take a break-

Tonight for dinner, a nice juicy steak.

Large gaping eyes to summon

Among the few, monster spew

Gopher guts, crazy old nuts Hil

Who sputter and clutter, my rutter

Cuts thru grime, slime, and crime

Signant, newly acquired pigment

Ligament described in sublime

Form, hm… visual rhyme

To encase, the fragility of time

Since the beginning, there’s no winning

Grinning, i’m simmering, glimmering,

But shortly my heart halts

Bitter like hops and malts

Alternative, are representative

Attentive lectures performatively sure.

Dreaming of a golden shore

A take five breaks in my teeth

Crunchy, munchy, a bunch of candy

How dandy. You can barely stand me

I know, don't put on some show.

But what do you ever know,

To blow, slow, or escrow and hit

Below the belt, and spit on

Those you’ve writ judgments

Ill hold this grudge, ever since

Rain spills violently

Hell bentley spent quickly

Much too much gasoline,

Speckled frame gleans, with

A hue of red, and deadly sheen

Ween the spleen routine fixtures

Now picture this, split wrist

Writ trists of bliss hiss hiss

Snakes tongue rung the bell

“How could you tell?”

Technology could do little to dispel

The mythology, what hypocrisy

The hunger burns, churns in forums

Takes unholy forms, worms, squirms

Evil incarnate, gosh darn it

Necropolis apocalypse, in process of

The bosses, their losses, coin

Tosses- Heads, lead to new bets

New upsets, no rest.

Clutched deeply in my chest

What hope lies at the bitter

End of this burnt rope, it ties

Severed, leveled, in spite

Of petty things, like who is right?

Out of all the things people write

The wind pushes the technicolor

Kite, it might waver, but

Oh my, what a sight the

Ability of flight, its tight

Alright, it’s quite the fight

Unholy light, roly poly

Hides it face, solely,

Unformed, thru the earth

Wormed, and warmed,

You stole me, unalarmed

Storms formed, torn un born

Scorn of the earth-

Unasked for birth, what’s the worth

The ember that lies in the hearth

Eternally lit mirth

Scandals of vandals who mark

Walls not their own, lets light

One candle, to handle,

No dice, I’m wearing sandals

Words in terms, bitter salt sprinkled on fire burns

Take turns, my heart yearns, to at once, wrinkle

In spite my will continues to fight, holy light roly

Poly, I want to explain, my mind refrains, from

Doing so, yo-yo, train of thought goes, death throes

Patching together, sew phrasing, raising awareness

Life is a huge mess, my mind, how kind you thought

Of me, but can you really see the reality, oh moon beams

Seize, I believe, I receive the book, this outlook

Could cook, thoughts tender, come a while we’ll take

A bender, explore the splendor, you big spender

Render unto me, wind whistling thru the trees

And dirt speckling my freckled knee, heckled by bees

Free to wander, deepened the bond with her, spurs

Exotic furs, yours and mine, a better time, redder

I bet to confer, insure, alas it’s a cold and lonely life

Lass, don't sass, exacerbate, please elaborate, exonerate

“I need you to check the shipment of that crate” Great.

[cantfightmoonlight]

"I mean it," She murmured out. Her thumb lightly trailing across the line of his jaw as she guided his dark brown eyes over to meet hers. "You're," She started to say, her words still no more than a hush whisper as she pressed her lips together. Her cheeks blushing ever so slightly in embarrassment as she admitted, "You're the only person whose really checked in on me after everything and-" And she didn't know if he kept coming around out of guilt or something deeper, but whatever the reason, it felt good to know someone cared. Sure, everyone else were likely just preoccupied with everything that had happened with Poppy and all. But, that was the thing. Bri wasn't like Poppy. She didn't have a room full of people who would have wanted her to come back let alone were checking in. The way Frankie had reacted to her in the dreamscape, essentially telling her off for being so loud, was pretty much as good as it got whenever Bri wounded up dead. And yet, one of the few people who had the greatest reasons to avoid her, having seen her practically dissected a handful of times throughout the course one night and having likely been traumatized over accidentally killing her, was one of few who wouldn't leave her side. So, while Bri might have been typically one to hold a grudge- She was likely going to harbor resentment over what Frankie said to her for quite sometime just as she still resented the little snot monger who stole her legos from her in PreK- when she looked up at Ben, she couldn't help, but feel grateful that he was even bothering to still swing by. "And I know the dream was hardly easy for you too and I honestly thought you'd probably be so traumatized that you'd avoid me for the rest of eternity and that would be that. But, instead you end up being the exception, so it... it just means a lot is all. Even though," A breathless smile found its way back to her face as she teased him, ever so slightly, "I may have you taste test everything you offer me from here on out. Is it too soon to make a joke about how I had a feeling you'd be the death of me?"

"I-" Her smile widened despite itself as she tried to defend her impulsive purchases. "So, I may have went a tad overboard. But, you know what? I take no responsibility. It is completely the fault of this cute guy I've been trying to impress. If he was more forthcoming about the things he likes then- then I wouldn't have to, well... no judgement," She warned him as she swung her fridge open revealing the fully packed top shelf, stuffed to the brim with takeout containers. "And," Bri's mouth fell open as he listed off his favorite foods. "In my defense, Lunar Cove doesn't happen to have a Malaysian restaurant yet or a authentic British one, but oh! I do have," She closed the fridge door once more, grabbed the box of pastries she had picked up from Sucré and pointing to a scone. "A poor American version of a scone? That can't at all compare to a mother's homemade teacakes, but I promise is delicious even if it tastes closer to a muffin top?" She offered up, trying to make it sound more tempting than it is. "I'm guessing your parents live back in London?" She asked after a prolonged beat, having never known her biological parents herself, but she had never been all to curious. Not, when her adoptive parents more than made up for it.

"Of course," Ben whispered, his own words just as quiet, soft and gentle as she pressed her lips to his cheek. It felt a little underserved, all things considered. It was only killing her that had woken him up from the nightmare, the act of it so horrible it could only be his greatest fear. Ben was nothing if not a pacifist. He understood that, sometimes, violence was a necessary evil, and he knew that, other times, there was no alternative than for death to accompany it. That was the way of this world he now lived in, and he'd learned to accept that years ago. Even still, he was only human; there was no supernatural excuse for him committing murder, and he had no intention to ever cause such an action. So for him to kill Bri, someone he cared about, however accidental it might have been, was something that was still hard for him to face. Even if it was a dream, even if it freed them from it. So visiting Bri and checking on her was as much a penance as it was something he wanted to do, and he appreciated that she put up with his consistent bothering. It certainly wasn't something she had to do. Even still, it provided him a peace of mind to know that she was as alive and whole as she could be.

Ben raised an eyebrow as she mentioned how much food she'd ordered, allowing her to lead him through her home. "Only nearly everywhere? I'm curious to know what you left out," he teased. He considered the question, humming. "My favorite food? That's rather difficult. I like most foods; I like cooking and eating and the sense of community that comes with breaking bread with someone. I love my mother's teacakes. Sometimes she sends them to me through the post, but they're amazing fresh and warm. My dad learned to make pansuh from his mum and aunts, and it's a favorite dish of mine. But I don't know if I have a favorite food."

[anonny125]

Okay so I heard of the flowerfell stuff, but I never knew exactly what it was??? What was it all about, if you don't mind me asking :?

oh man ok so like

basic background information: there was this undertale fic. i dont remember what the first one was called, but it had the basic premise of “underfell but when frisk dies they grow a flower where the wound was”. i think it might’ve had frisk/sans content which isnt relevant but i mention bc the fact that its not relevant is weird given that i know for a fact that antis existed at that point? how did that never come up in the discourse?

anyways

other people started doing things with this universe, dubbed “flowerfell”. one such thing was that people who are fictionkin from it started cropping up, as tends to happen when media exists. for reasons that i will never understand but are presumably the same as literally everyone who does this, when the writer of the original fic found out about the kinfolk, they got fucking pissed.

as with all things, some rando telling you that your identity is fake doesn’t actually make said identity go away, even when said rando is the creator of your source. this did not please said creator.

in early january of 2017, the creator made an announcement on the official blog for the au that, due to “harassment” from the fictionkin community (harassment which, by the way, i have never actually seen proof of? so i have to assume that that word in this case means “existing without my permission”), they would no longer be allowing anyone except for themself and a few hand-picked individuals to create future content in the au. no fic, no art, no cosplay, absolutely nothing.

another thing worth noting at this point is that, at around the same time, an artist named stuart semple got into a feud with an artist named anish kapoor, because the latter had signed a contract granting him exclusive rights for a substance known as “vantablack”, the Blackest Black, a pigment so dark that it makes solid objects look like holes in reality, for use in art, and the former was like “hey thats a dick move”. all of tumblr watched in delight as semple released pigment after pigment declared as the Most of what it is, the purchase of which meant you agreed that you are not anish kapoor, you are not an associate of anish kapoor, and you do not intend for the product to end up in the hands of anish kapoor.

and yet, when it came to flowerfell, for some reason ok thats a joke i think we all know that the reason is that people fucking hate kin and will take literally any excuse to shit on them we as a fanbase decided that the rights of this person to dictate what is and isnt done with a world that is twice removed from being their own original content is more important than things like “basic principles of fandom” and “being a generally decent human being”

yknow how i mentioned earlier that this whole thing started because the author at least claimed to have been harassed? i, being the spiteful jackass that i am, broke out my Creative Writing Fingers for the first time in, like, two years i think, and made this short little thing about where chara might fit into the picture of the verse. i got more anon hate on that one day than i have in the entire rest of my five-year tumblr career. what the fuck yall

also just to add a cherry to the cake, partway through the shitstorm the writer replaced the official flowerfell blog with a screamer. their announcement was partially hidden under a readmore. fun stuff. real classy

so yeah its over a year later and im still salty about this

[moonunie]

I understand why they did what they did tbh

I see them so blatantly still dating and their parents knowing as a way of them saying Fine, you don't want to see us together then you won't but you can't control us and we'll do whatever we want and it's just gonna be another part of our lives you won't participate in and that sucks for You and you only. And for me that's still very in character.

This is them putting their love first. This is them believing in each other and ending another cycle of anger and guilt that they didn't have anything to do with in the first place. This is them saying that yeah, they couldn't change other people's perspectives, but to hell with it. They all can't change them either. And that's just how it is.

I saw a lot of people saying that it's not realistic because they suffered so much and fought for their relationship just for them to "go back to the closet/hiding" and that is literally not what happened lol the most important people in their lives know they're still together and they're all cool with it. They get to visit each other's places, go out together, go out with their friends, do whatever the hell they want and honestly good for them. What else could've they done? Fight their parents even more? Hold grudges for the rest of their lives? This is what they would do. This is what they did. And Pat and Pran are not their parents.

They are so good, that even if their parents don't like the idea of them being together (even if they don't say anything about it anymore, because they know it's happening anyway), they are still considerate. Pran gifts his damn father-in-law imported liquor. They keep going with their lives together, and if their parents ever want to be the bigger person for once, they'll gladly accept them to this part of their lives.

I said this earlier on another reblog, but sometimes that's what life is about. I don't want to keep arguing and fighting and having to remind myself I'm doing that. I don't want to hold grudges. I want to have a peaceful life with my partner, have a good time with our friends who love and support us unconditionally, and that's it. The ones that will be by our side, will. The ones that won't, sucks for them. I will keep doing me and there's nothing they can do about it.

I'm so happy for them. I'm so happy they get to have that, that they get to have each other and they never ever thought of parting ways because of outsiders. They deserve that so much, I wish them eternal happiness and hope that, someday, may Pat get to enter Pran's room back at his parents' house without having to sneak in. If only to spare his clumsy ass.

[rviden]

— BETRAYED BY THEIR HARBINGER S/O

#includes — baal, zhongli, venti

#warnings — betrayal(?), physical wounds

#pronouns — they/them

BAAL

the sword laid now shattered into pieces, all the elemental energy that she had channeled into was now running violently through her body.

you were different; stronger, faster, and more powerful then what she once knew.

“you- you’re one of them!” she knew harbingers in the past, some of which walked amongst her own people, and yet seeing you in this delusional state sent shivers down her spine.

“if you mean a harbinger, then yes — specifically the fifth of the eleven,” baal gritted her teeth, trying to push herself up, but the shocks that ran through her body stopped her from doing so.

her mind was in scrambles, and anger and betrayal was pumping heavily through her veins. “i trusted you-“

“and who’s fault is that?” your foot pushed the shards of metal around on the floor halfheartedly. “you can’t blame me for the stupid mistake you made — everything that had happened up until this moment is because of you,” the gnosis stayed clasped in your hand. “despite it being a foolish decision on your behalf, i have to thank you for helping my cause — you made my job easy.”

baal knew she was in no way shape or form in a condition to put up a fight, so she stayed down, watching as you pranced off with her gnosis in hand as you whistled an unfamiliar tune.

“i will track you down, and bring eternal hell upon you!” she made a promise of revenge.

“sure you will — without that gnosis, you’re not really worth a damn thing,” you stopped for the last time, sending a final glance over your shoulder. “i’ll be seeing you when the time comes my dear baal.”

ZHONGLI

he was a forgiving and fair man, never holding grudges unless he felt it was absolutely necessary — so maybe that’s why he couldn’t find it in himself to feel more then betrayal. no anger, no revenge thoughts — just hurt that you, someone he considered his lover of sorts, would turn your back on him and take with you everything that he was and more.

the small, glowing gnosis shone as you pinched it between your fingers — zhongli was left in a distressed state on the tiled floor of the funeral parlour.

“you- what have you done?” his body was physically fine, other then the now empty feeling that rested in his chest.

but everything hurt.

his hands shook violently, his eyes watered as if he had taken a hit to the nose, and his heart felt as if it were about to beat out of his chest. every pump of it sent a shocking feeling through his body.

“what have i done? i did my job morax — or should i say my dear zhongli?” you knelt in front of his heaving body, waving the gnosis teasingly in front of his face. “thanks for this by the way!” you stood, walking a few steps away from him as you looked over the small chess piece. “i thought i would’ve had to attack you out of the blue, but you let me walk right into that poor little heart of yours — and easy peasy.”

his heart hurt so badly after that, knowing that you were right. he blindly put his trust with the wrong person, letting his heart think over his brain.

zhongli had made it so simple for you to take advantage of him when he bore his heart to you daily — he was yours, but you weren’t his.

“i’ll be taking my leave now — i have an gift for my archon,” tucking the gnosis in the pocket of your jacket, you turned and began to walk away. “i’ll give her your greetings though!”

and he was left there, empty and hurting with no one to call for.

he was truly alone.

VENTI

how could he be so blind?

the way you pulled away when he asked about your past, how you never had an entirely positive outlook on archons, and how you never left home without a weapon tucked away. that and the mask that hung from your hip.

“how could you, i- i thought i could trust you,” no matter how much power he put behind his attacks, they were no match for your power — with the flick of your hand you would send him flying over and over again.

“i’m not exactly the ideal person to blindly out trust into... i have a tendency to backstab people,” your leg connected with his ribs, sending his body hurtling hard into the ground once again. “did nobody warn you?”

hot tears gathered in his eyes — frustration and sadness flowing endlessly through him.

everything had been fake — the soft moments, the drinks you shared, and the love that he now knew as one sided.

“y’know i actually enjoyed your company — you’re a lot different then my colleagues,” your foot pressed down hard on his chest, winding him even more then he already was. “they’re all so brooding and cold, and you were... you were actually fun!”

venti tried to replay the good moments over in his head — desperately trying to lose himself in the memories of what used to be.

“i enjoyed the little game i got to play — pulling the blindfold further and further over your eyes until you walked right into my trap,” he felt the weight leave his body, yet the presence grew closer. “the naive little bard... you were always such a lousy god,” you tossed his gnosis back and forth between hands. “no wonder it was an easy win.”

his heart was already shattered, his body battered and bruised, and his ego crushed.

all because of a tricky harbinger like yourself.

we hit 900 :)))

[dimdiamond]

Bagginshield fic list

Yeah, I decided to make one too because there are enough to cause me headaches and I'd like to have them somewhere organized. Please look at the tags before reading them!

Fix-it fics

Desperate magic by BeautifulFiction: Bilbo is left to tend Thorin as he hovers on the brink of death after the Battle of the Five Armies. Is love enough to save Erebor's king, or is this the last farewell?

Lay your troubles down by Avelera: An extended version of "the acorn scene." Bilbo sees his chance to snap Thorin out of his madness, and takes it.

The Riven Crown by BeautifulFiction: The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place. Then there is the matter of the gold... Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?

The Color of Possibility by lindoreda: When Bilbo puts himself between Thorin and Azog's blade, his mithril shirt protecting them both, it isn't long before some dwarves whisper that 'Oakenshield' might not be the best epithet for their king anymore. But for Bilbo, barred from Thorin's sight since the battle, this new epithet only adds to the sting. Spending his days caring for the recovering princes, Bilbo wonders how much more of this he can take, not suspecting his place at the center of a silent divide in the company.

Homesick by Margo_Kim: Five years after they've reclaimed Erebor, Thorin is sick of home, Bilbo is just sick, and neither is handling the situation ideally.

The Road Delivered Us Home by keelywolfe: In the years since Bilbo left Erebor, he has lost his respectability, gained a nephew, and gotten on with life at Bag End. He'd left aside adventure for the comforts and peace of his little Hobbit hole, and for the love of a child who needed him. Though perhaps, adventures can yet find him.

Notices in the Paper by YamBits: Bilbo returns to the Shire after his adventure, newly married, and newly homeless, after his two year absence allowed the Sackville-Bagginses to obtain Bag End. Bilbo and Thorin go to the Tooks for help, and find newly orphaned Frodo Baggins, also looking for a home.

A Royal Guardianship by ladyoakenshields: When Bilbo and Thorin return to the Shire for a sabbatical during Yuletide, they find a reason to retire the throne in Erebor sooner than expected.

The Shire's gems by awkwarng3: Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo move to the Shire after raising Frodo in Erebor, and Frodo makes a friend.

Time travel fix-it fics

An expected journey by MarieJacquelyn: For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right? Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

Bilbo Baggins, warrior of the Valar by Pallalalo: Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “And you’ve come to the Shire to look for this someone? My, Gandalf, I wonder if you know Hobbits at all. They would tell you that adventures are nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. That they would make you late for dinner.” Bilbo recalled his own words perfectly. It had been something he and Gandalf had looked back on with bittersweet laughter. This Gandalf however noticed his exact words. “Would they now? And what about you, mhm? What would you tell me about adventures?” #The Valar send Bilbo back in time, to the day where Gandalf asks him to join in an adventure. After living a lifetime of regret and suffering, he vows to change things for the better. For Thorin. For Frodo. But will he succeed?

I'll die to care for you by thehufflepuffhobbit: His gaze landed on Mahal's eyes once more. "You did your best, Thorin." It was tempting to look away; he wanted to deny that with everything he had. It certainly didn't feel as though falling into Gold Sickness and then dying was doing his best. Mahal smirked, as though he knew Thorin's desire to contradict him, and pinched his cheek before walking over to a table. "Aye, I didn't think you would believe me. I'm not lying, it certainly could have gone better. More according to my plan, but I know you really did try." "Your plan?" He didn't know if he should ask, really. Knowing that his Maker had set a course for him, he didn't want to think about the ways he had done everything wrong. There were too many examples of mistakes in his long life, too many opportunities that he had missed that had probably been planned for him from the beginning. Or:Mahal feels like Thorin fucked up his legacy and gives him a do over.

Darker times ahead by Reach4theSky: Bilbo is sailing to the Undying Lands but wary of letting go of the guilt that has been with him for many decade. His most sincerest wish is to go back and change what was done. Before reaching the lands of peace and healing, he dies aboard the ship and finds that his wish is being granted, not because he is the one to wish it but because this is the dwarves last chance to escape a fate of eternal waiting. He finds that not only is he going to be sent back to his younger body, but so is the entire Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Time is a fickle thing and not all the members have their memories returned to them at the same time. The journey on becomes interesting as the dwarves slowly remember and fight for themselves and their kin, yet new hurdles are thrown at them when they realize that more people remember than expected...

Of an arcane binding by Salvia_G: An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor.

Legends by DomesticGoddess: The fellowship has set out on its noble quest to destroy the ring and put an end to the threat that is Sauron! Just set out really, barely left the gates of Imladris, but things are going smoothly enough so far. That is until the two most unlikely party crashers fall upon their little fellowship. Uncle Bilbo and the Legendary Thorin Oakenshield?! Frodo just wants to know what's going on but the two of them won't stop hollering at each other long enough for anyone to get a word in edgewise. Suddenly, their little group is joined by Frodo's two biggest heroes and he discovers there was a lot more to Uncle Bilbo's stories than he realized.

Beside myself by bliboboggins: "What are you doing? Just who do you think you are?" Startled, Bilbo turned around slowly. And there, in a familiar patchwork dressing gown, brandishing a fire poker wildly about, was... Bilbo.

Erebor never fell au fics

The hearth doesn't make the home by Moonrose91: For things Bilbo could not change, he was condemned to a life of isolation, with the belief that none could love him. And then a Dwarf came to Hobbiton.

Clarity of vision by Mithen: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.

Ghivashel by mdseiran: The last thing Bilbo expects when he stays up late one night is company. The strange dwarf and his companion crash into his life and prove unexpected saviours. But the dwarf seems to think he will be joining them on their travels, and Bilbo has no such intentions.

The Song of My Heart by DomesticGoddess: After a failed attempt of trying to carve out a new home in the Blue Mountains for his people, Thorin finds himself beseeching the Hobbit Thain and his council for a place for his people in their bountiful land. An agreement is struck and plans in the works for integrating his people into their land. The only condition being an arranged marriage between himself and one of their family heads. A small price to pay to see his people safe and well fed. Unfortunately, he’s to marry the most disagreeable hobbit in all the Shire who also seems to hold a personal grudge against him. If only he could figure out why his new betrothed hates him so much.

Oak and Mistletoe by HildyJ: After a life dominated by a strange form of sickness, Thorin is sent to the Shire to seek a cure only Bilbo Baggins can offer.

Karkûn shukula - A Cinderella AU by harrypanther: When the Prince of the Shire visits the Kingdom of Erebor, there is great excitement. There are hopes he will choose to marry one of the Royal Family, cementing an alliance that would secure food supplies for the dwarven Kingdom and gain new allies. All eligible dwarves are expected to attend a series of Balls. Unknown to the guests, there is a third royal child, manoeuvred out by his ambitious stepmother, for whom this may be his last chance of restoring his fortunes and escaping his fate…

Alone this Yuletide by Emsiecat: 'Alone this Yuletide? Irritated with prying and nosey family members? I am an out of work blacksmith currently trying to make my way by any means necessary that does not involve my resorting to thievery (prisons are most uncomfortable, I've unfortunate first hand experience). However, if you would like me to be your strictly platonic companion for any social function, but have me pretend that we are in a serious courtship, so as to torment your family and ward off unwanted suitors then I am more than obliging...' After becoming increasingly irritated by overtures of romance from various Shire residents following the death of his mother four years ago, Bilbo is more than ready to resort to desperate measures. That is, up to and including pretending to be in a serious relationship with a certain surly blacksmith currently inhabiting the Bindbale Woods. It's a good idea after all; all they have to do is pretend to be in love over the Yuletide period and Bilbo's family and suitors will surely leave him alone after that. It's perfect! And nothing can possibly go wrong, right? Certainly nothing as preposterous as falling for one another for real...

Modern au fics

Nothing gold can stay by perkynurples: Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Love-In-Idleness by perkynurples: Taking Bilbo Baggins, a successful movie actor who is only just getting used to the perks and intricacies of becoming A Face People Want To See, and putting him together with Thorin Oakenshield, with his very traditional (read: slightly backwards) ideas about what constitutes Real Art and Real Talent, might very well be viewed as just some clothead’s idea of a joke. But there are jokes, and then there are carefully calculated risks the size of controversial reproductions of classic Shakespearean plays - for Bilbo, it is the chance of a lifetime to prove himself to all those who have ever deemed him too one-dimensional to even attempt stage, while Thorin has the opportunity to get out of the rut that’s been hindering his career for so long now, and shine in a role worthy of his talent once again. That is if the two learn how to share the same space for more than ten minutes without wanting to tear each other’s hair out. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all…

Candid by northerntrash: Thorin wasn't entirely sure why there was a six-foot candid photograph of him hanging in this exhibition, but he was going to wring the neck of whoever had put it there. In which Bilbo is a photographer, Thorin an accidental model, and Gandalf just likes to make trouble for everyone.

How the west was won and where it got us by stickman: Bilbo is a harried 1st year British literature Ph.D. (early 20th century fiction) who happens to have an interest in spatial narrative structures, a lack of time-management skills, and a tiny apartment with a lot of books and very little furniture. He’s stressed, always, and doesn't quite know where he belongs. He tells himself that really, this is, in fact, what he wants to be doing. But sometimes, as much as he loves books, he gets an urge to do something with his hands. Thorin is a disgruntled M.Arch. 1 in his last year who can’t be arsed to shave and frightens his students, and, frankly, his profs, but his work is top-notch so no one can really say much. They can, however, bully him into running a hands-on design workshop on Saturday mornings, which is complete crap, because he’s used to drinking his Friday nights into oblivion so showing up at Milstein at 7:45 the next morning and trying to teach in a room of wall-to-wall windows as the sun rises is not at the top of his list. Besides, no one ever shows up. Except one morning, someone does. [graduate school AU]

Butterfly effect by eyra: Yoga wasn’t for him. Yoga was for interesting people. Luminous people; people who took gap years and spoke a foreign language. People who ate lentils and burned incense and had fantastic, colourful friends with fantastic, colourful lives full of travel and silent retreats and those baggy trousers with elephants on them. Yoga was decidedly not for people like Bilbo, who wore cardigans and ate beans on toast and whose linguistic capabilities stretched only as far as a rusty Spanish A-Level. Just your regular story of boy meets yoga instructor.

Remover of the obstacles by MistakenMagic: "Dis often chided her older brother for being a misanthropist. She did it so often it had become a term of endearment. It was true that Thorin struggled with people; he struggled to form and maintain relationships. Dr. Grey had diagnosed him with this and Thorin hadn’t the heart to tell him this wasn’t a symptom of his PTSD, it was a symptom of his personality. He exercised a sense of apathy with almost everyone he met… But Bilbo was different. Thorin actually found himself wanting to know more about him."

Color outside the lines by andquitefrankly: Kindergarten has just gotten significantly better. Just ask Thorin, who's got the biggest crush on the new kid in class, Bilbo Baggins. With the help of his friends, Thorin knows that he can take back the swings from the 1st graders, show up the K-1 class in the school pageant, and win the heart of one curly haired boy. Yup. Kindergarten is going to be a year to remember.

Bran' New Suit by pibroch (littleblackdog): Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize him— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man. They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.

Different species au fics

I've grown a hedge around my heart by pibroch (littleblackdog): "Thorin was the essence of so many Buckland oddities, distilled into one misfortunate young hobbit, much to his infinite embarrassment. Built like a stork, his father had said once, in an example of Thrain Brandybuck’s usual tactless humour. All beak and legs." Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings. Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward. And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood. It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him. Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.

In which the dwarves are satyrs for reasons by HiddenKitty What the title says basically.

Bride of the demon king by DomesticGoddess: Thorin is King of the demons, a beast-like race feared by humans. Ever since the demons and humans formed a truce years ago, the humans have sent a young human every year as a tribute to the King of demons. Thorin is tired of having to deal with the tribute that has long since lost its meaning. The only tribute he'd be interested in is the boy he met fifteen years ago on the border of the demon and human realms. Despite his fantasies, Thorin knows the chances of ever seeing the boy again are slim to none, until they're not.

Lost He Wandered Under Leaves by serenbach: Thorin son of Thrain is a struggling blacksmith descended from a fallen line of kings. In an attempt to provide for his family over the winter, he reluctantly accepts an impossible sounding task - to hunt down an enchanted deer that lives in the Old Forest that borders the Shire, and make armour and weapons from its hide and antlers. He never expected to succeed. And he certainly never expected what he found to change his life so completely.

A Dryad's Tale by Bilbo Baggins by Moongazer12: Bilbo is a dryad (think little sibling to ents). Long ago a curse was placed upon him from destroying one of the rings of power. Whenever he touches someone with his bare skin he will make them insane. But despite this, he and Gandalf have gone on many adventures to help protect Middle Earth (What was the point to destroying the ring if something else destroyed it instead?) Gandalf has called on him once again to help on a quest, Bilbo just hopes that they read his amendments to the contract.

The quest but with a twist au fics

King, come at the red morning by Tawabids: Bilbo has heard fairytales of the lost prince of the dwarves, Thorin son of Thrain, who disappeared the day Smaug attacked the Lonely Mountain. But he does not believe in fairytales until he comes across the dwarf sleeping in the depths of Erebor, and kisses him back to life. Now Thorin - a hundred and fifty years out of his time - has to confront a world in which his city is empty, his people scattered, his baby brother Frerin is king, two nephews he's never met are missing in action, and a war is brewing right on his doorstep. And as if that wasn't complicated enough he's trapped in the body of an old man and falling stupidly in love with a gossipy, grudging little hobbit.

When the sun rises by Harry1981: Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was not a very respectable Hobbit. No respectable Hobbit had a sword and crossbow hanging in their home, nor did they have Dwarves as family. But Bilbo Baggins did, and all of Shire knew of his husband, blacksmith Thorin Oakenshield. When Bilbo comes home to find his Husband earlier than expected, he learns of a quest to reclaim Erebor. It is a death mission. Bilbo knows that Dwarves are stubborn creatures, and none more than Thorin himself. But nobody said that Bilbo himself was any less stubborn. So he will follow his dearest husband across all of Middle Earth, through plains and mountains and forests, all while hiding the true nature of their relationship (Dwarven politics never helped anyone), brushing off some old wounds (and getting new ones) and finding out new things about the dwarf Bilbo calls husband (and his extended family). Nobody ever said love was easy, after all.

Small, but fierce by DomesticGoddess: As a result of a magical mishap during the trip to the lonely mountain, Bilbo is reverted to a wee little hobbitling. Only in body, of course. His adult mind is still very aware of the indignity of it all (seriously! He doesn't need to be coddled, carried, and fed like a child). It turns out, dwarves love children and there is nothing cuter than Hobbit children. Bilbo soon realizes that he can get away with just about anything in his babyish form and starts taking full advantage of it. Even the grumpy brooding king can't deny the angelic little creature anything he desires (and Bilbo's going to milk that for all it's worth).

Your song like a home in my heart by Nennvial: In Middle Earth, all creatures have a soulmate. Not all have some, but if they do, it is a bond nothing can break, not even death. The more famous story of such a bound was the story of Bren and Luthien, who even defied detath. The way someone can find out that the other is one’s soulmate is through song: when they meet and hear the voice of the other, a song sings in their heart, which feels like home and makes them complete. They may refuse it if they wish to do so, but they hence risk a life of bitter looniness. Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins are soulmates, but they must admit it to themselves throughout their journey to Erebor.

To Dungeons Deep (And Caverns Old) by KingUndertheMountain: Bilbo Baggins was not your average hobbit. Of course, he had the wonderfully groomed and well-taken-care-of hairy feet like every other one of his race, yes, but he was not like other hobbits. He was cursed. Or, as the witch who gave him the enchantment put it, was “gifted”. She had given him the “gift” of obedience – whenever there was a direct command given to him, for example “cook a large meal” or “take a walk”, he could not disobey. Not without a lot of pain and eventual submission.

Chocolate candy one-shots

The world is sleeping (my world is you) by katheneverwrites (mandolinearts): I asked Persephone, “How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.” Persephone smiled, “My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.” - Nikita Gill ---“What do you mean, my friend?” There is a line of thought that surfaces in Gandalf’s mind, but he drowns it before it can take root. Surely not. But Bilbo’s chuckle sets him on edge. The small, gentle god of harvest, nature, and flowers sits up straighter, and in his crown of flowers there is a wire of strong metal, his cloak is suddenly not colorful anymore but the deepest black and he is terrifying, horrific, powerful - “I married Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the World.”

Of seasons by northerntrash: As far as he could tell, he had been kidnapped, which in itself made this week more than a little unusual. In which Bilbo steals away the Lord of Death, and Thorin can't quite bring himself to stay angry about it.

Warm up by paranoid_fridge: On one of their walks, Bilbo tumbles into a stream. They make it back to Bag End and Bilbo demands Thorin warm him up.

Royal Blue And Crimson Red by Mistofstars: Here's what happened before and after Bilbo accidentally eavesdrops on Gandalf and Elrond at night in Rivendell, as they discuss Thorin's quest and his family's history. Oh, and Thorin and Bilbo share a room, of course ;)

I was young when I left home by Margo_Kim: There was a pity clapper somewhere in the third row. Thorin finished his fourth song to polite applause from the people who noticed that the song was finished, but within the smattering of claps was someone beating his hands together like he was trying to rhythmically kill a fly. There was usually one of those, the kind who notices that no one else is paying attention and so is determined to compensate for that regardless of how they feel about the actual music. Thorin ignored him. It was easy to do so—he'd always hated looking at the audience when the singing was done.

A matter of buttons by StupidFatPenguin: “Your shirt,” says Thorin, quite out of the blue, and Bilbo looks down his front to see if there is a spot of tea or jam or anything equally embarrassing spilled on it. He is relieved to find nothing of the sort and looks up at the dwarf with an eyebrow raised in question. Thorin sits mute, his still-smoking pipe forgotten in his hand. He looks on for long moments still, seems almost lost to a thought before he shifts and lifts his gaze to meet Bilbo’s inquiring face. “It is familiar to me. Did you not wear this on the eve we met?” In which Bilbo and Thorin re-enact the evening they met.

The ladder by Milliethekitty27: Inspired from a post made by wheeloffortune-design on tumblr. Tired of his lonely kitchen in Yavanna's Garden, Bilbo Baggins wonders if the dwarven love of being underground is true in death. If so, maybe his dwarves are living (ha ha) under the very land Bilbo is weeding. With that thought, Bilbo goes and asks Hamfast for a shovel.

Love hobbit by HybridOwl: Bilbo Baggins considers himself a bit of a cock up, all things considered. He never made it out of his small highway adjacent town, can't seem to stop chain-smoking, and overall has more to talk about with the plants in his shop than 90% of all the rest of Middle Earth. So when he's reading the morning paper and a love note that can't be for anyone but him pops up, he's pretty sure - almost positive, really - that he's being made fun of. "TO the chain-smoking little stud who collects two metros from Gamgee's Goods every morning, will you be my love hobbit? - Bearded Biker." (heavily inspired by tumblr posts)

Fusion with other fandoms au fics

The Second Time by authoressjean; Sebastian Moran can't pull the trigger on John Watson to save his own hide, and what the hell is it with the doctor, anyway? Then Gandalf shows up, meddlesome wizard, and reminds him none too gently of his past life: as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of a company that had once included a small hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. One that looked decidedly like John Watson. And this would be the perfect chance to make things right with Bilbo the way he really hadn't been able to before he died, and that's when Gandalf tells him John doesn't remember being Bilbo, and to leave him alone. Right. Like that's going to happen.

And sow a star divided in us by MistakenMagic: Short summary: Gays in space! Longer summary: After his first successful solo mission, Jedi Knight Bilbo Baggins, trained by High Council member and full-time nuisance, Master Gandalf, returns to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. During an excursion to the sparring arena, he meets a group of Dwarven Jedi from Ered Luin, a mountainous planet located in the Outer Rim. Young padawans, Fili and Kili, are full of curiosity at this strange, barefoot Jedi, but Master Thorin, who appears to have the personality of a rancor and mental shields like blast doors, is less than impressed.

Comics you should definitely check

Every work by rutobuka, seriously they're criminally cute and they're not still favored by everyone without reason.

Retelling the Hobbit by Mellow_Comics: Bilbo has never been good at telling the "true" story of what happened on his journey to the Lonely Mountain. Now he's trying to turn the tale of his quest into a lighthearted children's book-- a bedtime story for his young nephew Frodo. But what really happened on his journey? And how did it actually affect him? This is a comic adaptation/retelling of the Hobbit! It's framed as a bedtime story that Bilbo is telling a younger Frodo.

For now these are some of my personal favourites! However, I'm sure my list will grow since my reading list has some gems still waiting for me to read, so be certain that there will be a part 2 of this list!

[mirageofthecrystal]

FFXIV Write 2022 - Day 2: Bolt

bolt (verb)

fasten (an object) to something else with a bolt

(of a person) move or run away suddenly.

Despite the eternally biting winds that forever embraced Coerthas in the wake of the Calamity, Faiolan still found himself wiping profuse sweat from his brow, having discarded his tunic to feel winter’s chill upon his flesh. Beneath his gloves of calfskin, his right hand grew sore, the constant striking of hammer against nails and bolts creating new calluses where they did not already exist.

A symphony of tools, sawing and striking and shaping, rang across the Firmament, numerous pairs of hands deftly working on the rebuilding effort. Where once stood a reminder of shattered lives, lost loved ones, and a conflict spanning the ages, now began to take on the silhouette of comfort and home. The restoration of Ishgard was an effort most monumental, and House Penderghast had opted to not only pour their resources entirely into the project, but lend their own hands to the building. The Ishgard of old had threatened to tear the family apart, had cast its children into chains, and almost brought about their absolute ruin, but those were wounds of the past. There was only the future now, and Faiolan wished his House to be a part of the positive change rather than join those still holding misbegotten grudges.

Unfortunately not all were of the same mind. Perhaps feeling a similar pall of responsibility for the destruction that had been caused, many of the volunteers who wished to aid in the Restoration had once been branded heretics, only allowed back into the Holy See after extensive and often aggressive ‘interviews’ to assure they were worthy of pardon. Many were turned away for willingly and readily taking the lives of their enemies, spilling Ishgardian blood while that same blood pulsed through their veins. Not all were given the consideration of a young lordling, cast out under false charges. And there were those who looked upon Faiolan just as harshly, just without the power to do anything about it.

Faiolan often worked quietly on his own, erecting the frameworks of houses from wood, then hoisting the stones into place, sealing them together, and one by one he aided in the erecting of new homes for those in need. And on most days, folk left him to his own devices, while sometimes he’d be brought meals, extra supplies, or missives from Knight Commander regarding his station in the Heaven’s Ward. Yet another piece of the puzzle that roused hatred in some and admiration in others, seeing the organisation reforged after their reputation had been abolished so thoroughly by treachery and malice, but reeling at a heretic soldier filling those lauded ranks.

Behind the din of tool and toil, Faiolan thought he detected a note of despair. Just down the way, in fact, he spotted a group of burly workmen hunched over something sprawled out over the stone roadway. One of them was smirking, clearly the leader, clutching a hammer in his hand that glistened crimson. Faiolan laid down his own hammer, and made his way over to the idling crew, their job plainly unfinished but their efforts dedicated elsewhere. Upon growing closer, Faiolan spotted that which had taken their interest so keenly; a man, clothes threadbare, hands rough from the same sort of work the rest of the lot had been doing, but blood bubbling forth from a fresh wound on his head. He rocked and groaned, tears filling his eyes as he begged Halone for mercy.

“The Fury has no mercy for filth and traitors,” the hammer-wielding thug pronounced, preparing to take another strike at the unfortunate source of his ire. “You lot all think that because the war is over, because things ‘round here have changed, that we’ll just forgive what you did? My wife burned in dragon fire, down to nothin’ but cinders, her screams still ringing in my ears whenever I feel so much as the warmth of a bonfire. The same sort of death you cheered for, eh? Even if you yourself didn’t cut her down, didn’t stop you from killing others in the name of that icey whore.” The man on the ground choked out another sob, his words unintelligible. “It’s about time you were given the fate you deserve. S’pose you’ll be with her soon, down in the seven hells with the rest of the traitors, liars, and murders.” The thug brought the hammer down, and Faiolan swept into its path, a set of metal fingers wrapping around the attacker’s forearm, points of its fingers digging into flesh. The magitek prosthetic enhanced Faiolan’s strength a mite, effortlessly halting the arc of the hammer while the man balked in disbelief.

“Another one o’ you heretics comin’ to the rescue?”

“Hey, Parisioux, I don’t think this is just some bleedin’ heretic. Ain’t he-”

“Drop the hammer,” Faiolan insisted.

“And what if I don’t?” The man tried to tug his arm free, but found Faiolan’s grip difficult to break. 

“I’m going to ask you again. Drop the hammer, and leave this poor soul alone. He was not responsible for the death of your wife, and like all of us, has likely lost loved ones of his own. We’re supposed to be forging a new path, not dwelling in the shadows and lies of the past.”

“To the HELLS with your new path. They should have strung the lot of you up outside the gates as a warnin’. Letting heretics walk the streets, consortin’ with dragons. Better off when we had our borders closed to strangers and filth.”

As if to punctuate the man’s sentiment, the loud cracking of a bone shattering filled the air, the defiant voice twisting into pained screams. The hammer fell idly from his grasp, Faiolan’s arm twisting the fractured limb further and further until the man dropped onto his knees. The other two flung themselves towards Faiolan in vain, believing that an advantage of numbers could overcome the disparity in prowess. Without a weapon even, Faiolan dispatched the trio. His boot buried into the side of the leader’s head, knocking him into the cobbled street and freeing his arm. He placed a single punch into the throat of another, which elicited a sickening gurgle of blood. The last roared in fearful fury, and Faiolan laced his metal fingers into the man’s shirt, hoisting him off the ground and punching him in the gut, flushing the wind from his lungs before dropping him atop the first.

“One last chance before I find myself lacking in mercy,” Faiolan said calmly, though his insides itched to rip, tear, and rend them apart for their disrespect. The trio struggled to gather themselves, and trained their eyes on him for a moment longer, before the bolted down the street and out of his sight. The threat dispatched, Faiolan reached down to help their victim up onto his feet, checking the wound which still oozed profusely. 

“We’ll need to get you to a chirurgeon, friend. But those men shan’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.” There was a cruel glint in Faiolan’s eyes, belying a savage darkness beneath the surface that he’d thought tamed for good. Sometimes it still crept up from the depths of his soul, clawing and gnashing for blood and violence. The glint dispersed, and the injured man sobbed into Faiolan’s tunic, incapable of forming words of gratitude for his life. Faiolan had recognized the man, and the man him, and t’was not the first time that Faiolan had plucked him from the jaws of death. A far cry from the battlefield of yore, but Faiolan never forgot those whom he’d saved… or the many, many more that had been lost. Peace was on the horizon for Ishgard, but challenges such as these still stood as an obstacle for that sun to finally rise on a new day.   

[queerthoughts-gaybrainrot]

“I’ve ... I’ve been having nightmares, about the monastery, the thorn wood.” When she had touched the ancient tree, she had felt the Darkling’s pain. The dragon hadn’t let her forget it.

“What happens in the dreams?” Alina asked.

“I become him.”

Genya worried her lip. “You’re being tortured?”

“Worse than that ... I have everything he wanted. The crown. The power. I’m a conqueror of cities, an empress, a killer.” In her dreams, she stood on the prow of a ship with a beautiful city before her. She raised her hands and the Fold rushed forward in a black tide, drowning Novokribirsk. She woke each night bathed in sweat, hearing her aunt’s screams. “I’m not certain we can just leave him there.”

Genya crossed her arms. “No?”

“Not if we want to rule justly. Not if the future is meant to be better than the past.”

“Do you have a fever?” Genya asked.

Genya, I hate you just as much as Mal now, please be quiet. Zoya is starting to make sense. If Zoya truly wants to be a Queen who has those strong morals of “casualties is something only villains accept” then she can hardly let a man suffer for eternity.

But Alina’s expression was knowing. “You’re afraid you’ll become him. You’re afraid you’ll be the avalanche.”

Immortal and unstoppable, another tragedy to befall Ravka.

“What are we meant to do?” Genya said. “Free him? Forgive him?” 

“Grant him death,” said Zoya.

Genya stood and walked to the mantel. “Does he deserve it?”

God, Genya, shut it! ‘does he deserve it’ well he didn’t choose the most common punishment for desertion for any of you, so I'd say he does! also, they killed him once already, he suffered in death, and he still sacrificed himself to eternal suffering for them, and it’s still not enough? fuck that.

“That’s not my choice to make,” said Zoya. “Not on my own.”

Alina rested her head on the back of the couch. “Why are we even discussing this? From what I understand, the Darkling knew the bargain he made. He stands at the doorway between worlds. If he dies, the Fold ruptures again and the void comes pouring through.”

“Yes,” said Zoya. “But the monk told me that a heart as strong as his could free him.” She’d spoken Liliyana’s words. She’d wanted Zoya to listen.

Alina has very little empathy for someone who works with kids. Let’s hope none of her orphans will ever suffer ptsd, or anger issues. she’ll leave them to the wolves!

Genya made a kind of humming noise. “So, if we decide he deserves the mercy of death, where does that leave us?”

I feel like Sasha, this is fucking torture, reading this. I’m supposed to like this character????

There was a long silence in the room. At last Genya reached for Alina’s glass and took a long sip. “I don’t believe the Darkling has earned forgiveness. I don’t know how many years of pain buys that, or when we become the monsters and he becomes the victim. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing that math. If there’s really a way to accomplish it, let’s be rid of this burden once and for all.”

You already are monsters, by your own definitions, dear protagonists. Unnecessary cruelty, vengefulness to the extreme, holding grudges, would rather decide someone is beyond salvation and torture them in the worst ways than admit that the world is not black and white. Fuck, where’s a Fjerdan bomb when you need one?

just, ugh. I've read fanfics that do better characterisations than this book.