#maybe I'll find a way

[queenhawke]

youre probably busy with other stuff but i had this idea for a fluffy little fic where brad goes to the farmers market with david and they are happy and joyous and love each other . i loveeee your angst fics i positively freaked the fuck out (understatement) over the angst fic you posted earlier today but i feel like people dont write enough baksbee fluff thats actually in character and i love the way you characterize both of them ... like sometimes the stuff you write feels straight out of the show itself yk . anyways yeah thats all ^_^ again ur probably working on other stuff so like . this was just to throw this out into the world

i don't think i CAN write good baksbee fluff tbh bc like. the way i ship them i need them to be lowkey miserable about it sgdghd. or. hm. maybe if Brad is super reluctant about it and is bitching all the way through. idk I need there to be some kind of friction u know.

[shiningnorthernlights]

.

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[inkskinned]

before you know about women, you hear that you do not need to love the man, just that you need to love him through his manhood. which is to say you have seen the future painted in lamb's blood over your eyes - how your mother shoots you a look about your father's inability to cook right. how your aunt holds her wineglass and says i'm gonna kill em. men, right! how your best friend bickers with her boyfriend, how she says i can't help it. i come back to him.

you learn: men are gonna cheat. men aren't going to listen when you're talking, because you're nagging. men think emotions are stupid. they think your life is vapid and your hobbies are embarrassing. men will slam things, but that's because men are allowed to be angry. if you get loud, you're hysterical. if a man gets loud - well, men are animals, men are dogs, men can't control their hands or their eyes or their bodies. they're going to make a snide comment about you in the locker room, about your body, about how you're so fucking annoying. you're going to give him kids, and he will give you the money for the kids, and you're going to be running the house 24/7 - but he gets to relax after a long day, because his job is stressful. the man is on stage, and is a comedian, and says "women!"

and you are supposed to love that. you are supposed to love men through how horrible they are to you - because that's what women do. that's what good women do. wife material. your father even told you once - it'll make sense when you're older. it was like staring down a very lonely tunnel.

it feels like something's caught in your throat, but it's all you know, so. it's okay that you see sex as a necessary tool, a sort of okay-enough ritual to keep him happy, even though he doesn't seem to care about happiness as-applied-to you. it is relationship upkeep. it is kissing him and smiling even though he didn't brush his teeth. it is getting on your knees and looking up and holding back a sigh because he barely holds you as you panic through the night. it's not like the sex is bad and you do like feeling wanted. and besides! he's a man! like... they're another species. you'll never be able to actually communicate, right. he isn't listening.

you just don't get it. you don't feel that sense of i'm gonna climb him like a tree. mostly it just feels fucking exhausting. you play the part perfectly. you smile and nod and are "effortlessly" charming. and it's fine! it's alright! you even love him, if you're looking. you could have good life, and a good family, and perfectly happy.

in the late night you google: am i broken. you google i'm not attracted to my husband. you google i get turned on by books but not by him. you google how to get better in bed.

the first time he yells at you, it almost feels like blankness. like - of course this is happening. this is always how it was going to end up. men get angry, and they yell, and you sit there in silence.

you mention it to your friend - just the once - while you're drunk. she shrugs and says it's like that with me too, i just try to forget and move on. men are always gonna hear what they want to. pick your battles and say sorry even though he's in the wrong. you play solitaire online for a month. you go to your therapist appointment and preach about how you're both so in love.

after all, you have a future to want. nobody lied about it - how many instagram posts say marriage is hard. say real love takes work. say we fight like cats and dogs but the best part is that we always make up. how many of your friends say happy anniversary to the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. if you really loved him - loved yourself too - you'd accept that men are just different from you.

the first time she kisses you, it's on a dare at a party. something large and terrifying whips through your body. you wake up sweating from dreams where her mouth is encrusted with pearls and you pick them off one by one with your teeth. fuck. you sit at the computer and your almost-finished game of sim city. you think about your potential perfect life and your potential future family. you google am i gay quiz with your little hands shaking.

you delete each letter slowly. you don't need to love him. you just need to keep going.

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: What was wrong with the timing?!

Pac: You did it in the worst possible timing! Everything was–

Bagi: I think we ruined the kiss.

Everyone:

Pac: It– it wasn't the kiss, more– you know? It was– *mumbles*

Tubbo: IT WAS MORE?! IT WAS MORE?! ON THE FIRST DATE?!

Bagi: WE DON'T NEED THE DETAILS!

Fit: That's not what he meant!

[eyeballs-in-my-head]

The gang is playing Overcooked 2

The speech might be hard to read in the correct order, so I numbered them!

I was having a reeeaaally hard time deciding whether I should post shadowpeach as my first post, but...

I thought, naaaah that can wait ( ≖⩊≖ )

BONUS:

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The ache will go away, eventually. 

That was what the Professor told them, the day they got back. When they tumbled from the wardrobe in a heap of tangled limbs, and found that the world had been torn from under their feet with all the kindness of a serpent. 

They picked themselves off of the floorboards with smiles plastered on child faces, and sat with the Professor in his study drinking cup after cup of tea. 

But the smiles were fake. The tea was like ash on their tongues. And when they went to bed that night, none of them could sleep in beds that were too foreign, in bodies that had not been their own for years. Instead they grouped into one room and sat on the floor and whispered, late into the night. 

When morning came, Mrs. Macready discovered the four of them asleep in Peter and Edmund’s bedroom, tangled in a heap of pillows and blankets with their arms looped across one another. They woke a few moments after her entry and seemed confused, lost even, staring around the room with pale faces, eyes raking over each framed painting on the wall and across every bit of furniture as if it was foreign to them. “Come to breakfast,” Mrs. Macready said as she turned to go, but inside she wondered. 

For the children’s faces had held the same sadness that she saw sometimes in the Professor’s. A yearning, a shock, a numbness, as if their very hearts had been ripped from their chests.

At breakfast Lucy sat huddled between her brothers, wrapped in a shawl that was much too big for her as she warmed her hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Edmund fidgeted in his seat and kept reaching up to his hair as if to feel for something that was no longer there. Susan pushed her food idly around on her plate with her fork and hummed a strange melody under her breath. And Peter folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall with eyes that seemed much too old for his face. 

It chilled Mrs. Macready to see their silence, their strangeness, when only yesterday they had been running all over the house, pounding through the halls, shouting and laughing in the bedrooms. It was as if something, something terrible and mysterious and lengthy, had occurred yesterday, but surely that could not be. 

She remarked upon it to the Professor, but he only smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “They’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t so sure. 

They seemed so lost. 

Lucy disappeared into one of the rooms later that day, a room that Mrs. Macready knew was bare save for an old wardrobe of the professor’s. She couldn’t imagine what the child would want to go in there for, but children were strange and perhaps she was just playing some game. When Lucy came out again a few minutes later, sobbing and stumbling back down the hall with her hair askew, Mrs. Macready tried to console her, but Lucy found no comfort in her arms. “It wasn’t there,” she kept saying, inconsolable, and wouldn’t stop crying until her siblings came and gathered her in their arms and said in soothing voices, “Perhaps we’ll go back someday, Lu.” 

Go back where, Mrs. Macready wondered? She stepped into the room Lucy had been in later on in the evening and looked around, but there was nothing but dust and an empty space where coats used to hang in the wardrobe. The children must have taken them recently and forgotten to return them, not that it really mattered. They were so old and musty and the Professor had probably forgotten them long ago. But what could have made the child cry so? Try as she might, Mrs. Macready could find no answer, and she left the room dissatisfied and covered in dust. 

Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Susan took tea in the Professor’s room again that night, and the next, and the next, and the next. They slept in Peter and Edmund’s room, then Susan and Lucy’s, then Peter and Edmund’s again and so on, swapping every night till Mrs. Macready wondered how they could possibly get any sleep. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but it was where she found them, morning after morning. 

Each morning they looked sadder than before, and breakfast was silent. Each afternoon Lucy went into the room with the wardrobe, carrying a little lion figurine Edmund had carved her, and came out crying a little while later. And then one day she didn’t, and went wandering in the woods and fields around the Professor’s house instead. She came back with grassy fingers and a scratch on one cheek and a crown of flowers on her head, but she seemed content. Happy, even. Mrs. Macready heard her singing to herself in a language she’d never heard before as Lucy skipped past her in the hall, leaving flower petals on the floor in her wake. Mrs. Macready couldn’t bring herself to tell the child to pick them up, and instead just left them where they were. 

More days and nights went by. One day it was Peter who went into the room with the wardrobe, bringing with him an old cloak of the Professor’s, and he was gone for quite a while. Thirty or forty minutes, Mrs. Macready would guess. When he came out, his shoulders were straighter and his chin lifted higher, but tears were dried upon his cheeks and his eyes were frightening. Noble and fierce, like the eyes of a king. The cloak still hung about his shoulders and made him seem almost like an adult. 

Peter never went into the wardrobe room again, but Susan did, a few weeks later. She took a dried flower crown inside with her and sat in there at least an hour, and when she came out her hair was so elaborately braided that Mrs. Macready wondered where on earth she had learned it. The flower crown was perched atop her head as she went back down the hall, and she walked so gracefully that she seemed to be floating on the air itself. In spite of her red eyes, she smiled, and seemed content to wander the mansion afterwards, reading or sketching or making delicate jewelry out of little pebbles and dried flowers Lucy brought her from the woods. 

More weeks went by. The children still took tea in the Professor’s study on occasion, but not as often as before. Lucy now went on her daily walks outdoors, and sometimes Peter or Susan, or both of them at once, accompanied her. Edmund stayed upstairs for the most part, reading or writing, keeping quiet and looking paler and sadder by the day. 

Finally he, too, went into the wardrobe room. 

He stayed for hours, hours upon hours. He took nothing in save for a wooden sword he had carved from a stick Lucy brought him from outside, and he didn’t come out again. The shadows lengthened across the hall and the sun sank lower in the sky and finally Mrs. Macready made herself speak quietly to Peter as the boy came out of the Professor’s study. “Your brother has been gone for hours,” she told him crisply, but she was privately alarmed, because Peter’s face shifted into panic and he disappeared upstairs without a word. 

Mrs. Macready followed him silently after around thirty minutes and pressed an ear to the door of the wardrobe room. Voices drifted from beyond. Edmund’s and Peter’s, yes, but she could also hear the soft tones of Lucy and Susan. 

“Why did he send us back?” Edmund was saying. It sounded as if he had been crying.  

Mrs. Macready couldn’t catch the answer, but when the siblings trickled out of the room an hour later, Edmund’s wooden sword was missing, and the flower crown Susan had been wearing lately was gone, and Peter no longer had his old cloak, and Lucy wasn’t carrying her lion figurine, and the four of them had clasped hands and sad, but smiling, faces. 

Mrs. Macready slipped into the room once they were gone and opened the wardrobe, and there at the bottom were the sword and the crown and the cloak and the lion. An offering of sorts, almost, or perhaps just items left there for future use, for whenever they next went into the wardrobe room.  

But they never did, and one day they were gone for good, off home, and the mansion was silent again. And it had been a long time since that morning that Mrs. Macready had found them all piled together in one bedroom, but ever since then they hadn’t quite been children, and she wanted to know why.

She climbed the steps again to the floor of the house where the old wardrobe was, and then went into the room and crossed the floor to the opposite wall. 

When she pulled the wardrobe door open, the four items the Pevensie children had left inside of it were missing. 

And just for a moment, it seemed to her that a cool gust of air brushed her face, coming from the darkness beyond where the missing coats used to hang.

[cometshift]

predisasters

[moon-mirage]

"You missed a strand."

[ryllen]

something i promised on my kofi 6 months ago... 🫠

[sergle]

I think I'm going to make a temperature blanket this year

[emile-hides]

As I was going to bed last night I realized I designed three costumes and there are three Frankies.. And then this is all I thought about literally all day

[italyveneziano]

Obsessed with what America and England have going on in HetaOni. America's like "I keep having to watch my dad die from overusing his magic in past timelines and not knowing how to stop it is killing me inside but I'm not going to talk to him about it" and England's like "I can't seem to hold a conversation with my son without insulting him but I won't hesitate to use my dying breath to ensure I can protect him from beyond the grave"

[psychomusic]

oc time again! + her town & culture (heavily inspired by pre-roman italic populations)

she is suri sauthon. her story is linked to my swtor imperial agent, tar'x, but most of her life except for the one year away where she meets him, is spent in a town in the mountains of mirial.

despite mirial being cold and desert, and many cities developing underground, her town flourishes thanks to a force nexus, venerated in the form of an ancient, sacred, alive crystal. the ecosystem of that mountain depended on what "the horned crystal" was capable of giving them, but mirialans couldn't live off of that alone, so they developed trade and some rudimental technology, even if oftentimes it was bought thanks to the highly profitable trade of a plant used to make medicines that slowed down aging and had overall healing properties.

note: everything that's generated by this nexus has these healing properties BUT they have to be processed, except for those who bathed in the waters of the cavity under the crystal - the "real" nexus, but not the worshipped one. the waters were sacred but they were not thought to be miraculous, unlike the crystal, who instead was thought of as the keystone of the ecosystem: without it, everything would fall apart (and that is partially true: the cavity was the "real" nexus but thanks to the crystal, also strong in the force, the properties were spread all over the mountains). those who bathed in the cavity's waters - so, all of the town, who had a sort of baptism there - could eat the plant, make whatever food with it, and not only that plant, but everything generated by the nexus, that, again, had similar properties. this allowed people to live up to normal life-spans without advanced medicines or, much, really. to those who didn't live there, though, after the processing, had incredible effects, slowing down aging - for those who took it regularly - and making people able to live up to half a century more than the average]

originally, there were four tribes of nomads that lived thanks to horned farm animals that decided to settle down into one bigger town and other smaller settlements, to live off of transhumance. this division of the tribes stayed into the political and social organization: every person belonged to one tribe specifically, and had slightly different rituals and culture. for examples, each tribe had their own priests and healers, with different techniques and traditions. the town, tho, was guided by a group of people in the high priesthood, a position you could reach only by having earned the trust of all tribes. those high priests had many roles: they guided the people into sacred processions common to all the tribes, they managed the trading with outsiders, they did the maintenance of the temple of the summit (the one that functioned as casket to the crystal) and created a special liquid to offer the crystal that helps it grow.

this particular temple was important because 1. it was very visible, from every angle of the town, and it became an important identity symbol; 2. it stored the venerated horned crystal; 3. it had the altar where sacrifices were made for the crystals. that altar had a hole connected to the cavity, that allowed the liquids to reach the underground; 4. it had various symbols: statues representing each tribe + the high priesthood, and typical mirialan tattoos carved into the wood of the trees that served as columns for the temple, symbolizing 8 values that who dared to enter HAD to have; 5. it was on the way to an important lake (called "mother lake" because the lake the town was built around to depended on the waters of that other lake) where they traveled to in important processions; 6. it was said that a the wizard who unified the tribes made it with its magic, making the plant grow to hold the temple's roof. this wizard was, actually, a force user, obv.

BACK TO HER THOUGH: she's daughter of one of the high priests, who was in charge of managing the trades with outsiders, and lives in a house on the mountains with her mother and him. her parents are from different tribes (that's one of the things that earned him trust from the 4 tribes): when a child is born from two different tribes, they don't pick one to allign to, but they're usually linked automatically to the one with more relatives in it (in her case, the father's tribe: she had many uncles and aunts on his side while her mom only had one sister).

later, though, she got quite tied to her mother's tribe due to a mysterious illness that only her mother's tribe healer was able to cure. she spent 4 years (from 10 to 14 years old) living with the healer and learned her secrets. to better study, she wrote them down. when she returned home, she studied to become a priestess with her father. at 22 (the average age: you can't become priest before your 20s), she was supposed to take a test and become a priestess, but the healer of her mother's tribe died and the tribe asked her to take her place. she couldn't technically do that, but both tribes estimated both her and her parents and she was allowed to become both. she then decided to try to become a high priestess, and became one at 25 (a quite young age). being part of the council, she tried to convince the various tribe healers to unite their knowledges and write them down, and eventually made it. healers still remained tribe based but they now had an "upper, inter-tribe level" similar to high priesthood.

years later, the sacred horned crystal is stolen from the temple by some Hutt mercenaries looking for a profit. given the trust she has earned from all the tribes and the fact that her father is the high priest that deals with outsiders (and she's been hearing stories and advice about it since she was little), she is the one tasked with getting it back. without the growing crystal, the keystone to their ecosystem, the village would have lasted only a few years. in hrr quest, she meets imperial intelligence agent tar'x laran and, as they "solve the mystery" and fight to have it back, they get closer. they'll get married and have a daughter, Vegoia (who's the only one who actually will get to the plot of my story. this was all background)

[xejune]

poppy is filling him in on the events of Band Together he wasn't around for :')

(@oopsallwhimsy)

[thorin]

i wrote a little something that i have no idea if i'll continue, but i just really wanted to write a bagginshield fic through kíli's point of view, i thought it'd be fun. so enjoy!

tw: a bit of angst, mention of blood, but nothing too graphic, or excessive.

Contrary to popular belief, Kíli was not stupid.

He knew there'd been something going on between his uncle and Mr. Baggins the second he saw him break a smile —which was already suspicious— at Bilbo at the Carrock before hugging him —even more suspicious— after he'd defended his uncle from what was certain death.

Now don't get him wrong, he was more grateful to Bilbo than he could ever say. He saved Thorin's, and Fíli's, and his life too many times to count. He'd stayed after the battle had died down, and helped the healers, elven and dwarven alike, tend to the wounded and bury the fallen. He'd spent his entire days helping Bombur cook food at the makeshift camp they'd set at the base of the mountain, and when he wasn't cooking, he was stealing peaches and apples from the elves' food carts just for him and Fíli when they were bedridden. And he'd sit beside Thorin and wait for him to wake up when his nephews couldn't be there for him.

Kíli really liked Bilbo. He'd grown on him, all of them, truly. He just couldn't believe someone so small could be so brave, and feisty!

Which is why he was extremely confused when he'd heard Bilbo would be going home after Thorin had woken up.

His first reaction was that he felt abandoned. How could a member of their company simply choose to leave after all they'd been through together? He almost shouted his disagreement, before Fíli took his arm, shaking his head, and looked right at Bilbo: tear tracks on his dirty face. Maybe he wasn't leaving by choice.

He looked to his uncle, sat up against the wooden bedpost. His jaw was set and his adam's apple bobbed, as if it were physically hurting him to not speak up. His eyes were transfixed by Bilbo's back, like if he tried hard enough, his eyes could tell Bilbo all he wouldn't say.

Understanding flashed through Kíli's mind in a second. But it was too late. He tried speaking up again, aware of this new piece of information that he'd uncovered, but Thorin wouldn't have it. And it was frustrating Kíli greatly, because he'd never heard his uncle, his brave, tenacious uncle, speak with such a small, hoarse voice before, and say that if Bilbo wishes to leave, then he is free to go, with his blessing.

None of it rang true. How did no one notice? Why wasn't anyone saying anything?

By the time he'd looked at Bilbo again, he was already out of the tent, backpack on his shoulders.

Kíli was not proud of how he acted. He'd shouted at Thorin, painfully aware of his uncle's feeble health, but unable to contain his grief: he'd killed hundreds and seen another hundred killed, he'd almost lost his brother and uncle, and almost left his mother all alone in this world, and now his friend was leaving him, leaving them all. He'd fought relentlessly for months, why couldn't his uncle fight just a little longer, a little more? Why wouldn't he fight for his family like he said he always would?

Oin kicked Kíli out of the tent the second he saw Thorin's bandages become red. He was horrified. He'd never dream of hurting Thorin, but everything felt wrong. He'd never once cried on this journey. Not when his uncle was knocked unconscious by that foul orc, nor when he'd lost the rune stone given to him by his mother. But now he couldn't hold it in. It all came pouring out as someone —his brother, surely— held him, kneeled down on the ground. He wept until the stars came out.

────────

Months had passed ever since Azsâlul'abad was reclaimed. The harsh Eastern winter had finally given way to spring's sunshine rays, and although the mountain's citizens couldn't say they lived an easy life, they had food and a roof over their heads, which was more than they'd had for years. More and more dwarves were coming home from all over Middle-Earth, as word of Smaug's death was starting to spread. Reconstruction was slow, but steady, and life had shaped itself into a vibrant routine under the Lonely Mountain.

Kíli and Fíli had been crowned princes, and Thorin had been crowned king. His mother had finally come to join them on a caravan she lead from Shahrulbizad, and each member of the company was appointed to some sort of important position in the king's court. It was difficult for Kíli and his brother to get used to their new lives as royalty and the responsibilities that came along with it, and Kíli was grateful for any moment of respite he could have away from the eccentric Iron Hills nobles and Balin's royal classes. His days all looked the same, and yet he found he just couldn't get used to this new life.

Thorin, Kíli had noticed, clearly felt the same, though there was no running away for him. For any person that didn't know his uncle, they'd think he looked perfectly normal, if only a little stern. But Kíli knew that look. It was the same one he'd wear on his face when he attended feasts, sat at his throne, silent, while everybody around him drank and laughed. Or when he attended meetings with the court. Or when he watched Bilbo leave, a winter ago.

Kíli was not stupid. He saw how much his uncle suffered, and how much every single member of the company missed their friend. He missed Bilbo, too.

Which is why he sent a letter adressed to Bilbo Baggins of Bag End in the Shire, pretending to be Thorin II, King Under the Mountain, begging him to come back.

Surely that would solve everybody's problem. Right?