#momkura

[suika-suigetsu]

Momkura and Sarababy 🩷

[a-coward]

He can’t remember her face

[shadow-chan93]

Recently I tried to draw Momkura but I fucked up her face, so I’m only showing you the cropped version lmao. But of course I’m gonna pretend that was all intended and that her face is faded away because adult/ghost TKB cannot remember her face anymore U_U

But mini TKB with tiny snek is cute, so I decided to upload the pic even if I fucked it up

[dmbakura]

it’s been a while since i’ve drawn Sati, so i decided to finally draw Thief King Bakura’s dad as well :3c

his name was Hamadi and he loved bad jokes

[ahhvernin]

Day 3: Spell

@motherofthering

Mother makes the best pies.

[aziraamane]

Never-Going-to-Be-Six Sentence Sunday - 1/6/18

Fuck it, I finished up despairing over my list of Ancient Egyptian names and composed myself enough to give you this snippet from my upcoming submission for the 2018 YuGiOh Big Bang. “The Pharaoh still walks amongst you all,” Mery finally whispered. “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?” 

Atem inclined his head. “Great matriarch, I didn’t do enough to save the people of my country. We failed Kul Elna and sullied your existence. A thousand apologies will never suffice. I don’t expect you to forgive me.” 

Mery nodded slowly. “You regained your ren.” It was a statement, not a question.

 “I did.” 

“Speak your name.” 

“Atem, great matriarch.” 

The reverence and respect in Atem’s tone was profound and sincere. As the syllables left his mouth, the air hummed with deep, ancient magic, the power of the avatar of the gods himself. Malik couldn’t help but shiver at the sensation. 

Mery was silent a moment, eyes never leaving Atem. Then she sighed quietly, her gaze growing softer. “The power of names still stands to this day. So you must understand, better than anyone else here, why I call my son by name. The second death is fear itself.”

[motherofthering]

"Anyone up for a sweet treat? Im sure there's plenty to go around."

[atlastfree]

tantrum — 2,032 words; thief king bakura & momkura(s); one shot, t rating for violence ment

in which two people had been waiting patiently for bakura, who is not nearly as patient

He’d expected waking up to a mosh pit of corpses, which would have been damn lucky, cause that meant he’d have something to do. There was a bucket list of sorts, (is it a bucket list if you’re already dead and gone?) things he’d want to do and places he’d want to see in the Hell that he imagined, (and trust me, he’d imagined.)

That was, of course, after the initial welcome was said. After he’d been swallowed up by his own laughter at the sick irony, when the crowd crush was overwith, and when his initiation into being a true child of Kul Elna by becoming a half alive, withered and shrieking soul of the damned was complete, oh yes, he’d have much of his not-life to live. If the eternal torture was merciful enough for lunch breaks, of course, but that’s just nitpicking the details, now, isn’t it?

He’d still have his hobbies to talk about while his ribs were being smashed into itty bitty baby thief sized pieces. Stuff like long walks on the beach. Stamp collecting. Croquet. Murdering the Pharaoh and bathing in his blood. Boat rides. He can’t remember the rest, but it’s the thought that counts. He could pick up some new ones.

… Decidedly, this was not a mosh pit full of corpses.

Instinctively, his fingers dug into the flora at his sides as he let out a guttural roar. The scream tore at his throat, and when no pain came of it, he only felt his blood boil more. He failed, of course. Naturally, that is, and now the Gods won’t even allow him to tear and dig at his own skin to pluck out the wicked ring that he’d wanted to scream at until he was a voiceless crying mess on the floor.

The anger in him was a singularity. The bloodlust was a disease. Coursing through his blood, like a mantra— more, more, more.

He suddenly recalls the other half of his hobbies. Murdering the Pharaoh and bathing in his blood. Right. Of course, of course. How forgetful of him.

The thief patted at his sides. If he wasn’t suffocating on the smell of death, it meant he had the chance to do something. It was not clear what “something,” entailed, but it was probably better than eternal boredom, or unadulterated rage.

There was a ritual to these things: check for wounds, start from the bottom, work your way up. He started when he was 11, and carried it with him everywhere— even into bodies that weren’t his. Whenever he woke up from underneath rubble, or from within worlds of darkness, voice like a little brother’s in the back of his head complaining that he was hungry, the habit came first.

It was meditative. Take inventory of the body now, shred everything down to its last tendon layer.

Feet: Miraculously not sore. Neither are his legs. His eyes are closed, though, because experience taught him that when something is mercifully unfeeling enough it means the worst. He’ll decide to stop being a pussy about that when he’s finished with the rest of him.

Pelvis: Fine, thank every shithole God he could think of. Leg injuries were bearable, foot injuries less so— but the pelvis was annoying, even if it was just aching. Long falls as the king of bandits resulted in weeks of bedrid. Drawn out, unbearable, annoying weeks; weeks he could have been out there, planning, plotting, deceiving, murdering the Pharaoh and bathing in his blood.

But the injury dragged on. A car collision in Ryou’s body at a hard age 6 resulted in one of these, you know— and two dead bodies to boot. But the thief assured Ryou didn’t end up being one of them. They still needed to do wonderful things together. All sorts of horrible, wonderful things.

Anyway.

Torso: Thank fucking God, no lacerations, no open wounds, no broken ribs. The thief felt up and down his skin, just a double check for nothing particularly deep cutting. His fingers brushed over a spot below the ribs; a leathery sheathe of raised skin roughly about four inches in length. He freezes.

Face: His hand runs down the dark skin below his eye, and he felt his scar. His scar— undoubtedly his, the nasty piece of work. A sudden weight on his chest knocked the wind out of him, and Bakura, fuck his miserable life and everyone in it, he resisted the sudden urge to panic and flail in the deep end of the pool. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, he halfheartedly joked to himself. “Joked.” He was shitting himself.

This was his body then. Original— organic, his, in every sense of the word, no rent to pay for it. Ha, he breathed, haha, and quickly twisted himself to his hands and knees, bile burning his throat, as he hoped he could wretch the loser out of him.

“FUCK YOU!” He screamed and spat at the floor beneath him, eyes wrenched shut still. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!” Though he did not know who he was speaking to. He wanted everyone to hear it— everything to feel it in the pit of their gut. Every mighty roar he had to let out, he seethed for it to command everyone, and demand everything, and yet in the final boom he only said one word:

“PHARAOH!”

And if there were Pharoahs here, they would have understood the command in the tongue of a King’s decree.

But, as fate would have it, there were no Pharaohs here. The birds in the sky wouldn’t have understood the order in his booming voice to hate, and neither would the reeds blooming at his chest. And Bakura, save his poor damned soul, never did vomit up any half-digested chunks of Apep. Unlucky for him. He opened his eyes, and the tears that only ran when he was sick and in pain fell to the ground along with the saliva and mucus. He panted.

Ugh. This was gross.

He supposes he was done being a pussy, and peered down at his legs: good, he thought, unprocessing of his own words. No wounds. No… Nothing. “Nothing,” Bakura said the last bit out loud, almost like a request for explanation. “Nothing.” he says again.

Fuck. Double fuck, triple fuck. He resisted the urge to curl into a ball and heave once again. He’s done acting like a child, he promised himself, finished. Tantrums, he hissed to himself. Reduced to tantrums. Like some child, really! Because, as you know, only children curl up and cry.

“Haha,” “You’re quite a laugh, you know.”

The sound of a voice jumpstarted him to his feet. It was close. He wouldn’t admit to being startled if it caught him dead, though— no, about now he was torn between ‘who are you?’ and ‘I’ll rip your fucking face off,’ which were, of course, strong contendors to indicate that he was startled, instead.

“Uh,” He said, lamely.

There was no reply. Obviously. He feels more stupid than a bird when he considers how fucking eloquent he’s being here, and steadies himself so that he doesn’t look like an idiot who’s ready to turn this encounter into some, some, what, play date? He wasn’t, you’ll want to note, because he’s already boiling his brain in his skull with rage, mentally accusing the anonymous perpetrator of thinking this affair will be anything pleasant. How dare you, how dare you, how dare you.

Pushing his legs forward and preparing to stride through the tall grass like a slithering, growling beast, he braces himself for anything he could.

“Whatever happens, I’m just glad you’re here for this.” The voice spoke again, and Bakura froze in his prowl. A tilt of the head; was that a conversation? He parts the reeds before him and dives further into the landscape— and rest assured, he did hear two voices.

He stalked, and stalked, and stalked through the grass as he presumed. Swimming through the flora kissing his skin, he felt his heart hammer harder, and harder, and harder ever yet from the inside of his ribs. Had he not instinctively tried to force the Satan from his gut upon his rude awakening, he would have assumed it was searing his stomach lining alive.

“Well, then I’d say, let’s start with dessert and go backwards. It’s been a backwards kind of day!” It was right in front of him now, and he was just about ready to do something drastic and horrible. Blood in his veins hotter than fire and faster than any serpent on Earth, he holds his breath and barrels through the last bush before him. It was then, only then, and for the first time since he decided he was an angry, angry 11 year old, did the burn of rage in his soul, sweat, and spit freeze over as if it were Hell in a metaphor.

Her hair, as always, was kept neatly beneath a wrap that he could recall she’d decorated herself. The tribal patterns of their family pressed into the cloth by careful fingers dyed red with henna, adorned by gold. The callouses and scars that clung to those hands, and arms, and legs, remained exactly where he left them— on nights where she’d cut her ankle fetching coriander from the far side of town, the nomad of her own design that she was, decidedly.

And the night that she shoved him into that barrel— that disgusting night, where he watched his neighbor, then his tutor, then his father die to protect the two— he rounded the corner, just as the soldiers left, and watched as her head was severed cleanly from the rest of her. What a nasty scar that‘ll leave, he found himself thinking, as if it were another cut or scrape from grinding herbs. Of course, it never did, because no such thing would heal. And as he gazed upon her now, still, no scar adorned her throat— because the Gods were merciful, and loved her, too— loved her because she was love, and so was he, and so was every bird in the sky, and so was every blade of grass, and so was Kul Elna.

“Mama?” His voice trembled, too, like a reed in the wind.

But she was not alone, and when his eyes swept to the side, the tremble became visible. Because the other woman looked down on him with familiar eyes; like she’d once had a child who was wilder than moonlight, and another child who was smiling like sunshine— like Bakura would know them, and like they’d been here before. Worst of all, she looked down at Bakura, the tall woman she was, as though he was a northern summer. As if he took his while— as if he knew it all, as if they met before. They did.

She felt taller than Bakura had recalled. Long white hair— that black dress that would have made the gold on a king envious, the way it made her regal. Her hair felt shorter. He would have asked if she had trimmed it, but every word in any language was futile when you stood before a woman who was wilder than moonlight and smiling like sunshine. Her dark eyes were a catalyst that raised people up to dream— wild and strong dreams— long ones. But in so many dreams did he watch her die; like a record, like a haunted phonograph. One day they stopped. They didn’t come back.

No words left Bakura’s mouth this time. No sounds. He wanted to say it. He needed to. But in no world did he deserve to. At that moment, he didn’t feel like he deserved to be looked at. He felt too small. Yet, there they were. Like they’d been here before.

Then, too, like she’d known, like she’d seen it all, like she’d been here before— she parts her lips to speak. “I forgive you.”

And Bakura, her northern summer; he curled up into a little ball, and began to cry.

[kintatsujo]

YGO Remixboot Masterpost

The YGO Remixboot is essentially an AU by virtue of the idea that I was taking elements from different versions of Yugioh and then doing a rewrite from the ground up (with my own ideas liberally sprinkled in because it’s a fanwork and it’s supposed to be self indulgent)

I kind of petered out in the midst of things back when I was sharing it originally but it wasn’t because I ran out of ideas so much as my gas was low that year ^^;;

It is on the list of things I might do a post or three for this month for AU August so here’s a quick masterpost (although I’m cheating and linking another masterpost haha)

The Main Six Backstory Masterpost

That Massive Scene Where Seto Camps With The Gang In Duelist Kingdom And It Gets Awkward

Seto Kaiba Plays Soccer: A Concept

The Beauty Pageant (Joey Wins Miss Domino City)

Schoolgirl Uniform Redesigns

Momkura

The Play (part one)

The Play (part two)

And those are the important fanficcy bits so far

[kamydrawstuffs]

Tender Care

[thiefkingyall]

“I may have baked way too much… so…” she gives him a small nervous smile handing him the pan of freshly baked brownies. The glass pan still warm, “Here. I hope you like them,” her nervous smile widens as she taps her nose. “And I expect the pan back.”

//hello hi Momkura is gonna feed your boy.

((OMG I’m gonna cry?!?!?!?! These look so good?!?!?! vbrehalbgvb!!!!))

@motherofthering

He blinked, eyes wide as he was handed the dish. Was this... for him?? No one had ever made him food before just to... make something for him. He felt his chest tighten up in a weird clenching discomfort that he couldn’t exactly put his finger on.

“Mmm~” he mumbles, holding his hands out for it, its warm against his scarred palms and he looks up at her. He frowns for a second before beaming a large smile at her, the most he’s probably ever allowed himself to show her. He steps forward, placing his hand on her head and bumping his forehead against hers before he steps back and wanders off to devour his treat.

[impassionedhearts]

momkura:     amane  what  do  you  have  there amane:    ryou’s  knife ! momkura:     no !! ryou:     oh  my  god  where  did  she  even  find  my  knife

[sitabethel]

I was rereading thief king and her queen and the comments, and there was one about grandbabies and I just think it's so cute. Now I'm imagining the goddesses Bastet and Isis sitting down and writing out a spell because Momkura strong armed them into it, "mix both of your blood and some beer and the one who wants to get knocked up drinks it while the other reads this spell." Obvz a cat drops off the scroll. Mostly because I'm picturing the two of them with one almighty hellraiser of a daughter.

I love how Bakura’s mom is strong enough to boss around the gods in this scenario (it’s probably canon. We don’t see Bakura’s redemption arc in canon, but it happens, because his mom single handedly beat every single fucking god in the Tribunal in a arm wrestling match and they had to grant her a boon because of it).

Bakura and Merwet keep shoving the jar back and forth in a “you drink it. no you drink it” shouting match until Merwet takes it and sneers that Bakura couldn’t down an entire beer in one go anyway, and then Bakura shouts that she can too, and Merwet keeps on acting like she doesn’t think Bakura can do it until Bakura finally yanks the jar out of Merwet’s hands and chugs it, slamming it down and screaming “ha! I showed you who can drink a beer in one- ah fuck! I can’t believe I fell for that!” 

And this is the story on how Merwet knocked up the Thief King. 

[dmbakura]

will momkura make any appearances in 'To the Heart' or future fics?

[ahhvernin]

The official 2018 Inktober list is up!

Ngl. I get a lot of Dadkura and Momkura vibes from it.

Brain, why do you always produce ideas I cannot create, yet?

[landlord-ryoubakura]

Ryou's parents' names are Dadkura and Momkura

IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE!!!!!!!!!

lol I can get behind this XD))