#same thing with in the hall of the mountain king

[infestedguest]

Tiktok ruined the amv economy. Like back in the day edits/amvs/pmvs/gmvs/whatever you want to call them were like. the length of the whole song and had structure and sometimes were basically fan trailers of whatever property they were about or told a story of their own and it was epic. Now most edits are like fifteen seconds of the climax of a song without the buildup of the rest of the song to properly contextualize it played over one or two shots of the same guy just standing there with a sparkly filter over it.

[cleolinda]

A narrative in links

I want you to hear "In the Hall of the Mountain King" in your head while you read this:

Backlash after comedian at Trump rally calls Puerto Rico 'island of garbage'

Racist jokes about Puerto Rico at rally bring anger and disgust: ‘Truly how the Trump party sees us’

Why Trump can’t pretend his rally’s anti-Puerto Rican racism was just a joke

If That Puerto Rico Joke Doesn’t Cost Trump, [running mate] JD Vance’s Reaction Will ("I think that we have to stop getting offended at every little thing in the United States of America, I’m just so over it")

Tony Hinchcliffe doubles down on racist Trump rally jokes despite backlash: ‘Change your tampon’

Trump’s Shock Comic Was Set to Call Harris a ‘C*nt’

‘F*** These Racists’: Geraldo Rivera Tears Into MAGA After Trump’s MSG Rally

Jennifer Lopez, Bad Bunny, Ricky Martin & More Amplify Kamala Harris After Trump Rally Comedian Trashes Puerto Rico

[GOP Speaker of the House Mike Johnson] fields questions from Latino voters about ‘stupid’ Puerto Rico joke

Trump’s Puerto Rico fallout is ‘spreading like wildfire’ in [swing state] Pennsylvania

Fallout from Florida Latinos fierce following racist jokes during former president’s NYC rally

Florida's Rick Scott [who is running for re-election] touts support for Puerto Rico after racist joke at Trump rally

Trump Rages at Fox News as His Allies Panic Over NYC Rally

Trump campaign struggles to contain Puerto Rico October surprise

It is absolutely sending me that this is what finally did it. To get everyone on the same page here, an "October surprise" in American politics is something unexpected that derails a political campaign at the last minute, right before Election Day in the U.S. (first Tuesday in November). Back in 2016, we thought it was the Access Hollywood "grab them by the pussy" tape, and then way too many people just shrugged and Trump won anyway, because the actual October surprise turned out to be FBI Director James Comey rocking up and announcing an investigation into Hillary Clinton's private email server. But Her Emails, etc.

So this year, of course, I and the rest of r/politics have been sitting here waiting for shit to go down, most likely re: Trump rather than Harris (I say as I knock on my wooden kitchen table), but what could he do that's any worse than what he's already done this year? Than what we already know of his past?

Apparently, everyone has decided it's this. It's a dude who is not even Trump getting up at the Madison Square Garden Nazis-In-America nostalgia rally Sunday night and telling shitty racist jokes. Not the one about "Latinos coming," not the one about Black people and watermelons, not even other things Hinchcliffe said in the same speech. It's not any number of heinous things various other speakers said (scroll down). No, it's

"There’s a lot going on. I don’t know if you know this but there’s literally a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean right now. I think it’s called Puerto Rico."

It's not thumbs up at Arlington Cemetery, it's not THEY'RE EATING THE DOGS, it's not "I wish I had generals like Hitler's" and all the other times Trump admired Nazis. It's this.

I mean, everyone is correct to be outraged about this, I'm glad that it's gained traction and more people than usual are actually shocked and politicians are panicking, and Puerto Ricans both on the island and the mainland have my deep I'm-sorry-sympathy that they have been insulted this way. But--maybe it's just the last-minute timing, but it is blowing my mind that THIS, finally, from a guy who isn't even Trump, is the October Surprise.

[axeeglitter]

The Silent Sentinel

Jason was bored out of his mind. This school trip was supposed to be about history, culture, and learning something useful—all things Jason didn’t find interesting. Castles, knights, and ancient ruins were about as exciting to him as a brick wall. No, what he really wanted was to find a way out of this place. Maybe hit the pub he’d seen just outside the castle walls, grab a couple of drinks, maybe flirt with some local girls, and hopefully end the night getting laid—that was Jason’s plan.

Jason had always been more of a sports guy rather than a book guy. For him, the most important thing was to have a good time and to make every minute worth living. As soon as he could walk, he started running after balls, climbing trees, and laughing all day long with his friends. Jason had always been a joy to be around, and people were always asking him to join in for a good time. His easy-going attitude and laid-back mentality made him the star of his class from kindergarten until now in college and as soon as he was old enough, he decided to get a tattoo to remind himself that life was short, a line going from his elbow to his wrist and ending as an arrow. At around 6ft 4, Jason was a mountain on the football field. The only thing bigger than his height was his natural aura of dominance, emphasized by his perfectly crafted body. But the thing that really made him the star of every conversation was his million-dollar smile, his curly, wavy blonde hair, and his deep blue eyes. Yes, Jason was truly a perfect specimen of a human being.

______________________________________________________________

“The armors you’ll see all around this place are the eternal protectors of this place. Each one of them are unique because they all belonged to different people and they wear the proofs of their identifications. According to the legend, the armors used to be living soldiers, but the king ruling in this castle couldn't accept his knights to run away, so he cursed the castle and its walls, transforming every soldier trying to run away before the end of their mission and duty into eternal protectors of this walls, and doing so, trapping them as the armors you'll see all around, protecting the place they tried to run away. But don’t worry, this is only some lore and the local explication to why there are so many armors in this place. In reality, this probably used to be some kind of refuge for knights as they were walking from town to town offering their help. Anyway, follow me, on your left you’ll find the grand hall…” said the guide as he kept walking, followed by Jason’s teachers and the other students.

As the tour group made its way deeper into the castle, Jason lagged behind, half listening to this nonsense the guide was talking about. He was getting further and further from the group while shooting quick glances at his friends that seemed really intrigued by this visit. He wasn’t about to stay stuck here listening to this old-looking man who probably hadn’t seen the light of day in years. This was a pure waste of time. Bricks, rocks, paintings, tapestries, a lot of old empty armor—what a shame to spend such a beautiful day stuck between these dusty walls. For Jason, it was enough. This had to end. But he knew he couldn’t just leave like that. Jason really had to pass this class, or he’d lose his scholarship.

As the guide entered the grand hall, full of the same tapestries and armors holding spears in their hands, it was the last straw for Jason.

“I’m done,” he muttered under his breath.

Out of nowhere, he took out his phone and pretended to answer a call in a hurry. He acted concerned and almost stressed, talking just loud enough for his friends to hear him.

“Yeah, okay… well, I can’t right now, I’m on a vi… okay, yeah, okay. I’m on my way!”

Jason hung up his phone and put it back in his pocket as his friends, still walking toward the room, looked at him.

“Is everything okay?” asked Jason’s best friend, Matt.

"Hey, yeah, I gotta go. An emergency came up, I need to get home ASAP. Catch you later.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, dude? You good?"

"Yeah, it’s no big deal. Just something I need to handle. I'll text you later."

Without waiting for a response, Jason slipped down a narrow hallway leading toward what he thought was the exit. His heart raced with excitement, not because of any thrill for exploration, but at the thought of escaping the dull history lesson for something more fun. The pub wasn’t far, just a short walk across the courtyard, and he’d be able to grab a drink, chat up a girl, and then go back to his room, where he’d have the rest of the day to relax, play some games, and invent an excuse if anyone asked. The day was finally about to begin!

As Jason moved through the castle, the twisting corridors began to confuse him. Every turn looked the same, and he realized with growing frustration that he had managed to get himself lost.

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, pushing open another old, heavy door at the end of the hallway. The room was dimly lit and almost empty except for another rusty, old-looking suit of armor standing in the corner and an ancient-looking table in the center. Jason stepped inside, scanning the empty space, hoping to find an emergency door or an employee exit leading to the main courtyard.

“Another one… Ain't no way I'm staying there any longer. Done with this boring bullshit. Let me out!” he muttered, dropping his shoulders in frustration and exhaustion as he turned to leave the room.

But as Jason tried to leave, his feet wouldn’t move. His body stiffened, a strange sensation creeping up his legs. Jason glanced down, trying to see why his feet were stuck to the floor. That’s when he saw it. All around him, engraved in the stones and covered by centuries of dust and grime, a dim light began to shine through the dust. Lines of shimmering purple light started to appear, soon forming intricate glyph designs.

“What the…” Panic set in as Jason struggled to move, feeling his legs frozen in place. The glyphs on the floor glowed brighter, their light pulsing in rhythm with his quickening heartbeat. He tried to yank his feet free, but the more he struggled, the tighter the symbols’ grip became.

"No one leave before the end of their mission..." heard Jason in a faint murmuring voice echoing between the walls.

Before he could scream for help, Jason felt a weird sensation spreading through his lungs and body. He turned his head to see dust starting to float around him. First, it was only a grain of dust, then a second one, and soon, a swirling bubble of dust engulfed him in a thick tornado of fear. Jason thought it was the end, that he would die here, his body lost forever in this empty room. Closing his eyes for a brief moment to collect himself, he suddenly felt wind on his forearms. Jason opened his eyes in surprise—how could he feel the wind on his bare forearms when he was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and a coat? Wait, now it was his calves. What was happening?! Tilting his head, he saw through the thick cloud of magical dust that his clothes were turning into dust. Threads of fabric were ripping from him, swirling into the air before disintegrating.

Jason screamed for help, but no sound came out. Everything went silent, muted by the wind and glyphs. And suddenly, as Jason panicked, feeling his body exposed to the elements, the movement stopped. Everything stood still for a moment before exploding away from him. His clothes, now dust, scattered across the room, forever lost. Jason stood naked in the center of the room, the glyphs still glowing all around him. He tried to move, thinking it was over, but his feet were still frozen.

Then, a strange warmth spread from his groin, catching his breath. His hands shot down instinctively, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. His entire groin glowed with a faint purple hue, just like the floor beneath him. The warmth quickly turned into a searing heat surging through his lower body, the pain so intense it left him gasping.

Jason’s hands flew to his cock. He tried to hold it as an alien sensation began rising within him. It felt like it wanted to grow harder and harder, longer and longer. The feeling was both deeply arousing and weirdly terrifying. It was a pulsating force building inside him, and Jason was trying to resist it. But with one pulse from the glyphs, Jason felt his cock head push his fingers away. He saw it then—his cock elongating, hardening, then transforming, taking on another form and color. The familiar sensation of his manhood was replaced by something cold, metallic, and dangerous. He looked down in horror as he saw it shining between his fingers. His cock had stretched and turned into a massive sword, its shaft glinting in the dim light.

Jason’s mouth hung open, paralyzed with fear. His own flesh had turned into a sword. Just as he was about to scream in pure terror, he felt a new sensation beginning to spread in his nuts. His balls started to merge together. The pain was excruciating as the nerves intertwined and fused. Jason could have fainted from the intensity, but he remained conscious, trapped in the agony and his own powerlessness. Suddenly, his larger nut began to retract into the sack, which itself started to rise higher. Jason heard a pop, then a crack, and before he could catch his breath, he felt his hands gripping his balls as they began to harden and merge with the base of his cock sword. In an instant, his nuts had become the handle of his cock.

Jason was about to cry when the glyphs spasmed with power. His hands loosened slightly, just enough to let the sword fall and hit the ground with a loud metallic clang. His body convulsed, his knees nearly buckling from the impact as Jason realized he could still feel everything—the impact, the cold, grimy floor against his cock, and the vibration of the metal reverberating through his balls. It was as if his cock and balls, though transformed, were still part of him, still flesh in some twisted way.

He gasped in horror, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached down to grab the sword, desperate to reverse whatever had happened. But the moment his calloused hands touched the hilt, it was like squeezing his own nuts with a crushing grip. Pain surged through him, and he screamed out. Jason tried to release the hilt, but his fingers wouldn’t obey—they were frozen in place, gripping his balls tightly. It felt as though his body was no longer fully under his control.

Jason wanted to drop the sword, to escape the agony, but his body didn’t respond. Unbeknownst to him, this was only the beginning.

Jason tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat. Behind him, he heard metallic noises, one after another. Then, all at once, a loud bang echoed, followed by the sound of sand flowing on an empty beach—the kind of sound that could be calming, but not in this moment.

Before his eyes, he saw shimmering tentacles of dust beginning to engulf his calves, then his arms, chest, and legs. It felt like something was embracing him. Oddly, it was almost soothing, and for a brief moment, Jason nearly forgot where he was. The sound and sensation were calming his torment. But a faint breeze brushing against the sword snapped him back to reality. When he resurfaced a few seconds later, he realized his body was constricted. He turned his head just in time to see the empty suit of armor in the corner of the room dissolving into dust, swirling around his head as a helmet formed and encased his face. Jason’s entire body was trapped inside the armor, locking him in place.

Jason looked down at himself in disbelief, his breath shallow and panicked as it echoed within the helmet. He could feel the cold metal against his bare skin. He tried to move, but nothing happened. He tried to scream, but no sound came from the helmet. The only part of him still under his control was his head.

Through the eyeholes of the helmet, Jason saw the purple light again. He understood it wasn’t over for him yet.

Suddenly, it felt like his feet were burning. The sensation spread up his legs, into his chest, arms, and finally his face and brain. The pain was unbearable, his vision blurred, and he thought he was being boiled alive. But just as Jason was about to pass out, he felt a pop in his bones, and a purple light began emanating from within the armor, glowing through his skin and bones. Jason screamed silently as light poured from his mouth. His eyes shut one last time as a tear of fear and pain rolled down his vanishing cheek. His body was disintegrating, turning into ash, dissolving bit by bit. His hands, his legs, his chest—all turned to dust, floating and falling within the armor before being absorbed by it.

Jason screamed in silence; his voice trapped within his mind as his body dissolved. He could still feel everything—his hands gripping the sword’s hilt, his feet on the cold stone floor, the weight of the armor pressing down on him—but he was no longer flesh and blood. He was nothing more than the armor now, a hollow, metal shell, yet still fully aware.

Jason tried to move, but he couldn’t. His body had become the armor, and there was no one left inside to control it.

As the glyphs continued to shine, Jason felt something being engraved onto the hilt of his sword. Beneath his armored fingers, a glyph appeared, etched into the metal. An intricate design started to form. A human silhouette started to appear in a standing position being encircled by what looked like a leaking sword centered in a shield with a castle on top of it. Then, as he thought it was over, a new engraving staring to appear on the lengths of his sword, centered between the two sharp sides. A line going from the hilt to the tip and ending as an arrow, a perfect mirror picture of the tattoo he used to have. When the engravings were complete, the glyphs shone brightly one last time before fading, leaving only the mark behind.

Jason felt his body moving of its own accord, walking back to the corner of the room where the armor had stood before he’d entered. Every movement his legs were taking, every breeze of wind on his naked metallic body, every bit of friction was sending shiver of orgasmic sensation in his sword. Jason would have cried and begged for cum and release if he had the chance. But nothing came, just frustration as another step was taken until he was where he belonged.

Jason took a standing position, gripping the sword even tighter, inadvertently squeezing his nuts harder. The tip of the sword scraped against the floor, sending a tingling sensation through his entire being that once again screamed for release.

Jason wanted to scream, to cum, to escape—but nothing happened. He was stuck there, waiting for the curse to be broken.

______________________________________________________________

Time passed—minutes, hours, Jason couldn’t tell. He was frozen in place, his thoughts racing, but his body immobile. The cursed room was silent, save for the occasional drip of water echoing in the distance. Then, suddenly, the door creaked open.

If Jason had still had a heart, it would have leaped. His friends—Mike and a few others—entered the room, laughing and chatting as they followed the tour guide. They seemed oblivious to the oppressive air of the chamber, their voices echoing off the walls.

Mike stepped forward, stopping in front of Jason’s armored form, unaware that he was staring at his best friend. He gazed up at the imposing figure.

“Whoa, check this out!” Mike called, drawing the others' attention. “This one look so epic. I wonder how old this armor is.”

Jason screamed inside his mind, desperate to be seen, to be saved, but his body remained as still as ever. The tour guide, unaware of the curse lingering in the room, droned on about the room’s history, speaking of old sorcery and forgotten rituals. But Jason’s friends didn’t care about what the guide was talking about—they were more interested in the armor and the sword.

“Dude, look at the sword!” Mike said, grinning. “This thing is massive. Bet it was for a fucking Captain knight or something.”

Jason’s entire being quaked in horror as Mike reached down and grabbed the sword—his sword, his penis. As Mike too hold of the hilt, he felt something weird. It was almost like it was warm to the touch, spasming with power, craving for touch and sensation. As Mike started to move back and forth moving the sword left and right, he swears he heard a faint murmur from the back of his mind, “Help me… feels, painf… good… don’t… stop.” Mike blinked a few times as he tried to understand if he was dreaming awake but his other friends called for him and the weird sensations vanished into the void as he laughed back playing a bit more with the sword. For Jason, the sensation was unbearable. It was like someone had taken hold of his most sensitive part, jerking and playing with it. Every time Mike moved the sword, Jason could feel it. The cold steel, the rough handling, the vertigo-inducing sensation of Mike squeezing his nuts while moving his cock left and right—it was all too real.

The group laughed and joked, unaware that every swing of the sword was torture for Jason. One of them even pretended to knight Mike with it, holding the blade up with mock seriousness.

Jason’s mind was a whirlwind of fear and humiliation. His friends—the people he had once trusted—were now unwittingly torturing him. Every time they touched the sword, he felt it deep in his core. His mind screamed for them to stop, but no one could hear his silent pleas as he watched them playing with his most intimate part, begging for someone to free him.

“Man, this sword is fucking epic,” Mike said with a laugh. “It’s so heavy. The knight who owned it must have been super strong. Like, I’m sure he was fighting and winning every fight!”

Jason could only wish it were true, that he could win this fight. But all he could do was endure, helpless in his new state, feeling everything happening but unable to do anything about it.

At one point, Mike joked, “I bet whoever owned this armor had to be a badass. You think they ever knew it’d end up stuck in a dusty old room like this?”

The words cut deep, and Jason’s mind spiraled into despair. Would he be trapped here forever? Would anyone ever know the truth? The laughter of his friends echoed in his mind; each taunt a dagger to his soul.

Eventually, the group grew tired of playing with the sword and returned it to its place, making sure the sword was held tight between the metallic fingers. As Mike finished positioning the fingers back in place, he noticed a strange engraving between the blades of the sword, it looked like a glyph leading to a line ending up as an arrow. As he blew on it, he swore he saw shimmering purple dust flow out of the engraving. He knew this symbol, but as his mind was about to put the pieces together, he heard someone calling for him. Mike got back up and started walking out of the room, forgetting about it after a couple of minutes. Jason stood there, holding his cock between his hands, feeling every faint movement and vibration of the walls and floor resonating in his empty armor body and cock as he kept screaming for help while hearing his friends entering a new room as the guide kept talking about the legends of this medieval castle he was now a part of.

______________________________________________________________

Hey guys!

I hope you enjoyed this new story. Let me know if you want to see more of Jason's journey. I have some ideas of where things could go for him, and no, it won't only be inanimate transformations if you want me to continue it.

As always, let me know what you thought of it, whether you enjoyed it or not, and if you have any ideas about what could happen next or where you want the story to go.

Also, I saw the results of the poll, and the story you voted for will be released really soon, so stay tuned.

Last but not least, I still have some slots left for free shorter stories based on your prompts. So feel free to send me messages or ask (anonymous is fine, don’t worry) if you have ideas you want me to write. It can be pretty much any theme you desire, but it's first come, first served.

In the meantime, have a nice day and see you soon! :)

[hcdragonwrites]

Tangled Love

(A @semisolidmind Drabble)

Ok! I ran this by Semi before I posted just because I know absolutely nothing about LMK (except the animation can be so pretty!) just so I could get their characters down. I hope you all like it !

She just wanted to escape- both from this place and from her own mind tonight.

The ghosts of memories were walking and she had no distractions to chase them away.

Peaches walked the cool cavern halls of Water- Curtain Cave, her feet echoing in the depths. The sandals she wore and the ornamental clothing she had been thrown into made her scalp prickle and her skin itch. It was too much- but the attendants wouldn’t hear a thing about it.

She had to look the part of Queen.

Peaches, in the absence of the Lord of the mountain and his right hand and sword, was the remaining voice of authority.

To a point.

Finishing with courtly duties and listening in on behalf of her husbands wasn't a huge chore. The two of them rarely left at the same time however. If one was called away the other would remain. Or Peaches herself would be brought along.

This time however she hadn’t been.

It was the first time in ten years.

She had just this night- just this moment of reprieve and she would make the most of it. Or so she thought. Instead, she was fighting something that reared its head and struck her nerves like a asp.

However she wasn’t alone quite yet. As she rounded the corner and came to golden lacquered doors of her bedchamber - their bedchamber- she paused.

“Will that be all my queen?” One of the attending retinue of her guard asked. It was a guard her husbands insisted upon whenever both were away from home- a set of seven of the most battle scarred simians Peaches had ever seen.

They were tasked and sworn with following her everywhere - to the dining hall, to the throne room. If she wished to go and sit among the apple trees and listen to the wind play over the mountain grasses her guard would double in size. Peaches tried to not cause the denizens of Flower fruit mountain any more problems or stressors by going outside when both the King and his Brother in arms were away on a war path.

Her husbands.

It’s what they titled themselves now, after a decade of the terrible start they had on their relationship with her. When she had met the two, they had been just tiny monkeys. A sly looking ginger and gold monkey who had loved to cling to her arms and a dark black furred monkey that brought her fruits and almonds from the wild.

My sweet boys.

They had been her monkeys back then- the little prankster angels she had thought were just simple beasts, trying to survive out in the world.

She had been wrong.

The decision to upend her life, she guessed, had been floated around for months between the two disguised demons as they ate her fruit and enjoyed her touches. It was a mutual one that both had decided was the best option for her.

She took a steadying breath, coming back to the present. Peaches wanted a chance to be alone. Something so rare she craved it like a man in a desert craved water.

“Yes, general. I think I’ll retire early for the day.” She smiled at the monkey who dipped his body into a bow. The gleam of his armor set the flickers of a memory brewing. Fire in the trees, the smell of iron on the wind and a figure among the debris. She shook her head to dislodge it. The rest of them weren’t awful to her. Her husbands weren’t awful to her. They had just ….

Taken away her decisions.

“Very well Queen.” Peaches flinched, unable to quite stomach the title and what that truly meant. If I am queen then why am I without choices? “If you need us call us.”

She turned the handle in the door and slipped in side with as much grace as she could muster.

Peaches closed the ornamental doors to the bedroom, resting her head against the door. Steady. Deep breaths. In through her nose out through her mouth.

The illusion of a paradise that Wukong had built and Macaque helped facilitate always lost its color and believability when they were away. They couldn’t feed her the sugared lies and candied perceptions to tamp back the memories of that night.

It had been just another night on the small farm - a June night of heat and singing cicadas- of windows wide open and Peaches trying to escape that heat. There wasn’t much she could do to escape it. The moisture clung to her and made her bedding stick and clog her nose. So on these nights she stayed up, usually with a candle or the moon to illuminate her night, and read.

The knock on the door was not something typical.

The memory was rising and she couldn’t hold it back. I have to ride it out. Survive it.

Like she had survived that night. Getting visitors in the dead of the night had been unconventional- and she remembered the feeling of being perturbed. Don’t answer it, she told the memory. But this was the past and ghosts of the past didn’t change their course.

She had closed her book, had stepped down the hall to the door and had opened it.

I should have called through- told him to stay away! I should have never left my bed or my book.

It was a drunk man. A fellow farm hand called in for one of the families to help bring in a harvest that had proved too bountiful for the immediate family to handle. Peaches could see the man before her eyes, smell the reek of him.

A drunk.

“Well ain’t it the village spinster! Whaaa da pretty thing you are!” He was a cloud of bitter rice wine, of too much sake on his breath. The intensity of it had a physical effect on her memory and in the present, Peaches wrinkled her nose.

“You should go home Sir.” She had told him- tried to close the door.

His foot moved faster and his hands had caught the door.

A wild set of emotions swept through her. She had to sit her body down, thankful she had been able to get away from the other monkeys before the memory seized her like a vice. They would have been in a panic over her and she couldn’t let their little hearts worry so. There was nothing they could do to stop the remembering.

It was his fault this all happened. It was His. He didn’t have to be drunk and show up at my home- he didn’t have to shove his way into my house and try and grab me.

But he was just a single man. Did his actions warrant the destruction that happened next ?

“Get out!” Her memory self cried. The wooden table she danced behind as the drunk stumbled and moved towards her, was her only shield.

“The Boys Said you prefer the company of wild animals …” his speech was hard to hear. The wine had made him bold, stupid, and aroused it seemed. “I thought I would give you mtaste of what a real man was, since the villagers are al’ ‘fraid of your Witchery with monkeys.”

She had run- she had thrown her things at him. It was probably the commotion of her breaking a pitcher over his head that had alerted her monkeys. The loud clatter of the pottery across the floor had sounded so sharp and final. It had only made the man more determined.

The drunk when he did get his hands on her was furious. He swung a fist and sent stars into her eyes. Peaches had clung like a wildcat to her conscious, kicking out with legs and swinging with fists. Her nose was full of the sour smell of him- had felt his hands and fought them. A kick to his groin had sent him wheezing. Another fist to her head had Peaches crying. She had stared that drunk in his mean little eyes as he whispered the terrible things he wanted to do to her.

She had been staring in those eyes when he died.

He never got to touch more than her arms that night.

Peaches heard something step through the door that had been left open to the night. She had heard the creak of her house as something walked within it. And the sound of something- like a water skin being popped and a splash of warm liquid against her belly had shocked her.

The Drunks eyes went wide with confusion, rolling horselike in his head. His bruising grip on her wrist had let go. In the present, She rubbed those wrists, the phantom pains hard.

“..mah… belly.” The drunk had mumbled then belched a bucket of blood onto the floor. Peaches could see something protruding from his middle- something long and thin like a stick. Or a staff.

Clawed hands pulled the head back and twisted with a fury. The sound of bones breaking was loud, as if a fire was consuming dry wood. The drunk crumbled in those hands like a puppet cut free of its strings.

A new stranger stood in her home, his frame large and broad and most assuredly not human. He tossed the body like someone would toss a rag across the floor. The glowing eyes in the sudden dark were all she could see. Her mind, even in its heightened adrenaline drenched state, recognized the face pattern, saw a familiarity in the fur. There was, in fact, still a little flower tucked against this demonic creatures ear. The same flower she had interwoven in her forest friend's fur that afternoon.

“Your… your my…”

Nerves and the come down from the adrenaline high we’re making speech hard. The monkey demon before her, who’s eyes seemed to spit fire, softened. Just a bit.

“You are my Peaches.” Wukong said, touching her hair, her face, her hands. Taking stock. Then he had taken those limp hands and threaded them through his fur, trying to get them to grip. It would help his own rage and calm her fear. It was thick in the air, ruining the natural sweet smell she had. That and the slab of flesh on the floors own fetid death scent.

Wukong was not the best at this - this comfort thing. But he would rise to the occasion. He would try for her.

Fury and rage made his tail lash and the fur along his neck to stand on end.

At first she had just been a simple human that would leave little offerings to him and his brother in arms. An oddity here in the shadow of his mountain. Most humans around here feared the monkeys and kept away from all of them, having a legend that if one was harmed a great calamity would befall them.

Wukong didn’t mind being that calamity. These were his people, his subjects. So hearing the chatter from some of his kind that a women had begun to leave out gifts had of course spiked the Kings curiosity. The humans beneath Flower Fruit Mountain were his lesser subjects. So he had come down from the mountain, disguising himself as a smaller and more approachable sized monkey, to see the fuss his subjects had started gossiping about at groomings. Only to see his brother, Macaque, already being petted and tended and kissed on each of his six ears.

Of course first impressions had been terrible and Wukong, used to getting the first pick of everything, had come screeching into the clearing and demanding his own pets. It had set off a very small and very mock little battle between the two brothers in arms. One that had Peaches separating them and scolding them as she patched up the little scratches they had taken from eachother. They could have each resisted her pull but both decided that play acting a fight, even if it had started as a bit of one, was the best way to get attention divided between the both of them.

Wukong hadn’t expected to become infatuated. Her name didn’t matter to him- he had rebranded her almost the instant she came to him and offered a smile and held out a handful of sugar and dates. Peaches. After the Kings own favorite fruit, the sweetest thing the mountain produced.

His Peaches.

Of course also Macaques. He shared everything with his brother, the dark furred and six eared demon who had faced battles and won wars besides Wukong. While Wukong had been more leery, Peaches won him over faster than Flower Wine loosened his rigid posture. They had both fallen for this mortal women. And, in the traditional way she belonged to them. She just didn’t know it yet. They had touched and groomed and cuddled and tangled limbs and tails. They were practically married without the marriage bit.

Wukong rubbed small circles into Peaches back, trying to keep himself from bearing his teeth in rage.

I should have taken her home the moment she kissed me.

They had been kisses of the kind one gives to a friend or pet. It had left the warlord craving more burning with more.

Of wanting to feel her give him more than just a chaste kiss on the side of his face.

She wouldn’t have been hurt if he had just taken her home.

Wukong and Macaque had taken to one or both spending the night in Peaches trees, to keep an eye on her. Wukongs obsession had grown into a fascination and warm buttery love. A love that was becoming a wild inferno as he fought to stay still and not leap upon the corpse he had made and turn it into nothing but bits of flesh and gore the crows could carry away.

His Peaches fingers finally grasped his fur and shook. It brought Wukong back from his montage of rage to the present. If only Mac was here — but he wasn’t. He was back at home on Flower Fruit mountain , giving his brother the night to enjoy and keep lookout at Peaches den.

“That’s my girl.” The demon tried to soothe. He really wished he could set Peaches down and finish off what he had started. This place had been bad. This village terrible. He hated every thing and one here that had dared to let a drunken fool up to his Peaches doorstep and allowed this to happen. In reality Wukong was mad it had been Mac’s own sense of importance on taking it slow and letting a little thing like a life outside of Flower Fruit Mountain stop him from from revealing who he was and taking her home.

I am done trying to woo her over slowly. They could have lost her this night if Wukong hadn’t been in earshot, hadn’t heard the crash of something breaking. His clawed hands wrapped around her back and beneath her legs. Before he could realize it, Wukong had her up and in his arms, already stepping on and across the corpse and out into the June air. Mine.

“Let’s get you home, lovely.” Wukongs voice was thick with emotion. Relief to finally, finally, finally have an excuse to take his wife home, to see her sleep in a real bed and eat real food made his heart swell. No more pretending. No more longing. It was happening now. Simmering beneath that emotion was the sweet bubble, the red misting rage, of violence. Once he got her home, got her safe, got her tangled within some of his and Macaques blankets to where the sour smell of fear would be lost within the scent of them- he could come back. He would come back.

He would destroy the village for being the obstacle it was in his conquest for this mortal girls heart. It was in itself, a relief to know he was justified in its destruction.

Look what this place did to bruise my sweet fruit.

Peaches was shaking. Clinging to him. I would have her cling to me always. He pressed his nose into her neck, breathing in as he walked off. She smelled so good. He rubbed his face to hers, affectionately smothering her fear scent. Wukong felt a smile curl his face. Finally. We can go home and put the charade to bed. Finally you are mine.

Peaches' memory of that night was mostly of clinging to Wukong as they flew through the air, of his voice a rumble of soft words and comforts. He was holding her close, pressing her in. Smothering her in a sense. But she needed it. She clung to it in a way to stop herself from being sick from fright. It was strange but familiar to hold this fur, to cling. Then she briefly remembered another voice, another set of hands. When she looked up and saw that her sweet dark monkey was also here, had also been a demon in disguise, something broke in her. Maybe hysteria. Maybe disbelief. Or maybe she knew, somewhere in her mind, that no matter what she said now wouldn’t save the people- the innocents- in her village.

Peaches had been transferred into the dark arms and THATS where she finally began to cry. The shock was fading and leaving behind ragged holes of emotion.

“Safe, you're safe now.” She was reassured. Hands had lifted her chin, her sweet little monkey- now a demonic one- was gently beginning to sponge away the blood from the cuts on her face. Her cheek swelled, her eye with it.

“Please don’t kill them.” She begged. “He already took care of the one who hurt me don’t kill my village.”

“Hush love…”

“Please!”

Silence. Something cold pressed to her face- a bit of snow from far up the mountain wrapped in cloth. Macaques ears twitched like flower petals in the night air.

“It’s already done. The village is already gone.”

The memory rode itself out in the present and faded slowly.

Guilt washed over her and she cried all for a new reason. She had been the catalyst for Sun Wukongs fury. She had been the decider to his want of destruction. Peaches may not have killed them, may have had a decade to realize that what had happened wasn’t her fault, but Wukong had done it in her name. He had erased that village and all its people like a cartographer reshapes a map. To all the rest of the world, their had never been a village in the shadow of Flower fruit mountain. Not a foundation, not a brick, not even a spare hair, was left of humanity there. Instead it had been cleared as if a fire had swept through. Peaches had seen it on one occasion when Wukong had been persuaded to show her. She had needed closure. Needed the peace.

Once she had healed she had been told her village was gone. She had been given a sweet lie- that Wukong had gone back and the villagers related to the drunk had been ransacking her house to see where she kept the money or any spare wine.

When Wukong had shown up demanding they answer to the crime committed in her home, they had attacked. Wukong had enacted a king's justice as was his right. He had told the remaining villagers to leave- to never set foot upon his domain again for the lawlessness that had been enacted upon their neighbor.

It had taken two years for her to be able to relax whenever he came in smelling of fire and iron. It had taken a few years more for her to remember what Macaque had said when he had pressed snow to her face.

They were the same little monkeys they had been before. But now they had less innocence when they pressed into her face for kisses, when they asked to tangle and cuddle limbs. They insisted she stay in the bedchamber and not move to her own separate room.

It had taken getting used to movement beside her as a hand tugged her hair, or a tale twined her waist. Or a leg curled with hers or hands holding her face. Sometimes in the dark Mac would press his head to her back, using her as a pillow. Wukong would yank her in when he thought her too sleepy to remember and whisper all the things he loved about her.

It would have been sweet. It was touching in a way. If not for the way they revealed themselves. If not for that memory and what she knew now had come after.

It had not taken too long after that for her to start realizing that, though Wukong had saved her, neither of them had any regret of what happened. Neither of them was going to let her go.

When she asked about it or started talking of missing her home- the simple living, the ability to really on herself and choose for herself- Wukong would laugh and launch into one of his tales. He would brush her hair with his claws, run his face against hers and try and deflect her attention to new things.

Macaque, if Wukong was absent, would let her talk. Usually it happened when he asked her to brush his fur or he in turn asked to brush her hair. Peaches thought, just a bit, that the reason Mac was better at listening was for all the ears he had. Each time however, when she got to the part about how this had been her fault, he would stop mid way through a braid or pin and pull her in. Macaque would kiss the tears from her eyes, would press himself close to her chest.

“It was Never your fault Peaches.”

“I remember. I remember he went back- you said he—“

“Hush love you’ll grow hysterical. What Wukong did was justified- he defended you.”

“He killed.”

“I have killed.” He kissed her temple, gentle in his reprimands. He wouldn’t try and brush her words beneath a rug like Wukong. Instead he gave her a smile as wide as the crescent moon. “Let’s finish your hair and get you dressed. We can go see the baby’s, I know how you love the baby’s.” Baby monkeys were her weakness. They had been what led to her loving Mac before she had known he was a demonic warlord.

Peaches rubbed at her eyes and stood, the sorrow in her heart heavy still but the tears at least had stopped. Now she was just tired. Tired and cold and wanting to escape the feeling of it all. So she shed her courtly attire. All the clips and jewels and baubles and bits felt heavy. She placed them within the box at her armoire, then loosened her hair from its bindings. Jade pins, pearl necklaces, golden bracelets with bells of silver (Wukong loved this the best of all) all glimmered back in the firelight.

A pretty price.

She snapped the box closed.

On nights like this, she wanted to wear nothing but her smock, her simple clothing, and bury herself as far as she could go into the bed she shared with her husbands.

It was more of a pit set into the ground, circular in nature. Silken pillows, red sheets and a hoard of anything plush and furred had been thrown into the pit. It was also a snug place to bury herself within and one of the few things she didn’t feel resentment too right away. When the outside felt too bright and she couldn’t go about the mountain to her usual quiet places, she would retire here. To burrow, to bury, to hide.

Peach fell back into the pit of blankets and pillows and pulled herself beneath a fur of some striped monster Macaque had skinned and gifted to her. Tonight the bitter truth was hard to swallow and did circles in her head.

You did this. You caused this. You killed them. This is your fault.

She closed her eyes and hoped … hoped for what might be the worst thing yet. Her husband's return.

A time later she stirred. Something was in her room- was walking to the bed. Peaches felt a flutter of fear before hands reached into her hiding place and simply slid her out.

“Hello darling.” The silken voice belonged to none other than Macaque. His clawed hands entwined around her waist, his teeth nipping at her ear. “You are up late.”

“Does that mean it will be a late morning?” Wukongs voice came from the other side of the room. Peaches could see the ginger monkey removing armor from his shoulders and stretching. As the darker brother kept making a snack of her shoulder, Peaches noticed that the shine of Wukongs paldrom was dimmed. Something black coated the golden imprint of sunbursts across its armored surface. “I love late mornings! Means more time together.”

Blood?

“Peaches?” She turned her head, trying to see Mac. He had left off nipping her skin. A hand came away from her wrist and tipped her chin, forcing her to stare directly into his violet eyes. “What has upset you?”

Everything. Myself. Wukong. You. It was that simple question that set her sorrow to flowing again. She was confused, upset, and she wanted comfort. The only ones who could give her comfort were the very ones who caused her distress.

A vicious cycle.

The pillows behind her sagged. Wukongs hands were more aggressive in their touches, turning her about to stare into her face. He noted the tears, the bruising beneath her eyes. His lip curled in anger.

“Has someone upset you?” Wukong asked. He seemed ready to stand again, to grab his armor and step out into the night. “I will drag them here to give an apology. You name them and I will fetch them.”

Peaches shook her head.

“Just ….” You killing the villagers, Macaque telling me plainly that it was for the best, and my own head making me relive that night of events. Over and over and over.

“…. Myself.”

His face softened as he chirped a reassurance, pressing his nose to hers. Macaque peppered her in gentle and butterfly soft kisses to the back of her neck. The three fell back into the nest, limbs entwined and hands holding. Macaque had Peaches face buried in his chest as she sobbed silently. He cooed. He whispered how everything would be right as rain in the morning. His hands ran through her hair and messaged her scalp. Wukong held his Peaches, pressing her back to his chest in a solid wall against the world outside. He lavished her in praises and compliments, sometimes getting carried away and talking about himself until his brother would remind him with a flick to his forehead that it was their Peaches he should be reassuring.

And through it all, through this twisted and tangled weave of limbs and fur and warmth and sorrow, Peaches felt love. It grew in this dark place still, wanting to thrive. But how could it?

Still she fell asleep, lashes sparkled with tears and her heart lighter. One could only be sad so long in the wake of such waves of attention. Wukongs and Macaques love was the only solution to this ailment they had inflicted upon her, and she, the addict, swallowing the medicine that would give her release.

[sotwk]

Cinder Girl (Fíli x unnamed OC)

Summary: The Crown Prince of Erebor faces the dilemma of losing his heart to a lovely yet humble palace servant.

Word count: 2.4 k

Content: Fluffy, tropey romance and comfort, Durins Live AU, post-BotFA, class division, love confession, Pining Prince Fíli

Rating: General (no warnings apply)

To Read on AO3: Link

Dedication and Inspiration: Thank you to the Anon who inspired this concept long ago by sending me this message! <3

Also for my friend, @guardianofrivendell, a true Fíli aficionado with an incredible repertoire of fics of our beloved Dwarf Prince. You probably don't remember, but this fic fulfills the "Love Confessions" request you made from my Valentine Event in 2023! Better late than never? Welcome back! <3

Cinder Girl 

The Reclaimed Kingdom of Erebor

Third Age 2945

What to do, what to do? The proper thing, of course. The decision should be that simple, and it usually was so for Fíli.  

Except now. Except when it came to her. 

The young dwarf lord tugged on the beaded braid of his mustache and leaned forward in the cushioned bench on which he sat. He made a motion to stand, only to plop back down again with a frustrated grunt. He had been dithering that way for the last ten minutes, at least. 

And he had spent twice as long sitting there, only half ashamed of allowing himself to enjoy the sight that surprised him when he returned to his chambers following a day-long council meeting. 

I am just looking, is all, Fíli reminded himself, desperate to excuse his poor manners. He knew the right thing to do would be to gently wake her, assure her that she was in no trouble, and allow her to discreetly exit the room she should never have been caught in. 

Surely this was a sign. A gift from Mahal himself, to force his stubborn, weak arse into action. Yet there he was again, he who was hailed as the Lion of Erebor, one of the bravest warriors in the kingdom, just sitting there stupidly, staring as he always did, because he could never find neither strength nor courage to do anything else in the presence of this dwarrowdam that stole the very breath from his lungs. 

Even as she lay there on the lush fur rug by the fireplace, in a cozy warmth that likely had lulled her to sleep, her presence paralyzed him. She was that very rare gem, found only once in a generation, exquisite in itself without need for cutting or polishing, or settings of gold, or other fine stones to accompany it. 

"Beyond beautiful," Fíli thought, and his chest filled with both longing and wonderment of how utterly she had ensnared him with so little effort, with such little awareness of the effect she caused.

She had dazzled Fíli the moment she cast her first smile and first spoke his name, and from then on the prince was blind to all others. When she laughed, Fíli finally understood why his brother Kíli constantly acted the fool just to earn that sweet sound from his own lady’s lips.

And so Fíli neglected to mention the titles that accompanied his name, and as a result he was able to enjoy hours of conversations with the newcomer from the Blue Mountains, basking in her uninhibited laughter and open stories and playful touches.

But the ruse would not last even a month. When she finally discovered that the new “friend” who had welcomed her to Erebor was actually King Thorin’s heir, next-in-line to the throne of Durin, an invisible wall rose between them. She never laughed in the same way around him again. She remained friendly and kind, yes, but every action toward him was suddenly restrained by prim courtesy. Their once animated conversations were dampened by measured, cautious responses. Even her beautiful smile was dimmed by a strange sadness, as though the knowledge of his royal identity disappointed her. 

"Please, you don't have to…" he said, when he once tried to stop her from bowing to him as they passed each other in the hall. 

"It is only proper, my lord," she murmured, keeping her lovely eyes lowered to her feet, only doubling Fíli's frustrations. "I bid you a good day, Prince Fíli."

And she hurried away with her cleaning pail in tow, before Fíli could offer to help, before he could muster up the nerve to invite her to dinner, which was why he had come down to the servants’ hall in the first place. All he had succeeded in doing was send the tongues of the palace domestic staff wagging. 

Eventually Fíli's despair grew heavy enough that he sought Balin's counsel, daring not to broach the topic with the one person who could completely relieve him of his fear: that no future was possible between the Heir of Durin and a dwarf not only from a different clan, but without rank or advantages. 

Balin remained silent while Fíli laid out his entire predicament--during the prince’s impassioned speech, and a long while after. Too long, so much that the thoughtful calm Fíli usually admired in his sagacious old cousin only set his teeth on edge.

“I must say this is troubling news to hear indeed,” Balin finally spoke, tugging thoughtfully at his beard.

“Troubling?!” Fíli exclaimed. “How could you already deem it as such when you have not yet met her? What matters her lack of status when she is the sweetest and gentlest soul to ever bless me with her company?! That is, until she decided she could no longer tolerate my presence,” he amended glumly. 

“Calm yourself, boy.” Balin chuckled between sips of his ale. “You have only ever raved this passionately about very few things before, and never about a bonnie lass. For a moment I thought I might actually be speaking to Kíli.”

“That isn't close to either the comfort or counsel I was hoping for, Balin.”

“Harrumph. That is because I have neither of those things for you, lad! What you need is to be slapped back into your senses!” Balin shook a stout finger at the dwarf-prince. “Have you so little knowledge or faith in your Uncle that you could not bring this matter straight to him?”

Fíli drew back, eyebrows lifted in bewilderment. “I thought he would scoff at the frivolity of it, before declaring my desire for her as unsuitable.”

“Because the girl is common?” Balin snorted when Fíli nodded. “It would wound Thorin so deeply to hear this, that I shall not even bother repeating your words to him.” He reached across the dinner table to grip Fíli’s arm. “Your Uncle risked his life, risked everything to take back this Mountain for you, my boy. To give you the future that he felt you deserved. Do you think that future is all about gold?”

Balin smiled and slapped Fíli gently on his slack-jawed face. “It is about choice, and freedom. The freedom to chase whatever dreams you wish. Go and speak to Thorin. It appears there is much he needs to clarify about his expectations of you as the realm’s prince and his heir.” 

Fíli had genuinely intended to heed Balin’s advice to discuss things with his uncle. But after failing to quickly gain an audience with the chronically busy king, he let his nerves conquer him yet again, as he put off pursuing that conversation. And so day after day passed with him stuck in the plight of his own making�� leading at last to that evening, when the source of his agony literally lay right before him inside his own chambers, demanding to be dealt with.

The more time passed with him just sitting and staring at the sleeping chambermaid, the longer each minute seemed to stretch, and the more ridiculous Fili felt in his inertness. 

Just when his frustration came to its peak, and he felt unable to tolerate himself any longer, the prince rose quietly and stepped towards the figure on the fur rug. 

A pounding knock barely gave him any warning before his chamber door swung wide open and Kili barreled inside. “Did you not say you were starving, brother? What is taking you so--??”

Kili stopped short, his wide-eyed stare darting between Fili and the lady that had stumbled to her feet, disheveled and disoriented. It was impossible to tell who looked more mortified by his arrival. 

“Have I… am I interrupting something?”

“I am so very sorry, milords!” the maiden blurted out. “I didn't mean to, I---I am so--!” Her ashen face suddenly colored by the violence of her embarrassment, she grabbed her cleaning pail from the hearth. The contents rattled inside the metal bucket, so badly did her hands shake as she gave a hasty curtsy to the royal princes.

“N-no, no wait, please… h-hold on for just a moment--” Fili began, when his tongue finally came unstuck from the roof of his mouth, but it was too late. She rushed across the room and straight out the open door without ever lifting her gaze off the ground. 

“Brother, I am sorry, I didn't know--”

Fili brushed aside the apology and scrambled past Kili to fly out into the hallway. Panic had broken through his earlier paralysis and suddenly he could not move fast enough, his body acting beyond the constraints of his judgment. 

He called after her; the sound of her name and his footsteps chased her down the empty corridor. But to Fili's dismay she did not stop or even slow down, and just as she was about to turn a corner and descend the stairs leading from the palace wing, a desperate shout escaped containment, partially strangled in the tightness of his throat, but still too loud to be ignored. 

“I love you, all right?! I love you!!”

The frantic clatter of the metal pail ceased, and all Fili could hear against the ensuing silence was the roar of his pulse beneath his ears. In several strides, he closed the distance to come before the maiden. She stayed rooted to the spot and motionless, apart from the heaving of her bosom as she chased her breath. 

“This was not how I wanted you to find out.” The calm in his own voice surprised Fili, as did the confidence that drove his words. “But I also do not wish to take it back. Hiding from the truth has gained me nothing but pain.”

“I appreciate your candor, milord, and I regret your pain.” She continued to address him, but her eyes remained firmly lowered towards her hands, white-knuckled in their grip around the pail handle. “But what am I to do with these fine words you offer? How can a peasant be worthy to receive the affections of a prince?”

“Worthy?” Fíli repeated in distaste. “What causes you to believe that you must be worthy to--?”

“You are the future King of Erebor.” She spoke loudly over him, as though she had not heard him at all, or was determined not to. “The blood of Durin the Deathless runs in you! I am just a nobody from a Broadbeam village in the Blue Mountains--” 

“I was born in such a village, same as my father!” Fíli cut her off with matching fervor. “And you are certainly not ‘just a nobody’ to me.”

Something in his words finally reached her, for at last she raised her bowed head ever so slightly, just enough for her gaze to meet his, and the tears that shimmered in her eyes wiped away the last of his hesitation.

“We are not different, ghivashel. Not in any way that matters.”

Her smile that bloomed at that word, one that proclaimed her more precious than any treasure in Erebor, revived a light in him that had gone out in the long weeks of her absence. 

When Fíli reached out to relieve her of the cleaning pail, she did not resist. Grasping her wrist, he rested her open hand upon his. He swept his thumb back and forth all across her palm, over the red scrapes and dirt-streaked calluses that made her all the more beautiful and admirable in his eyes.

“Not long ago, I spent each waking day with my face smeared in soot, my arms and hands burnt from the blaze of forge fires, aching to the bone after hours of back-breaking labor.”

He pushed up his tunic sleeve to show her: the patches of discolored skin from old burns, the countless scars that littered the entire length of his arm, almost to his elbow. 

“But I would always go to bed happy, and proud of my honest living, of the smith that I was.” He shook his head and corrected himself. “The smith that I am. Whatever titles and additional duties I may now carry as a consequence of my inheritance, I am still that same soot-covered dwarf.”

He sealed her hand between his two and lightly kissed the fingertips that peeked out from the cage of his palms.

“All I ask is for a chance to show you that,” he said softly. “With the hope that you might come to love what you see in me. For I have already, absolutely, fallen in love with everything I see in you.”

Her silence filled the entire length of the passageway, all the way up to the high ceilings. Under the crushing weight of its persistence, Fíli’s hope started to falter. But as the fear of his failure to convince her started to creep in, his grip all the more tightened around her hand. He couldn't let go. He did not know how he could ever let her go.

“From the first day we met,” she finally spoke. “I already loved everything I saw in you…Fíli of the Blue Mountains.” She tipped her chin up and squared her shoulders, face set with resolution alongside her gentle smile. “I think that love can bring me the courage I need to let the other side of you, Prince Fíli of Erebor, into my heart as well.” 

Fíli’s entire being swelled with such relief and unbridled joy he thought he might catch flame. His arms found themselves around her waist, drawing her close to his desire to demonstrate the feelings he had restrained for too long.

Alas, a sudden and deafening crash rang through the hall to cut off Fíli’s eager quest.  “Sorry, sorry!” yelped a guilty voice in the shadows.

Fíli groaned, then chuckled, and settled for another chase kiss upon his lady’s hand. 

“Would you care to have dinner with my brother and I?” he asked her, nodding in the direction of the ruckus as Kíli struggled to straighten up the decorative suit of armor he had knocked over. “An unrepentant snoop he may be, but I can assure you he is otherwise harmless and actually quite pleasant company.”

“It sounds like a wonderful start to getting to know the rest of you,” she said, eyes bright from their shared laughter, free of even a speck of her earlier doubts. “Because I very much would like to know everything, Fíli. To discover and delight in every wonderful bit of you.”

“And you shall have that,” Fíli vowed, brushing his thumb over the curve of her cheek, over an ashy mark of the fireplace cinders that had brought her back to him. “You already do have me, but I shall also endeavor to give the whole world to make you happy.”

“You are already the whole world,” she declared, and rose on her toes to do what he could not, sealing their confessions with a sound kiss.

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[timetravellibrarian]

Zoro x reader

Summary: A man seeks to follow his dreams, following only the path his swords carve for him and wherever his crew goes. Little does he know that the missing piece in his life, his soulmate whom he doesn't admit that he tries to seek would end up in a love-hate relationship.

____________________________________

Chapter Six

The mumurs of distaste coming rom the crowd was the first thing you heard after being hauled over to God knows where. The sound of pained screams made your heart rench, whips coming into contacting with s sensative skin. You grit your teeth. There were countless numbers of men, women and even children.

That sick bastard

The guard pushed you forward, closer to the pained cries. Closer to your upcoming doom. You knew the execution stands alll too well. Father made sure all his children knew that though it was unsavory it was necessary to provide justice.

There were high stands where royalty sat and watched executions Be it hanging, beheading or firing squad. A large raised platform was situatdd in the middle of the

It was a known saying, that the scars on a swordsman's back were a swordsman's shame. Same would go for a royal, a princess. Scars would mean they were a terrible leader or did a terrible deed. Whips were for criminals, murderers, those who force themselves on others, not for innocents.

The sack around your head was harshly removed and you had to adjust your eyes from the sun's glare.

The crowd seemed to have gone silent for one...two...

"NOOOOO!"

"LET HER GO!!!

"PRINCESS!!!!"

"YOUR MAJESTY!!!"

"MY QUEEN!!!!"

"DON'T DO THIS!!!"

The crowd was trying to push past the soldiers who stood across the raised platform, wanting to free the only living daughter they knew of from their late king whom they loved. Feet scuffling against the sandy pavements caused some dust to pick up and before the people knew it the soldiers free their swords to ward them off. Some getting injured in the frey.

Cassius sat at the stands high above, watching as you were placed beside the many victims. He wasn't the only one watching. All of the Council sat there, watching. Not making a move to help the girl they had seen grown up amongst them in the palace halls.

Your eyes met with his, filled with seething hatred but all they were met with a satisfied smirk, lips drinking in a cup of whine as if it were a mere show.

If your hands werent tied you could have flipped him off.

Soon you were placed beside the line of victims being whipped, your heard thudding at the prospect of the pain. You had seen the backs of those who were whipped a few minutes before you. Bloody and beginners to bruise and every cry they let out struck a chord in your heart.

Rough hands held you down as a dagger was brought too closer for comfort to your neck, the man holding it gave you a sinister smile, a few of his teeth were missing and most of them were rotting. One eye seemed to be of glass.

'Oh God'

They had brought the most sadistic executioner back, rehiring him especially for you. Kerwin the Cruel.

The dagger ripped through the back of your dress with ease, exposing it for the whole crowd to see. The crowd was starting to get a bit more frantic but with the soldiers holding them off with sharp blades and no mercy they realised you were doomed from the start.

You tried to keep the dress together to atleast keep your front covered, the sound of his boots carrying him till he grabbed his whip resounded in my ears. Kerwin was known for his tastes in torture, carrying a whip made of kangaroo hide with pieces of metal layered inside it. There was no way of surviving this. He once killed a man as large as a mountain with that thing.

"NOOO!!"

"PRINCESS!"

"OUR QUEEN!"

"GET ON WITH IT ALREADY." Cassius ordered, an impatient look on his face. All of the council sat beside him. Some looking away and others watching with bated breath.

"Do me a favour princess," Kerwin chuckled as he reared back his arm and flicking the whip into the air. It sounded like thunder across a metal roof. "Scream for me."

____________________________________

Zoro felt it before he heard her.

Everyone had gone offboard to look for prospective places to go shopping. He was fortunate enough to look for a restaurant with Luffy.

Only, everywhere they went, it was empty, the shops not even closed properly.

They stopped at a restaurant, it's sign having dark blue cursive words , " Zinhle's Diner"

"Where'd everybody go?" Luffy said, looking around before taking one of the plates and eating the chicken curry on it. It was still warm.

"Why would people leave everything like that?" Zoro asked aloud as he grabbed a bottle and popped it open to quench his thirst.

"I don't know, but more food for me!" Luffy said with a large smile as he started eating everything at arms length.

Zoro caught sight of a woman running towards past the place, her hair in disarray, her eyes watering.

"What's up with you?!"

She continued to run until Luffy wrapped a rubbery arm around her and yanking her back.

"Let me go! Please!"

"Relax lady, we're not gonna hurt you." Luffy reassured, his face going blank as he tried to think of why the woman was crying.

"Please, I must get to her. I must save mi'lady." She said, and now that her words were more clear Zoro eyes the sword at her him.

"Can you even use that?"

She went silent for a second, making it clear she couldn't with her lack of response.

"I need to go. SHE NEEDS ME!"

"Listen, I need to to exp– Zoro felt his unimaginable pain on his back. Hefelt his body betray him as he fell to the ground. He's back, usually unscarred and untouched by a single weapon or hand felt a seering pain. He held in the painful groan.

"ZORO?!" Luffy let go of the woman to help his swordsman friend, the lady running back onto the path, a determined look on her face.

"I'm fine Luffy, I'm –

And that's when he heard her. He felt his heart stop.

aaaAAAAAHHHHHH!

Luffy's froze at the scream. The air stilled as Zoro picked himself up, a look worthy to scare demons away etched on his face. He felt the brunt of the second hit more harshly than the first. His senses going into hyper drive as he practically flew in the same direction that the other woman had gone.

____________________________________

Nami and Ussop had come across the roaring crowds blocking the streets. The soldiers holding shields and drawn swords to cut down any more protesters.

"What's going on here?" Nami said, turning to look at her bestie who was carrying almost all her bags with hundred of complaints being delivered out his lips.

Upahead they saw about a hundred men, women and children on a stage, their backs bloody, and the soldiers hitting them rearing back to inflict more pain. Nami pulled out her staff, getting ready to fight. Ussop placed the bags down, pulling out Kabuto, his larger slingshot.

____________________________________

You closed your eyes in pain as the third hit made impact with your back.

Cassius amused laugh barely registered into your mind as you could hear Kerwin rearing back his arm for another hit.

The crowds were now running towards the armed soldiers, not caring for the swords.

"PRINCESSS!"

'Lyra?' you felt your body recoil as the air hit against your now sensitive back.

You looked up to the stands where Cassius sat, clapping his hands. Where every one of them was looking.

Ser Randall, Lord Alexander, Maester Caius, Lady Genevieve. Cassius.

You heard the man ready to whip you for the fourth time let out a joyful cackle.

Kerwin.

I'll kill you all for this

The air went still, heavy pressure knocking down the other soldiers. Kerwins whip was a second away from making the fourth hit. Your eyes closed, bracing for the next hit that was yet to marry your body for life.

But it never came. Only Kerwin's bloodcurdling scream.

"AAAARRGGHHHH!"

A tall figure stood infront behind you, gold earrings gleaming in the blazing sun light.

Kerwin's arm lay limp metres away from your spot, still holding onto the whip. Kerwin rolled onto the floor in agony, his body trying to adjust to the sudden loss of his limb.

"Lay your hands on her again and I'll cut off the other." Threatened as his stormy grey eyes met with Cassius shocked ones.

I looked up to see what was happening, my eyes widening at the green haired man infront of me, one of his swords drawn and his stance ready to cut down anyone who came near.

Who?

And the dark markings on his wrist visible. There in black cursive ink were your initials. They began to glow to an almost liquid gold.

"AND WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!" Cassius sneered. All of the council began to stand, getting ready to fight the new threat.

A man in a strawhat sprung up to stand beside the swordsman, a woman with long orange hair and a lomg-nosed man hopped onto the stairs of the stage. The smell of smoke invaded your nostrils and soon enough a blond man with a curly eyebrow took off his jacket and carefully placed it on you to make you warm.

The green haired man gave Cassius a daring look, his sword glinting with his every move with the threat of death.

"Who do you think I am...The names Roronoa Zoro..."

Cassius went silent

"Her soulmate."

TO BE CONTINUED...

____________________________________

I'm baaack! Been trying to find out how to make it epic.

Taglist:

@bi-narystars

@urbisexualfriend

@chillerkiller

@mythicallystupid

@gaslysainz

@qxuanii

@mars-mizuko

[floweroflaurelin]

So Pixlriffs’ finale is a masterpiece and I’m experiencing a lot of emotions right now ✨🌻✨

For my own reference I made a transcript of the monologue and thought I might as well share it! It's under the cut to avoid spoilers but the whole first 8ish minutes of his video are typed out. I recommend watching at least that much, if you haven’t yet, because it’s really something worth hearing.

We are not done.

Not yet.

Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But before they fade into obscurity, as so many events do, there is one more story left to be told.

[It is the Story

of

the World.]

It’s important to remind ourselves that history is an account of events remembered—and there are so few left who remember, so it mingles with myth and hearsay, folklore and fireside stories. This is the account of just one man, and others may recall the tale differently. Others still may decide to change the narrative to suit their own ends. And this, it must be said, is no bad thing. So it goes.

[Sun setting

over

our Creation.]

—

In a long-lost age before records truly began, our world was built by Titans (or so it is said). The lands they created became home to people who would seek to emulate and even to surpass that act of creation, and that would eventually bring about their destruction. But destruction is simply part of a cycle. Nothing is ever truly lost.

Those who foresaw the destruction fled before it could bring the walls of their homes down around them. And many who had been downtrodden and overlooked saw it as their chance to find a new life for themselves.

Thus began a great migration, leaving behind the old nations of the world and striking out for somewhere new, a life untethered from the follies of their former state. And though the road was long and treacherous, and many fell behind in the wake of such an awful endeavour, new bonds were forged in the fires of adversity.

As time passed, and more joined the great caravan, the host became a nation of its own, a glorious congregation sharing one purpose, singing the same resolute song. Though the road was long, they were homeward bound.

And a home they found nestled in a mountainous landscape, one that might have been carved by the very bones of the gods themselves. There they planted roots, drank deep from the water, and continued to grow. The farmers sowed new fields and raised new flocks. The work of many hands turned to building a new city. And together the architects conceived a castle upon a great plateau that would stand as a monument to their past apart and their future together. To them, the castle itself would tell the Story of the World.

Stone-whisperers from Mythland and the Grimlands, well-versed in masonry of all kinds, sculpted its walls from the abundant rock of the nearby mountains quarried for the glory of their new capital. They wrought rock and iron, carved and timbered their great halls, and raised mighty towers to stand atop the grand cliff.

The mages of the Crystal Cliffs brought knowledge of magic and the beauty of gemstones, and theirs was the sanctum at the heart of the castle, ever-seated at the Ruler’s left hand: their shield and protector.

A tribute was raised to Gilded Helianthia, whose ruler was still revered in the hearts and minds of many, and in time she became their warden against the spectres of the past, carrying the twin burdens of light and shadow on her shoulders; a burden with which the people of Rivendell were all too familiar.

And below, far below, the engineers of Pixandria sought to reproduce the jewel of their empire. A mechanism that would surpass the work of the Copper King himself.

Not all who came to found the Ancient Capital remained for long. Like dandelion seeds, the people of the Overgrown were scattered on the wind, alighting on the mountaintops and valleys. The vast majority of them came to settle in the rolling meadows of Chromia, which was renowned for the richness and beauty of its dyes for lifetimes after.

In the absence of their king, the nation of Mezelea resettled in new badlands, establishing laws and ordinances of their own. Many of them had been armour stands before the king imbued them with life, and some found this a hard habit to shake.

The people of the Cod and Ocean empires, bereft of the waters that gave them life, took to diving in the rocky pools of vast caverns and their affinity for stone grew. Over many generations they adapted, becoming the green-skinned race that folk came to know as goblins—their pointed ears the only remaining vestige of the fins they had once had.

For the gnomes of the Undergrove, this was a homecoming! They had long dwelled here before their exodus through the Nether and the fairy circles of the Evermoore welcomed them with open arms.

And the villagers of the Lost Empire, hiding in plain sight amongst the caravan of peoples, sought to find a place where they would be unburdened by this facade of humanity, standing at last on their own two feet.

But the boundaries of this land were ever-changing, and the nations soon found the cataclysm they had left behind had weakened the walls between their world and others. Waters rose and fell unpredictably; incursions from other realms were possible, bringing chaos in their wake. The tide of history churned and rippled.

None now remember how the Capital fell, only that its remains have lasted: an epitaph to all they had achieved together.

And just like before, new nations would arise. The pirates of Eversea ruled the waters from their secret cove. The inventors of Cogsmeade arrived sailing in from the air on their skyships—only to find whole buildings floating in the golden kingdom of Stratos. Rumours abounded of a Sanctuary hidden in the deepest jungle for those who knew the way.

Their tales are better told by those who knew them well. Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But for this tired historian, it is perhaps best to leave these things in the past and begin to look towards the future.

For whatever comes next, we who have sown the seeds can only hope for a bountiful harvest.

[quitealotofsodapop]

This is set as a hypothetical between S5 and S6 but in the Stone Matriarch variants, the world did not cleanly heal from reality breaking twice over and thus some strange things have started happening. The most drastic of which being an incident in which the Noodle Gang and our favorite monkey ended up falling through time and space into another dimension set several millenia in the past when Wukong was approximately the same age as MK and still a very young monkey.

The most stark contrast, however, is that this world is a world in which the Great Floos never wiped put the Stone Monkeys. Meaning the young Wukong grew up with both his parents.

While everyone else is marveling at the new world and the changes within it, Wukong is having a bit of an existential crisis of his own upon realizing this is the life that had been stolen from him by a flood that happened long before he was ever even hatched.

Its the end of Season 5; MK has tried his best to spread the power of the Heavenly Stones throughout the universe.

When during their celebration party on Flower Fruit Mountain; a portal opens up and drags the gang all inside.

When they all come too - it's to Flower Fruit Mountain.

But not the one they know.

Many spears and swords are suddenly poised at the intruders. They are surrounded on all sides by monkey demons, all wearing plain island-style clothing made of natural materials. Cleary wherever they landed; they've alerted the locals.

Leading the scouts is an eerily familiar monkey - Wukong himself?!

However this monkey doesn't look exactly like Wukong: his eyes are a deep blue rather than gold, and he has a younger, somehow cheekier smile.

His smile only widens at the sight of the Monkey King.

???: "Shihou! You're home early! Wukong: "Who... who are you?" ???: "Ehh? Gege, are you ok? Or are you unable to tell your own brother's face from a horse's bum?" Wukong: "BROTHER?!"

This encounter quickly leads to the gang getting captured by the monkey scouts - who bring him to the Stone Palace.

But not the ruin Wukong refurbished in the early years of his kinghood.

It's THE Stone Palace.

Unweathered by time or nature. It's decorated with tapestries and statues of past warriors and rules. At the end of the entrance hall is an imposing stone throne - upon it sits a ginger-furred monkey.

But it's not Sun Wukong.

It's a female monkey. Older than what Wukong had been when he took the throne. Her body adorned by a large red cape in harmony with multiple jade ornaments. At her side is a brunette male monkey of the same age, readjusting his spectacles at their guests. Guards and retainers, many of whom Wukong and Macaque know from their youth, line the room.

Wukong: "Mrs uh... Matriarch is it? We're a little lost - dimension wise. Where we were, the Heavenly Pillar was breaking and the lines between worlds thinned. We must have fallen through the wrong door." (*As Wukong speaks, the female monkey rises from her throne and walks slowly towards him. Her eyes narrow as she touches his scarf, comparing it to her cape. The whole room seems to draw in a breath.*) Shihua: "Where did you get this?" Wukong: "It was draped over the throne when I found the palace for the first time." Shihua: "Found? Have you not lived here your entire life?" (*A feeling of dread overcomes Wukong as he tries his best to explain*) Wukong: "When I was very young, none of us lived in the Stone Palace. But I accidentally rediscovered it when I fell through the waterfall. There was a plaque dedicated to whomever lived there before us, and a cape resting on the throne. I took the cape for my self when the troop crowned me King- er.. Matriarch." Ye Lin, concerned: "And what of your parents? surely they would not have let a mere cub rule?" Wukong, brow furrowed with sad confusion: "I... never had any parents. I was born alone atop of Flower Fruit Mountain from a lone stone egg. As far as I know, besides Macaque and MK here, I'm the only Stone Monkey there is." (*The two royal monkeys look at each other sadly. The Queen makes a deep sigh as she sniffs the stranger-king's scarf, offering it to her mate to inspect. The brunette monkey takes a sniff, his gaze widening when he recognises the scent.*) Shihua: "That explains it." Ye Lin: "What does, my Queen? How does this young man smell almost exactly like our elder son?" Shihua: "These strangers truly are from another world. Another time even. One where our people did not survive the Great Flood we weathered." (*every single jaw in the room is dropped from shock. The monkey marshals and generals quickly begin inspecting the strangers, grooming their fur and sniffing their effects. The Wukong-double from earlier looks positively smug*) Luzhen, excited: "So he IS Gege!!" Marshal Ma: "No little prince, I've already checked with the Celestial Realm. Shihou is still working off his sentence in the stables." Wukong: "Sentence? Stables? Oh sweet Buddha, you mean I'm still the bimawen?!" MK: "I mean! At least you aren't under that mountain!" Tang, covered in curious monkeys: "What year is this even?" Ye Lin: "I am unsure if our time keeping methods match yours - but the humans on the mainland have recently chosen a new Emperor. A man they call Taizong of Tang." The Monkie Kids, shocked: Σ(°ロ°)! Mei, looking on the bright side: "I can introduce you guys to my Grandpa Lie!"

Of course, now the Monkie Kids/Noodle Gang need to figure out why they fell through a portal, what has changed in this new world, and whether or not the infamous Journey to the West can even happen.

Its very fun AU to think about. A lot of sight-seeing occurs as Shihua glamours/hides the gang as her or her family's new retainers. :3

Au name ideas im thinking; "Stone Royalty au"? or something along those lines.

Btw for those wondering about the "reincarnation" aspect of Shihua's life... Guanyin still exists in this world. Bodhisattva is a keystone character who will find a way to exist. Even if it leaves Shihua mourning her twin who did not survive the Flood.

[lemon-russ]

More smutless (for now) Leman Russ fic. Whats important is that I'm having fun and subjecting you all to it lol.

(Thanks @squishyowl for the dividers. Idk if getting tagged every fic bothers you, lmk :,) )

Wolf Mother (Ch. 2)

<Prev. | Next>

Ao3

Leman Russ x Fem OC

CW (not necessarily this chapter but overall): Trauma, anxiety, PTSD, General WH40k violence, Sex, probably breeding kink stuff eventually, if there's something I miss and you want labeled let me know!!

Summary: Wren and Guilliman arrive at The Fang and meet The Wolf King.

Word count: 1,637

Wren Vaille walks down the corridors of the Macragge's Honour to the door of Guilliman's office. He smiles a greeting to her when she opens the door, and walks beisdes her down the hall.

“Thank you for giving this a chance, Captain.” He says with a smile.

She gives a small smile back, walking around him so he walked on her right side where she could see him. “Of course, sir. It would not be very honorable of me to not even attempt to help you.”

Guilliman raises a brow, then glances at her blinded left eye, scar running through it, and has a small look of understanding, moving aside to give her room. “Still it is a huge favor. But I wouldn't send you somewhere you're in danger. My brother may be rowdy, but I think he will like you.” He smiles at her. “You have the same indomitable spirit.”

She scrunches her brows together. “Uh-huh. Sometimes I fear you have a very inflated idea of me, my Lord.” She says with a small chuckle.

Guilliman chuckles back. “I think you have a very under-inflated view of yourself, Captain. You'll handle the space wolves well, I think.” He says with a pat on her shoulder.

She stumbles a little under the sudden weight of his ceramite gauntlet, bionic leg whirring a groaning noise as she tripped and caught herself before falling.”um- thank you, sir, I suppose.”

They reach the bay doors to the hangar, peppered with blue armored forms and uniforms scurrying around gunning ships and thunderhawks.

A thunderhawk near them was being loaded with what few material possesions she had, a few boxes and a large bag. She swallows hard, her mouth dry.

Guilliman waved to a serf, who brought over a folded coat. “Here, I had this brought for you.” He says, holding up a warm looking, fur lined coat in ultramarine blue. “Fenris is bitterly cold, especially for baseline humans. I worried you wouldn't have sufficent layers.” He smiles.

“Oh, thank you my Lord.” She says, taking the warm, insulated coat. She swallows back some emotion. This may be the last Ultramarine thing she'll own. The rest of her uniform would be packed away with her old Auxillia fatigues.

She gives him a tight smile, trying to not get sentimental. “I really appreciate this, it was very thoughtful.” She says as she pulls on the thick coat.

He smiles and pats her shoulder again. “It's ok to feel emotional, Captain. It is the human thing to feel sad at goodbyes.” He says in a softer tone.

She bites her lower lip. “This is probably only temporary, anyways, my Lord.” She says, walking with him toward the thunderhawk. “I doubt I'll be able to actually keep up with space wolves.” She says with a forced smile.

He smiles and offers her a hand to help her up the ramp of the ship. “Of course, Captain Vaille. It's hardly permanent.”

He helps her settle and buckle in, then tells the pilot to head off.

“I'll see you off to my Brother. It's been too long since I visited, anyway.” The primarch says, sitting next to her as much as the small seats allow.

The ride to the surface of Fenris is short enough, and soon they are landing on the landing bays of The Fang, the massive mountain fortress that serves as the seat of the Space Wolves.

An icy blast has Wren clutching her new coat tight around her shoulders and shivering as the doors to the ship open. Guilliman chuckles, patting her back.

“That's why I got you a coat. Come, Leman should be around and he is terrible at sitting still, so we should be quick so he doesn't run off on us.” He says as he helps her down the ramp.

Her bionic leg, junky as ever, immediately tries to seize as the cold air plays havoc on the metal gears and hydraulic pistons. She gives it a couple whacks with the side of her fist and hobbles off after Guilliman.

They enter the Valgard, the uppermost structure of the fortress and the only place with ship bays. The rest of the fortress is in underground tunnels through the mountain. Thankfully the interior of the mountain is a bit more hospitable.

They walk through corridors of metal, wood and cave tunnels, with busy lifts moving Space Wolves and serfs around. Guilliman leads her through a massive, ornate room of pure granite, down a concerning lift, and through more halls until he stops at a door and knocks.

“Skítja, Who knocks in the Aett?” Someone curses in a rough voice, stomping to the door and flinging it open.

“What- Oh!” The Primarch goes from annoyance to joy in a flash. “Ah, Roboute, I was wondering who would be so formal, I forgot you were coming today.” He laughs.

Leman Russ is a couple feet taller than his brother, and grins down at him with a fanged smile. “Come, come- I was just rehashing defense nonsense.” He says, waving Guilliman in to the defense overlook. Wren, seemingly forgotten, scurries after their long strides into a smaller room of cluttered papers, books, scrolls, and maps laying across a table.

Russ flops onto a large wooden high back chair, leg over the arm, grinning and motioning for Guilliman to sit in a similar one. “So, you sent word of some sort of paperwork thrall?” He asks.

Guilliman chuckled under his breath as he sat, and Wren awkwardly stood beside his chair. They call Serfs thralls? That isn’t very reassuring, she thought to herself.

“Not quite, but yes. This is my assistant, Wren Vaille.” Guilliman introduces, and she gives a polite salute. “I want to offer her to you to do what she does for me- Paperwork, scheduling, some logistics, communicating on my behalf with other Primarchs…” he says, patting her back. “Clerical type work that you seem to need.” He adds, eyeing the piles of strewn papers with a tight frown.

Leman looks at her for the first time, eyeing her up and down, then quirks his head to the side in a way that can only be compared to a curious dog. “Where’d the other half of you go, girl?” He asks curiously.

Guilliman’s eyes go wide, “Leman, have some tackt-” he snaps softly, but Wren chuckles a bit. No one every even acknowledges her differences, let alone so boldly. It is always your condition and because of, well, you know.

"Long gone, I’m afraid.” She says with a small smile. “But I assure you I can work just fine with one eye and a bionic leg.”

Guilliman looks embarrassed, but Leman grins his sharp toothed smile at her. “Hah, well I’ll get a story out of you yet girl. No one loses and eye and a leg and walks away without a tale to tell.”

He hops up from his chair and walks over to her, standing close enough it forces her to crane her neck up. He looks her over, walking in circles around her and making her purse her lips nervously at the inspection.

“Any more of you missing?” He asks, bending down to look at her closer.

She raises her brow. “Uh- a kidney? On the left side, but otherwise no just the eye and leg…” she replies, stepping back a step as he gets close to her face.

He hmphs, then sniffs her, making her blush a bit.

Guilliman sighs. “Leman, she’s only here on a trial, please pretend to be civil for 5 minutes…?” He says, gently pulling Wren back toward himself by her shoulders.

Russ huffed through his nose. “What? I can’t smell her? You can tell a lot by someone’s smell.” He grumbled. “My sons will sniff her too, she may as well get used to it…”

Guilliman and Wren made a mirrored uncomfortable look, and Russ rolled his eyes. ”Fine fine. Tell me, thrall, can you fight still?” He asks, quirking his head to the side again.

Guilliman frowns. “She is here to help you file paperwork and make meetings, Leman.” He says sternly.

Russ frowns, furrowing his brow. “Well she obviously fought at some point- it is important to me that this secretary thing can follow me in dangerous places.”

Wren purses her lips. “I can fight, if needed. Not so well with shooting anymore, what with the eye, but, I can defend myself with melee and I can flee.” She says nervously.

He seems satisfied with that, smiling and giving a nod. “Good. We will get you back up in proper fighting shape so you do not get killed the second something looks at you.”

Guilliman sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Remember, this is a trial, Leman. If you scare her off I’ll take her home.”

Russ scoffs, “If she is scared off, she would make a poor assistant to me.” He grins and claps her on the shoulder, making her leg whine mechanically as she stumbled a little from it. “You look sturdy, though, even for a female so small. Humans do not get that amount of scars from twiddling their thumbs.” He turns on his heel, heading for the door. “Come, paper-thrall, I have duties to attend.”

Guilliman lets out a tired sigh, then pats her back gently. “Thank you again, Wren. I’m always a messenger away, if anything happens and you want to return early, you need only ask.” He says gently. She smiles nervously, giving him a nod, before Leman calls again.

“Thrall! Come! I shall not wait for your tiny legs!”

She stiffens and scrambles out the door.

[muffinlance]

Hello Dragons Here: Gaang Meeting Outtakes

Alternates to part four. Or read part one here.

Take 2: Hallway Meet & Greet

So they tried his office, but that was empty too, and there was only so long they could wander the palace before they were caught.

“I think it’s tactical retreat time,” Sokka whispered, as they huddled in an empty corner of the halls. “As long as they don’t know we were here, we can try again another night. We’ll just park Appa up in the mountains and… dragon?”

“What?” asked Katara.

“Baby dragon,” Sokka said, pointing down. The ferret-cat sized dragon blinked up at him, its snakey tongue flickering from its mouth. Aang resisted the urge to squeal.

“Please come back,” came a very tired voice, right before a teenager who walked really quietly rounded the corner and straight into them. Kind of literally. Sokka reached out to steady him, as he wobbled post-impact. And then they had a Fire Nation servant that they really couldn’t let leave blinking at them.

“...You’re very short assassins,” said the teenager. Whose long hair was partially tied up in a frazzled bun, but mostly down his back. And whose sleep robe was really rumpled. And who was blinking at them through a pair of glasses that were almost an exact match for the ones in fashion at King Kuei’s court, like he’d gotten them from the same artisan. And also there were some ink stains on his face, like maybe he’d fallen asleep on some still-drying documents. So… maybe a scribe? The stains were on the scared side of his face, which was where the Fire Lord was supposed to have one, but his was smaller on his face than the portraits Ozai had commissioned, especially with the way the hair fell over it. And Aang also knew from Ozai how much the Fire Lord liked sharing his facial scars with the people around him.

“We’re, ah. New hires?” Sokka said.

“I,” the teenager said, “am not dealing with this. I am taking Druk back to the hatchery, and then I’m finishing my work, and then I’m going to bed. If you’re assassins, make an appointment.”

“Is that… something assassins usually do?” Aang asked.

“They should,” the teenager said.

Take 1: In a Happier World

Did I write an entire prompt reply only to scrap it and replace it with Sifu Ozai? Yes. Yes I did. The original:

Aang is escorted between bending teachers, kept away from exploring. Kept away from the Fire Nation, and most of the coastlines of the Earth Kingdom, which are called the colonies now. 

The first thing he was told, when he woke up, was There was a war. It lasted for ninety-eight years.

The second thing was, It’s over now.

No one tells him, but by the time he’s studying earthbending, he knows the third: It’s over because the Fire Lord said so. 

“But… it’s good he ended it, right?” Aang asks that night, in the safety of his room with Sokka and Katara, who started as his escorts from the Southern Tribe but ended up as friends. He thinks they’re friends. 

“It’s good he’s not marching new armies into places,” Sokka says, staring up at the ceiling. “Less good, that he hasn’t marched the old armies back out.”

“If he’d ended it a year earlier, our mother would be alive,” says Katara, her face to the wall. 

Fire Lord Zuko celebrated his sixteenth birthday just before the winter solstice, when Aang was still in the south pole. The Avatar was sent a formal invitation to attend. But Aang had… he’d been awake for only a few weeks. All he’d wanted to do was go home. He’d tried, and—

And going into the Avatar state had apparently alerted sages the world over to his existence. So. That was great. The Fire Lord’s hawk carried another message, as unsaid as so many other things: I know exactly where you are, Avatar.

Chief Hakoda politely declined on his behalf. 

He trained under the same master as Katara; one of the women who’d come south, when the blockades between the poles had been lifted. He wasn’t a natural healer like the Chief’s daughter, but it… it was good, healing. Healing was what he needed. Waterbending had a fighting branch, too, and he could go to the north pole if he wanted to learn it, but they’d already turned Katara away and. And he didn’t see what learning how to drown someone, or cut them with ice, would help. They sent an offer, to send one of their best masters south.

Gran-Gran declined on his behalf. He didn’t read what she’d written, so he could pretend it was polite. 

The Earth Kingdom was… it was fracturing. Ba Sing Se had been the cultural and political center in Aang’s time, and it was still supposed to be a great city, but it was great because it had expanded its walls to ring in enough farmland for itself and then… sort of ignored what was going on outside them, for the next few decades. The generals living there still plotted tactics, still lead the armies, but the nobility lived like there wasn’t even a war. And then the news came out that the Earth King really hadn’t known about the war, and. 

Aang was in Gaoling when the news hit. The Beifong family had invited him to stay during his travels, and Sokka had a firm always-accept-free-stuff-from-rich-people policy, so. So he got to look out over their estate walls as people rioted. When he finally made it to Omashu, Bumi took one look at the girl who’d kidnapped herself into his saddle and snorkel-snorted. And then they’d had an arm-wrestling contest over who got to teach him. Toph cheated, but so did Bumi, so it was fair? 

“Two cheats make a right,” Sifu Toph told him.

“No they don’t,” said Katara.

Toph declared him a passable earthbender. Within the week, another hawk from the Fire Lord arrived: an invitation to be tutored by Crown Princess Azula herself.

I know exactly how much you’ve learned, the letter didn’t say. It didn’t have to.

“So,” said Toph, “we’re coming with to see how creepy this guy is in person, right?”

Aang was so, so glad for his friends. 

And now they were in a suite of rooms in the palace, graciously being allowed the night to recover from their travels, before their meeting with the Fire Lord and his heir in the morning. 

“On the bright side,” said Sokka, which was never a phrase that ended well from him, “if he wanted to assassinate you, he’s known where you are for months.”

“Thanks, Sokka,” Aang said. And went for a walk, in the palace halls, because… Because.

Because he was the Avatar. And no one was saying it outright, but every time they said The war is over what they meant was Because the Fire Lord forced the terms. Because he offered to stop killing our people if we signed. Because he has dragons, dragons big enough to scorch armies to ashes without ever getting in range of benders or archers, and no one can fight against that.

No one but the Avatar. Master of all four elements, if he did what every nation in the world had done, and accepted the Fire Lord’s generous offer.

“He’s not even offering to teach you himself,” Sokka had snorted, when he’d first read the letter. “What, is he too busy counting his war spoils?”

The halls were quiet. Aang was looking for one of those courtyard gardens they’d seen from the air, but what he found instead was—

“No, come back, why can’t you stay in the hatchery—”

A very frazzled young man, and a very noodly baby dragon, who both slid around a corner with the same scrabbling-over-polished-floors grace and crashed right into him. 

“Umm,” said Aang. “Oww?”

“Catch him,” ordered the young man, as the dragon wormed its way between them and bolted again. 

And then Aang was on a baby dragon chase which was... probably exactly what he needed. At least, he was out of breath and laughing by the end of it, and his new friend was grumpily down an outer robe, which had been sacrificed to the cause of bundling the baby into a sort of squirmy burrito-pretzel. Also it kept trying to light the robe on fire with its dragonbreath, and the teenager kept blowing his own sparks which somehow swirled with the fire and put it out, and Aang absolutely had to know—

“Can you teach me to do that?”

“Uh,” said the teenager, leaning back from Aang’s face, which was maybe a little closer to his own than most people found comfortable. But they were dragon buddies, like he and Kuzon had been, so it was totally justified. “I’m, uh. Not really that good? I barely have any time to practice real forms, the dragons just have me play games and creatively roast their meat—”

“But you’re breathing rainbows.”

“...Please don’t say it like that in front of my sister.”

“I won’t,” Aang said, smile broadening, “if you teach me. And come meet my friends!”

The teenager didn’t say no, and Aang recognized this hallway, so he hooked their arms together and dragged him off. 

“Guys!” Aang said, sliding open their door. “I met the palace dragonsitter!”

“...Please don’t say that in front of my sister, either,” the teenager sighed. 

“That’s nice, Aang,” said Sokka. “Hello, dragonsitter. How does it feel, to be kidnapped?”

“Familiar,” said the teenager, in a kind of worrying deadpan. “I really need to get Druk back to the hatchery. I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

“Nuh-uh,” said Toph. “This is my first team kidnapping. No leaving until we get a ransom.”

“...I can order snacks?” offered the teen.

“We’re keeping you,” Toph said. “Now get us more of those fire flakes. Snozzles keeps trying not to cry while eating them, it’s hilarious.”

“It is not my fault they are both delicious and trying to kill me,” Sokka said. 

“...I’ll send tea, too,” the teenager said. “But, uh. I really should… not be here?”

“Relax,” Sokka said, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “It’s not like we’re going to snitch on you to the Fire Lord.”

The dragonsitter mumbled something Aang couldn’t quite catch, but it sounded a lot like I can see the family resemblance. But he got a passing servant to send for their snacks, and he let the little dragon down for some supervised exploration that ended in all of Sokka’s emergency seal jerky being gulped down its throat as it ran circles around the room, and the teenager finally sat down and leaned back and laughed, which Aang wasn’t sure was a thing he did a lot of. 

And then he met them the next morning, in formal robes, on his throne.

“...Hello, Sifu Rainbows!” Aang said, and the girl next to His Majesty cackled.

#Azula: This is the best casual roasting

#since you came back home to father

#Zuko: can you please not use that comparison every time

#Azula: absolutely not <3

#All Adults: terrified of the Fire Lord

#Team Avatar: terrorizing the Fire Lord

#and then they broke it to him that people had signed his peace treaties under pain of dragon eating

#Zuko: THEY DON’T EVEN EAT PEOPLE

#Sokka: thank you for that information Fire Lord Dragonsitter

(Read more prompts || Longer ATLA fics || Original works)

[anneangel]

I can understand why Elrond allowed Bilbo live in Rivendell, in his halls, around several others of grandeur, allowing Bilbo to creating poems, music and translating files from Elvish into Common Speech, about Ancient history, Tales and Legends.

Have you ever stopped to think that Bilbo made everything said about him come true, and even went further?

He proved to be “The thief wants a good job, a lot of excitement and reasonable reward” or “Expert Treasure-hunter”. He really was “the expert thief and even gives the dwarves some ideas or suggestions” (even more than expected, given that Thorin believed that the problems would only come from Lake-town, the same with Gandalf announcing that the problems would occur much earlier).

So Bilbo went faced Trolls, met and charm elves, found the One Ring, spared Gollum's life, confront spiders, freed the dwarves from the elven dungeons of Mirkwood, overcame his fears of heights, put the dwarves in barrels and he entered a river even without knowing how to swim, entered Erebor and stole from the dragon Smaug, then spoke to that dragon and discovered its weak point (information brought to Bard by a bird, without which he would not have been able to kill the beast). And then Bilbo even used the Arkenstone as a ruse to try to avoid bloodshed, even if it meant enmity with his dwarven friends, and even so he returned to the mountain to be on their side (Bilbo still considered himself friend and loyal to them, he just had the courage to go against them on something he believed they weren't right: not negotiating with others).

Bilbo was in the Battle of the Five Armies and came out alive, and in end he forgave Thorin (after Thorin almost threw him for dead). It was because of him (and Galdalf's) that an king returned to reign in Erebor (Dáin) and another king returned to Dale (Bard). So, There was friendship between elves, dwarves and humans in those parts, after their union in battle.

So Bilbo returned to Bag End, had to repurchase his possessions and was not well received by the other Hobbits, but he was not subjugated by The One Ring over the years, and he did not become lonely and elusive, on the contrary; continued friend to dwarves and elves and humans for years, adopt Frodo (which would change the future course of Middle-earth forever, since this adoption would determine the future Ring-bearer), taught Sam to read, welcomed Merry and Pippin into his home, who was liberal with money and helped the poor and needy, and threw lively parties with food and gifts for the entire Shire, and even after decades in possession of the One Ring he managed to give it up (albeit with Gandalf's help).

Yes, the same Bilbo who had in possession a blade of Gondolin, the One Ring, the Arkenstone, and the mail of Mithril at the same time. And in the end he was able to get rid of each of these things of so much value and power.

Yes, I understand why Elrond and other elves wanted him around.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily - Of Menegroth

Today’s Silmarillion Daily contains two events - one is the building/carving of Menegroth and the other, happening around the same time in Valinor, is the births of Turgon and Finrod.

Here’s the part on Menegroth:

Now Melian had much foresight, after the manner of the Maiar; and when the second age of the captivity of Melkor had passed, she counselled Thingol that the Peace of Arda would not last forever. He took thought therefore how he should make for himself a kingly dwelling, and a place that should be strong, if evil were to awake again in Middle-earth; and he sought aid and counsel of the Dwarves of Belegost. They gave it willingly, for they were unwearied in those days and eager for new works; and though the Dwarves ever demanded a price for all that the did, whether with delight or with toil, at this time they held themselves paid. For Melian taught them much that they were eager to learn, and Thingol rewarded them with many fair pearls. These Círdan gave to him, for they were got in great number in the shallow waters about the Isle of Balar; but the Naugrim had not before seen their like, and they held them dear. One there was as great as a dove’s egg, and its sheen was as starlight on the foam of the sea; Nimphelos it is named, and the chieftain of the Dwarves of Belegost prized it above a mountain of wealth.

Therefore the Naugrim laboured long and gladly for Thingol, and devised for him mansions after the fashion of their people, delved deep in the earth. Where the Esgalduin flowed down, and parted Neldoreth from Region, there rose in the midst of the forest a rocky hill, and the river ran at its feet, There they made the gates of the hall of Thingol, and they built a bridge of stone over the river, by which alone the gates could be entered. Beyond the gates wide passages ran down to high halls and chambers far below that were hewn in the living stone, so many and so great that that dwelling was named Menegroth, the Thousand Caves.

But the Elves also had part in that labour, and Elves and Dwarves together, each with their own skill, there wrought out the visions of Melian, images of the wonder and beauty of Valinor beyond the Sea. The pillars of Menegroth were hewn in the lines of the beeches of Oromë, stock, bough, and leaf, and they were lit with lanterns of gold. The nightingales sang there as in the gardens of Lórien; and there were fountains of silver, and basins of marble, and floors of many-coloured stones. Carven figures of beasts and birds there ran upon the walls, or climbed upon the pillars, or peered among the branches entwined with many flowers. And as the years passed Melian and her maidens filled the halls with woven hangings wherein could be read the deeds of the Valar, and many things that had befallen in Arda since its beginning, and shadows of things that were yet to be. That was the fairest dwelling of any king that has ever been east of the Sea.

And when the building of Menegroth was achieved, and there was peace in the realm of Thingol and Melian, the Naugrim yet came ever and anon over the mountains and went in traffic about the lands; but they went seldom to the Falas, for they hated the sound of the sea and feared to look upon it. To Beleriand there came no other rumour or tidings of the world without.

There’s another tidbit about Menegroth in History of Middle-earth (The Peoples of Middle-earth, “The problem of Ros”):

…the great Hall of the Throne of Elwë in the midst of his stronghold of Menegroth…was called the Menelrond [heaven-dome], because by the arts and aid of Melian its high arched roof had been adorned with silver and gems set in the order and figures of the stars in the great Dome of Valmar in Aman, whence Melian came.

The section further states that Elwing named Elrond in memory of this place, and that this was held to be prophetic, as it foreshadowed Elrond choosing the kindred of the Eldar and “carrying on the lineage of King Elwë [Footnote: Also also that of Turgon; though he oreferred that of Elwë, who was not under the ban that was laid on the Exiles.]”, while Elros, named for water, crossed the seas and became King of Númenor.

I feel like Menegroth in the passage above comes about as close as anything else we see to Eru’s ideal for the Ainur and the Eruhíni: dwarves and elves and a Maia all working together in Middle-earth to make something beautiful with their different skills and knowledge. The decision to do it in incited by the awareness of danger, but that leads not to hostility but to cooperation and beauty. It’s not in Valinor, but it recalls much of Valinor and of the Valar: the carvings of trees and woodland creatures recall the forests of Oromë, the nightingales the gardens of Lórien, the tapestries of history (and visions of the future) the halls of Vairë and Mandos. Different peoples get a glimpse of things they don’t fully understand, but are drawn to: the dwarves can’t stand the sea, but they nonetheless love Círdan’s pearls.

This is what makes the way Menegroth ends such an absolute tragedy, and it is what makes Legolas and Gimli in The Lord of the Rings the redress of that tragedy: their visits to Aglarond and Fangorn, each understanding what the other loves, is a kind of echo of the unity of these caverns carved with trees and forest-creatures. They’re putting things right. (As, in a different way, Galadriel is putting Fëanor’s story right, and Elrond is putting Thingol’s specifically right.) Not putting things back exactly as they were, but healing them.

[rmelster]

—𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒.

CHAPTER ONE: PAST THOSE DARKSOME GATES.

Clarence Sinclair appeared to posses the unusual gift to bore all who listened.

It had been long since Lawrance had ceased to pay attention to his words.

If its facade was gloomy, its interior was even more gloomy. Onstyles, that vast castle that had stood in front of them like a clear between sharp, bare-armed trees, presented itself before the eyes of the young man as a miserable and depressing place, similar to a nursing home for the elderly or a secluded monastery in the mountains, where one goes when there is no more hope in life than to die or be forgotten. The few students who wandered through the corridors, clad in a rigid black uniform, did so with that sad abandonment of the souls in pain; none seemed pleased to be in that place. A chill climbed up to his spine and a feeling of certain unease took siege of his form. Ignoring the display of knowledge of Sinclair, who talked about how certain king of the House of York had founded that institution during his brief reign, the youth rested the weight of his body against a nearby wall. Washington soon joined him; he seemed as weary as he was. Squandering stealth, Lawrance unsheathed the flask from his coat pocket and, unscrewing the horn cap, took a long swallow. His brother looked at him disheartened, but did not dare to make a gesture to stop him; both knew it was a useless venture.

"You shouldn't drink so much," he whispered, defeated. Lawrance shrugged, pretending to be indolent. He wasn’t, and he had never been.

"It's not that much.”

"You said the same thing that time."

"Of something I must die, brother," he said, harshly, before taking another drink. That last comment did not seem to sit well in Washington, whose strong form did not correspond to his sensitive nature, and his eyes were filled with anguish when he spoke again, fervently.

"Don't say that, Lawrance! Never said that again!”

"Is there something wrong, gentlemen?"

Sinclair had an affable disposition, even if it bordered petulance. He believed to see the shadow of concern upon his eyes when looking at the brothers; but Lawrance was not one to grant confidences to those who looked kindly at him.

“Everything’s alright” Lawrance said slowly, glancing at Washington.

“Everything’s alright” he forcefully agreed.

“Alright” Sinclair’s smile was now forced. He resumed walking “… As I was telling you, this halls are said to be haven of ghosts: Mysterious tales surround this school, as it happens with many old buildings of our beautiful country. But this one is… Particularly special. The firsts of them came from the very village that rests close here, Herefordshire, and narrated the fate that three young boys who vanished from our institution in the 17th century, during their first year, faced. However, those stories are…”

Suddenly, he ceased to speak. A group of three young men, clad in the austere black uniform of the students, passed by in silence, and the eye of the once affable Sinclair seemed to follow them closely, greedily, wrathfully. Lawrance saw him stretch his neck, and the movement of a vein under his fair skin reminded him of a gruesome occasion, almost two years from that day, when he had accompanied his father to a hunt party on behalf of his older brother, who was ailing; after hours of searching, fruitlessly, for a true prey, Pincher, a ferocious hunting dog that belonged to his father, had suddenly stretched his neck in the very same way Sinclair had done, and its eyes had been tinged with a visceral anger. A doe, careless, had showed itself behind the trees. The moments after had been bloody: Along with the other dogs, he had thrown at an helpless deer and, after a violent and quick scuffle, he had destroyed its legs with quick, brutal bites. Lawrance could not be considered as one of those frail children in which the vision of violence made them burst into tears, but that day, when he returned home with his hands soaked in blood and his soul gripped by horror, he was sure that he had witnessed the most primitive horror that existed in nature.

Hatred.

“I told you about the legends that say that ghosts haunt this halls” he repeated, and a weird movement tensed his chapped lips, “Those are all lies, as you may have guessed; but sometimes, there are ghost, of flesh and bone… And those are the ones we must truly hold fear for...”

… And he knew better than to think that that wasn’t what he had seen gleam in the eyes of Sinclair.

Second part of chapter one is here, sorry for it being too long, we are one part more to the end! As always, my Ladyship @lordbettany / @aneurinallday / @ricardian-werewolf / @nealsneen

[urmumsstuff]

Drabble

Reader hummed as she sat with Wukong both enjoying some rice they had managed to procure for the group.

"What makes someone human, or demon outside of species" She asked suddenly as she nudged some veggies about. "Because demons aren't a thing where I am from not in the sense of species."

There was a strange silence that engulfed the group as the mulled over the question

"I have a niece and nephew both are called demons, they aren't they are human but because of how my sister raises them they are terrors" She pushed the rice about "but then there are demons here that are genuine and good. But demons as far as I know are not supposed to be good so my question is. What is the difference between them?"

"The question you are asking has no simple answer" tang answered "you are asking what makes one who they are"

"I am, that's exactly what I am asking tang. Pigsy is a lecherous pig demon, don't lie you are," She gave him a harsh look that cut him off "who tricked a woman into marriage with him, meaning you are intelligent and manipulative and cunning. He's like that greasy dude no one likes down the hall."

Flower looked into the flames of the fire watching on how they danced with no form the same as the last.

"Sandy is a water demon who ate his previous incarnations, but shows strength and an emotional understanding when it comes to day to day life. So he's an overly ambitious and aggressive guy."

"Wukong is" She looked at the monkey "a king who cares for his people, has a sadistic streak a mile wide but will defend what's his no matter the cost. Even if it puts him under a mountain"

"I am a soul given a solid form meaning while still limited by my worlds standards I am both stronger and weaker like this. I get stuck at times because of it, but does that make me any less human because of it?" She asked "I can feel my body, hear the story's my family tells me, sometimes I swear I can make my fingers twitch."

"Ao le is a horse but his only real sin is eating a horse and being a bratty teen"

"And yet dispite this if one didn't know the lack of humanity there is one would think you just had an unfortunate luck of the draw when it came to deciples. So again what makes someone human? Or demon, both are in the cycle, both try and reach their ambitions, more and more the lines blurr. So I ask what is the difference?"

The human woman asked the group pointedly setting her food down.

[estavionpira]

wait hold on is mary had a little lamb just the same thing as in the hall of the mountain king or am i having a stroke

[magnolia-miraculous]

A. Agreste (aka Chat Noir) Headcanons <3

Kind of a lot tbh—just headcanons that I like to apply in my AUs when they don’t clash with their particular premises. It’s just a hot mess under the cut yeah? Cool.

He was actually in ballet classes as a kid—the same ones as Chloé.

What’s funny is that Marinette was there too. However, boys and girls were kept separate and so he only really knew Chloé.

He only found out when he was going through his closet and found a shoe box with his old shoes and a bunch of class photos; he noticed Marinette in the corner of one.

He’s still really flexible though.

He actually used to go to see a live rendition of The Nutcracker each Christmas.

He wanted to play the Rat King rlly badly.

He’s got a killer steady hand that makes for rlly good cursive.

He has the neatest handwriting in the class, and takes rlly good notes too—particularly in physics.

He’s also got terrible sense in fashion. He knows good stuff when he sees it, but doesn’t know bad stuff is bad at all.

He really likes milk; in some horrible twist of fate, he’s also lactose intolerant.

He’s totally touch starved and rlly touchy feely w/ certain people.

He refuses to kill bugs. He once screamed and lifted Alya up off her feet for trying to squash a spider in the middle of science class.

He put it in a cup before disappearing for a good five minutes so he could walk all the way over to the park to release it where it would be safe.

He’s English and French.

He really likes gelato—specifically passionfruit; peach is a close second tho.

He knows how to run in heels; has a subtly burning hatred for them.

He really likes light up sneakers though and always wanted a pair.

He knows Morse code.

Rlly ticklish.

Sneezes super loudly.

Really crappy immune system thanks to never being allowed outside his castle walls; he got sick like three times within the first two months of school.

He really likes Piano Man by Billy Joel and can sing and play the whole thing.

Honestly his music taste consists of five types of music: Heavy/classic rock, classical/classical-style music (In The Hall of The Mountain King slaps ok), Billy Joel, chill-somber-sad-theatric-feels-y, and whatever the heck that migraine-inducing bs he’s got stashed in the back is.

His Spotify is a hot mess tbch; lots of spontaneous playlists depending on how he felt at the moment. The titles are usually smth along the lines of “ifykyk”, “vibe”, or “yeah”; either that or just the playlist #.

He has like five that are nice enough to send ppl, and those are the only ones he’s listened to more than twice. They’re called “Classical Vibes”, “Cheese Demon”, “Billy Joel Aesthetic”, “sad”, and “Spontaneous 2am Dance Party OST”.

He’ll literally save recommended playlists and never listen to them.

He never bothers to clean it up though, and has 600+ playlists sitting around.

Also he used to drink a ton of pediasures as a kid and his father doesn’t let him drink them anymore bc he’s not a little kid anymore obviously but he would kill for a muscle milk.

He’ll throw up if he ever tries to eat kale again; it’s a trauma response ok.

Emotion smart but social dumb.

Honestly kinda yandere ngl.

I mean have you seen this man?? Cheez-its man, chill.

He resists when in civilian form but once he’s transformed it’s Full Gremlin Mode activated.

He’s not good at drawing but he does try; he does a lot of blob style digital and is slowly getting better.

He overcomes his feelings of being stuck and not knowing what to do in life as seen in wish maker when he spends time with the Dupain-Chengs and realizes that that is what he wants. He then dreams of working in the bakery one day.

Cannot for the life of him resist eating the batter, ok. He needs it. He’s gonna get heckin’ salmonella one of these days and it’s going to have been worth it.

He gets really good at frosting “flower” cupcakes. He switches to succulents pretty easily after learning how to airbrush. They’re adorable.

Also really good at modeling lil fondant animals and things.

He’s developed separation anxiety surrounding both ladybug and Marinette—he rlly just wants to have both of them in one place at once and he’s rlly sad that it somehow never seems to happen; he’s rlly happy post-reveal.

He rlly loves babysitting; like honestly he loves kids, so so so much; if he weren’t thinking of taking over the bakery (and/or tied down as Chat Noir), he’d probably become a pediatric nurse or a daycare attendant or smth bc 💞💞💞

He’ll leave the press to Ladybug so he can talk w/ the akuma victims and make sure they’re okay.

He’ll escape out his window and climb to high places when stressed to pace.

Once lost a Chat Noir look alike contest.

Has referred to his civilian self as, and I quote, a “dipshit boytoy” whilst en costume.

He became a total night owl thanks to his miraculous but he’s just rlly good at pretending to not be tired.

He’s more cat than he’d like to admit:

He’ll react to catnip when transformed;

He’ll also chase laser pointers;

He subconsciously stares at birds;

Once a bird got stuck in the classroom and everyone was freaking out trying to catch it in a wire trash bin and stuff but it kept evading them so Adrien looked up and pulled out his music, watched it for a second, and then caught it by the feet mid-flight;

He brought it closer to himself and calmed it down as best he could, petting it as he walked over to the window to let it out;

Everyone was flabbergasted but no one said anything as he went back to working and by the time anyone could speak it was kinda late for questions;

He gets the zoomies at the most inconvenient times;

He’s made incredibly uneasy by dogs despite actually being more of a dog person.

Also more destruction powers seeping in alongside the cat attributes:

When he’s is in a funk, there’s crappy cell service, lights flicker, machines go haywire and burn out;

If he’s REALLY upset, drinking glasses and crystal can spontaneously combust;

His powers trickle over into when he’s a civilian;

He just keeps getting more and more frustrated with his computer as it begins to function less and less and keeps giving increasingly worse error codes;

He’s in a funk for the first half the day at school and for some reason the wifi is down;

His mood is lifted after a good lunch break and all of a sudden the computers are working super fast;

Though it frustrates him at first, Adrien learns to hone his powers and either repress or, if needed, direct them.

That’s all I have for now! Feel free to adopt/modify any of these as you please :)